Chapter Four
Sam didn't move for a long time. He didn't dare.
He felt as though he would shatter into a thousand pieces if he so much as twitched a finger.
He stared sightlessly at the stark white ceiling overhead.
Sam couldn't believe he'd let Sinclair win. He couldn't believe he'd allowed the bastard to find a chink in his armour.
Sam thought he'd gotten past what had happened to him in the Cage; thought Castiel had taken the memories from him when he had been dying.
He thought wrong apparently.
The memories were still there, buried, locked away like Pandora's box.
And like Pandora's box, once opened, the memories poured out into his unsuspecting mind.
Sam turned onto his side and curled up into the fetal position. He squeezed his eyes shut and used all the energy he could muster- which wasn't very much- to force the horrible memories of torture and humiliation back.
W
The young man climbed to his feet slowly, cautiously. His knees shook, threatening to collapse under his own weight and he reached out to grab hold of the back of a chair, should his legs betray him.
Sam shoved his bangs away from his eyes, his hair damp with sweat, and shuffled towards the bedroom; the door must have appeared once again after Cuthbert's retreat.
The idea of playing the magician's game was abhorrent to Sam but he felt fear well up in his breast every time he thought about what Cuthbert had done to him.
Sam knew he couldn't go through that again.
Reluctantly, Sam was resigned to do what Cuthbert wanted him to, if only to prevent the magician from hurting him.
Tears welled up in Sam's eyes unbidden; he was so weak.
Ducking his head, the young man wiped at his swollen eyes and sucked in a shuddery breath.
He felt like a failure.
Hell should hold no horror for him now.
But it did and the terror it raised when Sam thought of it made his mouth go dry and his heart flutter like a frightened bird.
Sam made his way to the large bed and sat down on the edge. Clasping his trembling hands before him, Sam bowed his head and closed his eyes.
He wasn't praying, no, Sam had stopped doing that a long time ago.
He was simply steeling himself for whatever was to come next.
He would need all the strength he had to face Cuthbert again.
SPN
Sinclair let himself into Sam's quarters silently, hoping that the young man had taken his advice and gotten some rest.
He was pleased to find that the hunter was no longer in the parlour. He had worried slightly that he had seriously shaken the young man but it appeared that Sam was recovering quickly.
Turning to the open bedroom doorway, Cuthbert saw Sam sprawled out on the large four-poster, lying sideways across the covers.
With no regard for privacy, the magician walked boldly into the room and stopped beside the bed.
"Sam!" Cuthbert called, rocking back and forth, trying to contain his excitement.
The young man's eyes snapped open instantly and he glared at the magician.
Cuthbert chose to ignore the expression and instead announced that it was time for dinner.
"You've slept almost all day," Cuthbert informed the young man, "You must be starving."
Sam sat up and his bangs fell in front of his eyes. He shoved them away irritably.
"I hope you had a good rest," Cuthbert told Sam because that's what friends did.
The young man continued to glare at him for a moment before sighing, "Yeah."
"Excellent," the magician said happily, "Come, before dinner gets cold."
Cuthbert reached out- it would be much faster to just transport the two of them to the dining room than to walk there- and although Sam flinched, he did not push the man's hand from his arm.
W
The dining room was large, with a long, wooden table stained a deep coffee colour; a red table runner stretched the length of it.
There were two place settings- one at the head of the table where Cuthbert usually sat and one on his right side for Sam- with fine china dishes and silver cutlery.
The young man followed Cuthbert as the magician walked along the length of the table and gestured for him to take a seat.
Waiting until his guest was sitting, Cuthbert took his own seat and picked up his cloth napkin, tucking it into the collar of his shirt.
Clearing his throat, the magician looked at Sam. The young man rolled his eyes and grabbed his own serviette, shoving one corner of it down the front of his shirt.
Cuthbert smiled at Sam but the young man did not return the gesture.
SPN
Sam wished Cuthbert hadn't dragged him into the dining room. He'd rather be left alone then be forced to have a meal with the man. He had thought Cuthbert was going to bring the food to him but guessed the magician had changed his mind. After all, he wasn't a prisoner, he was supposed to be Cuthbert's companion and Sam guessed friends didn't keep friends locked up in the guest bedroom.
