Chapter 8

Sam drew his legs up slowly, dragging himself into a ball. It hurt to move but the shivering was killing him.

When Foster cut him loose the first thing Sam did was drink from the water bottle left near his head. It scared him that the small act wore him out. He tried to overcome the weakness, pulling himself up by using the wall for support, but the moment he put weight on his legs, the pain drove him back to the ground. He fell in a heap, crying out from the explosion through his battered body and losing consciousness for a while.

He didn't think he blacked out for long. When he woke, he scrambled his way to the nearest wall so he could lean while he sat.

Once he resettled himself, Sam took a moment to look at his legs. Having them stretched out in front of him made it easy. Swollen from ankle to thigh, red welts looked like they rose up off the bone and blood seeped from a couple of places where that damn stick broke the skin.

It was bad enough the first time Mark hit him but the repetitions were insane.

Sam sighed and closed his eyes. Where was Dean?

The stone against his back felt like ice so he abandoned it to lie on his side instead.

The most important thing was to recover, get enough strength to fight back. The only way he knew to do this was to drink the water and rest. Food would be nice but that wasn't on offer. In a few hours, he could try again. He wanted to know that when they retrieved him, he'd be ready to take them down and escape.

So he curled up on the floor, conserving body heat and letting himself re-charge. He only had a day. If he failed to get away then he was heading back to the barn to be tortured again. He really wanted to avoid that.

Maybe Dean would figure things out. Maybe he'd show up for a big rescue. That's how it usually worked. But, Dean was shacked up with that bartender and once he untangled himself from her, he'd have to re-trace Sam's steps. He'd have to follow the bus route, figure out that Sam got off early and find Gary Darcangelo to know why. Would Dean even realize that Richard Gleason was connected to their past?

Sam regretted not calling Dean right away. That was just basic procedure for the two of them. Neither worked jobs alone unless it was unavoidable and they always checked in. But, Sam didn't want to interrupt Dean's mini vacation. It was rare enough that they got a break, they were both still reeling from the death of their father, and Sam figured he could do a little research without involving his brother.

When Sam boarded the bus in Ithaca he fully intended to head straight to the motel where he was to meet Dean. He wanted to spend a day in relative quiet without his antsy, negative brother explaining all the reasons why hunting Big Foot was a waste of time. He hoped to find some common thread among the witnesses so he could point to it decisively and say, "Yahtzee, this is why we need to check."

He sat down on the bus taking an aisle seat so he could stretch out his long legs. A few moments and a couple of onboarding passengers later a scrawny kid walked up to Sam's seat. He had his hat pulled down too far and was peering out the window over Sam's shoulder.

"Can I sit here?" the kid asked. Sam moved so he could slide into the window seat.

Once there the kid pulled his hat down further and slunk so low in the seat, Sam figured he was going to sleep. But, instead of settling the kid kept easing up to look out the window then slipping back down.

"Avoiding a girl friend?" Sam had asked because clearly he was avoiding something.

"Where are we?" the boy asked.

"Ithaca," Sam answered, surprised by the question. "Where are you going?"

"Not here. How long until we get to Cayuga?"

Sam thought about the route and the bus stops in between. "About an hour and a half, I guess."

The kid slipped lower into the seat. If he kept that up, Sam figured he'd slide under it.

"Is that where you're going?" Sam asked.

"No. I, uh, I'm going home but, you got to go through Cayuga to get to Mahican on this stupid bus."

The hydraulics on the brakes of the bus groaned and blew and then they jerked forward into motion. Sam looked around at the other passengers. There were only a few and they looked generally bored. He looked back at his seating companion wondering why the boy hadn't taken a seat to himself.

"What's wrong with Cayuga?" Sam asked, now just curious about the kid's behavior.

"Crazy, damn people there, that's what. Hey, listen, can you just give me a head's up when we're close. And maybe just, block me on your side so nobody sees me?"

Sam frowned. "What kind of trouble are you in?"

"I can't…can't talk about it but I can't get seen there. They might…" his voice trailed off.

Sam was starting to worry about this extra, skinny boy. "My name is Sam. What's your name?"