"Would you like something to drink?" Cuthbert asked pleasantly.
Sam shrugged. He was still exhausted and his eyes throbbed from all the crying he'd done earlier in the day.
Sam looked up when another person entered the room, an elderly man wearing a waiter's outfit, holding a tray with a bottle of wine on it.
"My shapeshifter," Cuthbert told Sam proudly.
The hunter watched as the creature approached. He looked just about as happy to be here as Sam did.
"Wine, Mr. Sinclair?" the waiter- shapeshifter- asked in a thin, reedy voice.
"Yes," Cuthbert answered before looking at Sam.
"You?"
Sam's nose wrinkled. The last time he'd drank wine was when he'd been with Amelia.
"No," Sam replied.
"I have beer as well," Cuthbert offered, "If you'd prefer."
Sam wouldn't prefer beer. He didn't want any alcohol. Though not a lightweight, he didn't want his judgment compromised even slightly.
"Water," Sam said and Cuthber shrugged, turning to address the shifter.
The waiter left the dining room, his bottle of wine now sitting on the table before the ex-Man of Letters.
Cuthbert raised his glass and peered at the plum-coloured liquid. He brought the rim of the glass to his nose and inhaled deeply, savouring the scent before taking a delicate sip.
"Are you sure you don't want any?" he asked Sam, eyebrow raised, "It's good."
"I said no!" Sam growled.
He'd play along with Cuthbert's game, be the man's pet hunter if he wanted, but only to a certain extent.
Just because Sam had agreed to stop fighting him, didn't mean he was going to act like they were best buddies.
Cuthbert frowned at Sam but the young man did not flinch. The man tapped his fingers on the tabletop for a moment, as though reminding Sam what he could do to him, before he spoke:
"A simple 'no thank you' would have sufficed."
The shifter-waiter entered the room again, turning both Sam and Cuthbert's attention away from each other.
The creature set a glass of water in front of Sam's plate and the young man could see condensation beading the outside of the cup.
"I think we're ready for the first course," Cuthbert told the shapeshifter and the creature nodded, turning and leaving the room.
Sam picked up his glass of water and took a long drink, pointedly not looking at the magician.
"Tell me about yourself," Cuthbert said, startling the young man.
Sam sat the glass down and eyed the man.
"Why?" he asked, "I thought you knew everything about me, that's why you wanted me to stay here."
The ex-Man of Letters chuckled, "Not everything, young man. I am only familiar with your… exploits, shall we say? And, of course, exactly what makes you so unique."
So Cuthbert wanted to know him on a personal level- like friends- find out what Sam liked and disliked, who the first girl he'd kissed was, that sort of crap.
Sam grabbed the half-empty glass of water and took another drink, thinking. He really didn't want to give the magician a play-by-play of his life. Especially not right now. Sure, it might happen eventually. Might. But Sam would keep hedging as long as possible before he gave the man an oral biography of his life.
Setting the now-empty glass back on the table, Sam looked at Cuthbert curiously.
"I'm interested in knowing about you," he said, trying to sound as though he meant it, "I mean, you got kicked out of the Men of Letters and built this… magnificent mansion, but until a few days ago Dean and I had never heard of you."
And Cuthbert took the bait.
Of course! How rude of him! Sam knew almost nothing about him at all and here he was expecting the young man to confide in him!
Cuthbert started in on what Sam was sure was going to be a long- and dull- description of his life thus far.
As a child, Sinclair had been fascinated by magicians and escape artists like Harry Houdini. He told Sam that he often pretended he was the great magician himself, worrying his mother when he disappeared for hours on end.
Cuthbert's father, a Man of Letters himself, had no patience for his son's nonsense. He told his son, from a young age, that he was going to become a Man of Letters and that was the end of the discussion.
Sam somehow wasn't surprised to find that Sinclair hadn't been happy at his father's decision. He knew what it felt like to have your parent decide your future for you but said nothing to the magician.
When Cuthbert was old enough, he joined the ranks of the Men of Letters, just as his father wanted, but his heart was not in it.
"Dusty old men who believed they were doing a great service to humanity for cataloging and hiding all and any information on monsters," Cuthbert said with an insulted expression.
There was a pause as once again, a door opened and the shifter-turned-waiter entered, carrying two plates.
Cuthbert thanked the creature as it sat a fancy-looking mixed salad before him. Sam muttered something unintelligible, even to himself.
"Hunters," the magician said, spearing a piece of baby spinach on his fork and pointing the utensil at Sam for emphasis, "They do the good in this world. Out on the front lines, killing monsters. Protecting innocent civilians. I think that if I hadn't been so entranced by magic, and if I'd had a chance to meet one as a child, I'd want to be a hunter."
Sam didn't respond; he barely even nodded.
Cuthbert didn't notice and continued to prattle on.
Sam ate mechanically, not even tasting the salad.
Even as a newly recruited Man of Letters, Cuthbert did not stop his desire to become a magician. Apparently the bunker was filled with information on witchcraft and incantations and spells that tantalized the young Sinclair.
At first Cuthbert allowed himself only to read what the Men of Letters had collected on the subject of magic but it grew ever more difficult to just look and not to try and practice some himself.
Sooner rather than later, Sinclair could be found in one of the bunker's dungeons with an open book of spells and an open mind.
"The others," he said, "Of course, didn't like that one bit. Told me to stop but never gave me a reason as to why. Oh, I asked and asked what was so bad about magic? I was staying away from witchcraft- I had no intentions of selling my soul to a demon for powers- but they refused to listen to me."
"That's too bad," Sam muttered, deciding that he should probably make some comment on the subject.
Cuthbert nodded, "They did not see the use of magic. We didn't have to sit in ratty armchairs all day, making notes on what the best way to kill a Lamia was. We could be out there, helping to eradicate monsters once and for all."
"But oh no!" he continued, "Not the Men of Letters. Grunt work was beneath them, even if it meant saving hundreds of people."
Again, there was a pause in the story as the waiter took their empty salad dishes away.
"More water," Cuthbert said, indicating Sam's empty glass.
"I tried to show my colleagues how helpful magic could be," he continued, turning his attention back to Sam, "I even captured some of the creatures you've seen in my menagerie with magic I used while with the Men of Letters."
Sinclair paused and took a drink of his wine before pushing onward, "I did not know how to convince them."
Sam could barely keep his eyes open it seemed. And his head was beginning to throb. To try and remain awake- because he was sure Cuthbert would find it very rude if he were to fall asleep at the dinner table- Sam lowered his hands onto his lap and pressed his right thumb into the old scar on the palm of his left hand, the pain clearing his mind somewhat.
"But it seemed that they had had enough of my 'antics' as they called them. I was stripped of my position in the Men of Letters and exiled indefinitely."
Sam looked up, hoping that was the end of the story because God help him if he was expected to feel sorry for the man's removal from the Men of Letters.
Luckily, the young man was saved by the appearance of the waiter. The shifter was holding two soup bowls and when it set Sam's down before him the young man couldn't help but frown at the pale beige soup sitting in front of him.
"It's vichyssoise," Cuthbert explained, catching Sam's expression.
"Oh," the hunter replied, "Right."
Sam picked up his spoon and stirred the French soup for a moment. He lifted the spoon to his mouth and took an experimental taste of soup. Sam's nose wrinkled. The soup was ice cold!
He heard Cuthbert chuckle good-naturedly from beside him and looked at the man.
"It isn't traditionally served warm," the magician explained.
Sam peered down at his soup suspiciously. Cold soup? Not that Sam hadn't had it before, he had, but whenever that happened it meant that his father had checked them into a motel without a microwave and left his sons to eat room-temperature canned soup.
Sam didn't want to find out what Sinclair's reaction would be if he refused to eat so he made quick work of the vichyssoise, only half-listening as the ex-Man of Letters continued talking.
W
The rest of the meal passed uneventfully, which suited Sam fine, but it seemed that Cuthbert wasn't finished with him just yet.
"Do you play chess?" the ex-Man of Letters asked Sam as the dessert dishes were cleared away by the shifter.
Sam shrugged, "I used to. In school."
Perhaps it would satisfy his captor to have little bits of information fed to him instead of making Sam sit and regurgitate his entire life history in one evening.
Cuthbert smiled, apparently pleased.
"I have a board in the library," he told Sam, taking his napkin out from the collar of his shirt and laying it on the table, "It's been a very long time since I've had anyone to play with."