The kid shook his head which let some tufts of brown hair fall out of his baseball cap.

"That's okay, you don't have to tell me. But, if you're in some kind of trouble, maybe I can help."

"I just want to go home, man."

"And you should. I'm just saying that you seem to be pretty nervous right now."

"You would be too," the kid said. "I got away and I'm still screwed up. And the only way home is on this bus and it goes right through town."

Sam shifted in his seat, his worry ratcheting up. "Got away? Got away from what?"

"A ghost, man. Laugh if you want but I'm talking about a real, friggin' ghost."

From there it wasn't that difficult to get the rest of the story. After admitting to knowing a ghost, civilians tended to be over the hurdle of hiding things.

The kid's name was Gary Darcangelo and he had been kidnapped on his way home from school by some guy driving a van. With a hood over his head and his wrists in handcuffs he had been spirited away to a stone cellar. Gary didn't describe his experience but, obviously, it hadn't been good from the way the kid played with his hands, tugged on the jacket he wore and refused to look Sam in the eye.

Sam asked a lot of questions: How did you escape? Have you spoken to the police? Do you know who kidnapped you?

He kept his voice soft to avoid gaining the attention of the other passengers and Gary seemed mindful of the same thing.

In retrospect, Sam should have been more wary. After all, he was just a guy on a bus and this kid was doing a lot of sharing. But, Sam knew he had a way of drawing people in and gaining trust. It was necessary for a hunter and besides, he was genuinely interested in helping people.

When Gary started describing the creepy guy with the long, blonde hair he closed his eyes to get through it. He said the feel of the ghost was cold but not like ice because it was incredibly dry. He said the ghost couldn't grip him but he could skim over him.

Sam jolted on the inside at Gary's description. He turned sideways to really look at the kid.

"What do you mean?"

"I don't want to, look, I mean, he was a ghost, right? He never really touched me but it still felt like, you know like he was."

"Was the ghost driving the van?" Sam had asked just to make sure the kid wasn't lying.

"No, man. He has a human for that, lots of live humans to help."

"What's his name? The, uh, ghost?"

"I don't know. Um, he's the town founder or something like that. That's why I have to keep my head down cuz he'll have people looking for me."

Worried and reeling from the memories brought up by Gary's description of the ghost's assault, Sam debarked in Cayuga. He made sure the boy was still on the bus and watched as it pulled away after the meal break. Gary had stayed rooted to his seat, head down and body thrumming with fear.

After the bus left, Sam really should have phoned Dean. But if Sam had told his brother that he thought it was the same as before, as nearly ten years before, then Dean would have freaked out. The last time caused enough drama and Sam didn't want to pull out a full "911" until he knew for certain what he was dealing with.

In a storied history of mistakes, not calling Dean right away might have been Sam's biggest to date. Only a few hours later, Sam found himself in a vehicle with a bag over his head and wrists bound. Just before he felt a needle slide into his arm he heard Gary's voice.

"Did I do okay?" he had asked.

A voice that Sam now knew belonged to Mark Foster said, "You're a good boy, Gary. You get to go home now."

Sam closed his mind off from the memory, not liking the fear it produced. He had been set up so precisely he cursed himself out loud.

Glancing at the water bottle, Sam considered finishing it. Was drinking it all at once better for hydration or was parceling it out a better idea? He knew the answer but he was still so thirsty.

"No," he scolded himself. "Let's try getting up instead."

Push past the pain, Sam.

Dad's voice punched into his brain. The sound, imaginary but insistent, was hard to hear. His father had only been dead a short time but Sam needed his help. How many times had he heard that rallying cry during training, when he was too tired, muscles cramping from too many repetitions or too many miles run.

"Okay, Dad," Sam said. "I'm pushing."

He rolled on to his stomach, wincing as his legs scraped against the rough floor. The slightest sensation on that tender skin sent his nerves hopping, lighting him up from the inside. He gasped, breathed and pushed with his arms. Just like doing push-ups, except a different result. He got his toes into the game to keep his legs free of scrapes. In an inverted "v" shape now with his palms flat, his toes curled and his butt in the air, Sam stopped to breathe again. His wrists didn't like being used either. After hanging in the barn, the skin was mangled and the tendons felt stretched. Taking another long breath he decided his arms would hold him. He walked his hands backward towards his toes, slowly bending his knees, low moans filtering through clenched teeth until finally he was in a runner's sprint position. All he had left to do was stand up. Just get his feet flat and stand up.

He ignored the burning in his eyes while he struggled to get his shaking limbs under control. Dizziness swept through him, reminding him that it had been days since food. His stomach cramped with the thought.

"Stop it," he gasped out. "Get your head in the game."

Sam pushed up with his legs, hands scrabbling against the cold stone for balance. He trembled with each inch of height achieved. The fiery pain pinging with every motion carried through his back and hips and he cried out with it but he didn't stop. Until finally, he locked his knees, fully standing on shaking limbs, fighting bile in his throat. Great, pulsing waves of pain threatened his new position but now that he was up, he was loathe to give up the progress.

So engulfed in the thrill of success warring with sickness and adrenaline and torrid agony, Sam didn't see Mark Foster standing in front of him. Staring at the ground, sweat dripping off his face, tears dripping from his eyes, another set of feet were suddenly just there. It was like Mark had learned the tricks of his master and had just materialized.

All it took was one brutal blow to the side of Sam's head and he blew the bile he had been fighting and dropped to his knees. Sucker punch, Sam thought stupidly then all thought left him as his legs screamed in protest. He twisted onto his back, bringing his legs up. He kicked into Mark's legs and the other man lost his balance.

A frustrated cry rent the small cellar as Mark fell on his butt. Sam jumped on him, pounding at him with his fists, trying to make every blow count, aiming for his head and neck. If he could just knock him out.

But, Mark blocked his manic punches, frog crawling to escape Sam's fists. Sam followed but the adrenaline was burning up fast and he couldn't put pressure on his legs. Mark gained a few feet before he stood up. He pulled back with his booted foot and landed a hard blow to Sam's hip knocking him backward. Mark didn't stop kicking until he was curled up and moaning.

Mark sounded breathless when he finished. Obviously, kicking the crap out of Sam had winded him.

"You are so lucky that Mr. Gleason wants you alive," he said.

"Yeah, regular lottery winner," Sam ground out, barely holding the line to consciousness.

He was having trouble catching his breath but what troubled him more was the loss of ground. He had gotten to his feet. He had actually carved out a chance for escape. And then he failed like a picked on third grader.

"Mr. Gleason said to leave you water. He wasn't specific though."

Sam couldn't interpret the other man's words. The ringing in his head combined with the terrific pain pulsing through every part of him made Mark seem distant. He kept his eyes squeezed shut, trying hard to internalize a little. He'd lost fights before. He didn't spend a lot of time crying over it and he'd be damned before he cried in front of the sadistic bastard who beat him.

Yelling out anew when cold water splashed over him, Sam jerked upright then fell back when his legs scraped the stone. Mark held a dripping pail, smiling maliciously down at him.

"There's your water," he said cruelly before leaving Sam alone again.

Chapter 9

Sam lost all track of time. He just lay on the cold, stone floor shivering and trying to stay as small as possible. He had mostly dried, the wet evaporating from his thin clothes, but the bone deep cold remained. He had sucked on the hem of his shirt, getting as much moisture into his body as possible before all trace of liquid left him.

Hunger haunted him with every breath. His stomach felt uncomfortably crampy and it was seeping out into his limbs. He had heard that starving to death was extremely painful. He wondered if he was going to live long enough to find out.

Pull it together, son.

Dad's voice whispered to him.

Stop being such a girl.

That sounded like Dean.

If Dean wanted him to be tougher then maybe Dean should be a little faster on the rescue.

Sam scolded himself. It wasn't Dean's fault that he'd gotten sucked into this town's craziness or that he hadn't called Dean with an update on his status or that he'd walked stupidly into the trap laid by Foster and Casper, the crazy ghost. All that was on him.

This time Sam did hear the squeak of the cellar door. He braced himself as best he could but it was nearly impossible to keep down the panic screaming inside him. It was probably time to go back to the barn and he was terrified, not just of the pain although that was certainly on his mind. He was afraid they'd kill him this time.