Sam had no choice but to follow the man. Shedding his own serviette, he stood, hoping that Cuthbert wouldn't teleport them to the library.
It seemed that Sam's wish was granted as Cuthbert pushed his chair in and made his way to another doorway that led out into a hallway Sam had never seen before.
The young man followed the magician tiredly, wanting only to be left alone.
"Where you a member of a Chess Club?" Cuthbert asked Sam and the hunter nodded distractedly.
"For a little while, in this one school I was in," Sam replied, looking at the oil paintings lining the walls of the corridor.
"But otherwise you haven't played?" Cuthbert pressed and Sam shook his head.
When would he have had the time? Even in Stanford, he was focused mostly on getting good grades, on finding a job that didn't involve hunting monstrosities for the rest of his life.
"I tried to teach the shifter to play," Cuthbert said, "But it was useless. Didn't understand the game at all. Not its fault, though, really. The gentleman it took the form of was more of a card player."
Sam nodded, not even looking at the man.
"Ah! Here we are," the magician announced and stopped before a set of carved wooden double doors.
Cuthbert took hold of the brass handles and threw open the doors with a flourish; he was obviously very proud of his library.
Sam looked up and gaped- he couldn't help it- the library was huge! It had vaulted ceilings and was almost the length of two professional football fields laid side-by-side.
And the books. There had to be thousands!
Sam might not have liked the man but that didn't mean he couldn't' be impressed with his book collection.
There were leather chairs and sofas as well, coffee tables and two large marble fireplaces in the library as well.
Sam quickly regained his composure and followed Cuthbert inside, but not before he caught sight of the man's smirk.
So he had see Sam's open-mouthed astonishment, so what? The man had more books than the hunter could read in a lifetime but that still didn't make Sam like him.
Cuthbert sat down in a dark blue leather chair and pulled a low coffee table towards him where an ornate chessboard sat. Sam sat across from the man and peered curiously at the board. Carved from two different types of wood- one so pale it was nearly white and one a deep red colour like mahogany- the pieces were chiseled from stone to match the board. Purely white and deep red kings, queens, knaves and rooks sat poised for battle.
Cuthbert turned the board around so that Sam had control of the white pieces and he, the red.
"Seeing as you haven't played in ages," the man explained, "I'll let you have the advantage of the first move."
SPN
Dean was going out of his mind!
He hadn't heard anything for Crowley despite sending him dozens and dozens of messages, so many, in fact that now when Dean tried to call, the demon's voice mail was full.
Crowley was remaining silent, Dean had no clues as to what Abaddon's next move was going to be and Cas was keeping his distance.
The hunter did not know what to do!
He wanted to punch something, someone.
Standing up, Dean raked a hand through his short-cropped hair. He bent down and plucked the empty whisky bottle- he didn't even remember finishing it- from the table and threw it across the room in his anger.
"Where are you?!" Dean snarled, "TELL ME!"
The only sound that greeted him was the tinkle of broken glass and the rasp of his own labored breathing.
Falling back into his seat, Dean fisted his hands and pressed his knuckles into his eyes.
He couldn't believe this was happening. Not now. Not when he was so close to killing Abaddon.
Standing abruptly, Dean paced in front of the table, his eyes glued on the floor ahead of him.
It was about time to take matters into his own hands. If Crowley was going to ignore him, then Dean would go out and find the Knight of Hell himself.
He couldn't keep sitting around the bunker, waiting on the demon's call. He needed to do something; he needed to be looking.
If he did that, maybe he'd find the bitch soon and he'd be able to gank her.
And then get Sam.
But first Abaddon. That took priority over everything else. Dean couldn't even start to plan getting his brother back until he knew the demon was good and dead.
Swiping his leather jacket from the back of his chair, Dean made his way across the room, up the steps and out into the cool night air, slamming the door to the bunker after himself.
Author's Note:
Thanks to reannablue, So, Jenjoremy, detectivetimehunter, SamDeanLover28, whimsicalbarwench, sarah, mandancie, whatnosheep, Marianne Lidell, Souldarkalone, elliereynolds777, BranchSuper, Mistycat, SPN Mum, and Jess for reviewing.
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