No one spoke as they filed in. The lead minion with the glasses, and another man lifted him roughly off the floor. They didn't take care to keep his legs clear of the stone and they didn't respond when Sam cried out.

"Please don't," Sam said then bit his lip.

Begging? He was begging now?

He piped down, gritting his teeth, letting loose with some pained noises he couldn't hold in. He reached for Dad's voice but nothing came to him this time. It's not like they spent a lot of his adolescent training on resisting torture. Dad probably didn't think they'd need it.

Through bleary, tear-filled eyes, Sam spotted the barn door. He couldn't go back there. Surprising himself and the two men holding him, Sam freaked out, throwing himself into a violent struggle for release. He twisted his body, making one of his captors slip before barreling himself into the other one. They were yelling as he forced his legs to move, adrenaline pumping him forward. He didn't make it a dozen steps before a hard hit from the side sent him tumbling to the ground and the two men were on him again. Sam screamed his frustration, flailing like a trapped cat to escape until someone or something knocked him in the head so hard, it scared him. Pain flared up bringing an edgy darkness to his eyesight. His limbs felt limp, lifeless.

Hoisted again between brutal grips, Sam was dragged into the barn. All strength gone, his stomach a nauseous mess from the adrenaline spike, his captors didn't have to struggle to get him into the manacles again. The hardest part for them seemed to be lifting his 6'4 frame high enough to get his feet off the ground.

His legs didn't like hanging loose and he moaned loudly, mostly insensible now.

The damp, rotted smell of sweat combined with rusting iron and metallic blood. His belly lurched with the odor and he felt bile rise again. He pushed back, fighting not to vomit. The battle was nearly lost when Mark's voice invaded his suffering.

"Feel sick? You spewed all over me before and I didn't appreciate it."

Sam couldn't speak, didn't even want to because the only thing in his head was "make it stop".

"I can forgive you though. Say yes right now. Turn yourself over to Mr. Gleason. Say yes."

Sam wanted to agree so much that it hurt, an actual physical ache that had nothing to do with all the other ones vying for attention. He couldn't take much more of this.

Dean's face loomed up in front of him. He looked so real that for a moment Sam thought he could reach out and touch him. The narrowed gaze, the brush of whiskers, the grim slash of his mouth was all Dean. Sam felt the hot burning in his eyes. He wanted it to be him but Mark's voice pulled him back and Dean faded.

"Say yes and all of this stops," Mark said. Sam could hear the clicking of the charms while Mark played with them.

Sam tried to say no, to tell him that he couldn't do it but there was no air to push the words out. He couldn't, wouldn't betray Dean and give in.

"One little word," Mark said, his tone taunting and dangerous.

"Stop," Sam said, not sure where that word had come from or how it came out of him.

"That's the wrong word. Think about it. Food, water, rest, some good drugs to ease the pain, medical attention, it's a lot to gain for such a small word."

"I…I can't." There was no force, barely any sound with the words.

"Of course you can. You're just being stubborn now but there's no shame in agreement. You've shown how strong you are. Now it's time to reap the benefits. Imagine sleeping in a clean bed, not feeling hungry or sick. You've earned it, haven't you?"

Hold on, Sammy.

"Dad, help."

Sam felt his world view narrowing. All that existed was pain and voices and he didn't know what to do anymore.

"You have no father. All you have is this," Mark said.

Don't you dare give in, Sammy, don't you do that to me.

Dean's face, angry and edging towards disappointment sprang back to the forefront. His brother was reaching for him.

Don't do it, Sam.

He didn't have the strength to keep his pain silently inside. But, he could breathe so he pulled in all the air his weakened body could muster.

"No." His voice sounded like sandpaper. "No."

For a moment silence reigned. Sam kept an unfocused eye on Mark who stared back with thinned lips. Sam could feel his heart slamming against his chest. Then Mark was running at him like a hell hound after a doomed soul, the dreaded stick held high like a spear. Everything in him focused on the sound of footsteps slapping against the wood floor, Mark's face twisted in fury and the stick coming at him. Sam screamed in fear and dread as he braced for the impalement.