Mick watched as Sam disappeared down the hallway toward the infirmary. Once Sam was gone, he let out a slow, unsteady breath, raking one trembling hand through his hair as he tried to gather his thoughts and regain his composure.

For a moment there, Mick had been so sure that Sam was onto him – that he somehow knew that Ketch had ordered him to spy on the Winchesters, and that he was going to make bloody well sure that Mick didn't carry out those orders. Sam had handled his injured wrist carefully, with gentle hands that had made every effort not to hurt him – but Mick knew well enough by now that sometimes the promise of pain could be as paralyzing as the pain itself.

He wanted so desperately to believe Sam's assurances, to trust that he would do as he said, that he could do as he said and protect him from Ketch. But his wrist still throbbed from Ketch's latest attack; and despite Sam's kindness, Mick had little doubt that if Sam knew what Mick was keeping from him, that gentleness would turn to violent retaliation in an instant – and he would deserve it.

At the very least, Sam would end the arrangement and send you back to Ketch. He certainly wouldn't concern himself with the protection and wellbeing of a treacherous little spy like you...

"I think I've got everything we need."

Mick looked up at the sound of Sam's voice in the doorway. He was holding up a first aid kit, a warm smile on his lips as he approached. Mick forced himself to return Sam's smile, though he was sure it wasn't even close to convincing.

"We should probably take this somewhere else, though," Sam suggested. "Somewhere with running water, and – a little more privacy, maybe."

Mick frowned, glancing down at his wrist in confusion. He didn't see why either of those things would be necessary to change a bandage. Unless – Sam had more than that in mind. Mick drew in a slow breath, trying not to let his apprehension show, as Sam closed the remaining distance between them and sat down facing him. Mick made himself look up and meet Sam's warm, somewhat apologetic eyes.

"I don't just want to look at your wrist," Sam admitted. "I – I know you've been through a lot lately, and – I just want to see if there are any other serious injuries that need attention. And – I thought maybe you'd prefer a little more privacy for that." Sam paused a moment before offering, "Unless you don't. Unless you feel better out in the open, like this. But Dean or Cas could come through at any time, and I just – I guess I just want to give you the option, you know?"

Mick nodded, considering Sam's words. There was a heavy sensation in the pit of his stomach, a hot rush of shame as he thought of his body, exposed to Sam's eyes – and the dozens of marks that covered it, evidence of his weakness, evidence of his failure. The idea of going off to Sam's bedroom to take off his clothes and allow Sam to examine him made him feel sick, his lingering fear whispering in the back of his mind that behind that closed bedroom door, Sam could do anything he wanted.

Of course – Sam could do that here, too.

Whatever Sam wanted or intended, it was not within Mick's power to stop him. It was best to just do what Sam said, go along with whatever he seemed to want, and hope that Sam's intentions were what he said they were.

"Right," he agreed, nodding. "Could be a bit awkward, that. We should go somewhere else."

Sam frowned, and the concern in his eyes certainly seemed genuine enough. "You're sure. I don't want to make you uncomfortable, Mick."

Mick nodded again, more emphatically, forcing a smile, forcing himself to hold Sam's searching gaze. "Yes, I – I'm sure."

Sam led the way down the hall to the bedrooms, but bypassed his own door, continuing on to the room he'd given Mick. Mick hesitated a moment near the doorway, biting his lip, before reluctantly stepping inside. If anything bad was going to happen, if Sam was going to change his mind and decide that he wanted to take advantage of the privacy to assert his claim over his hard-won property – Mick really didn't want it to happen here, in his own space, behind the locked door he'd been so grateful to receive.

But Sam left the bedroom door standing wide open, and Mick couldn't help but take some reassurance from that. Surely if Sam meant to harm him, he wouldn't take a chance of someone happening by and witnessing it; he'd have closed and locked the door. Sam pulled the chair away from the desk against the wall, and brought it over near the bed. As he sat down in it, he patted the side of the mattress in silent instruction. Mick obeyed automatically; his mouth was dry, and he could feel his pulse racing under the pressure of his hand where it circled his wrist. He flinched a little when Sam reached out to touch his knee, though it was a very cautious, tentative touch.

"I figured you might be most comfortable here," Sam explained. "But – I want you to know that I'll leave anytime you want me to, okay? This room is your space, and if – if you're not okay with anything I'm doing, I'll stop. I just want to help you, not – pressure you into anything. All right?"

Mick nodded, looking down at Sam's hand on his knee. He wanted so badly to believe that Sam was telling the truth – and with every opportunity Sam didn't take to take advantage of him, it seemed more and more like he was. Sam squeezed his knee just slightly to get his attention, and Mick looked up.

There was an apologetic grimace on Sam's lips. "Would you – mind taking off your shirt?"

Mick swallowed hard. It wasn't as if he really had a choice. Sam could do what he wanted. "Okay," he said, his voice hoarse and unsteady.

He slowly unbuttoned his shirt and slid it off, folding it and setting it aside on the mattress. His ribs ached as he lifted his arms to remove the t-shirt underneath, and he wrapped one arm around his bare stomach as he set that aside too, shivering a little, though the room wasn't cold.

Sam stood up, placing a hand on Mick's shoulder and gently turning him so that he could look at his back. Mick felt a hot rush of shame, knowing what Sam would find there – the layers of welts and bruises from the dozens of beatings Ketch had administered, most frequently with a thin, retractable baton he carried, not because he thought he might be attacked and need to use it, behind the safe walls of the Men of Letters headquarters, but just in case Mick might happen to screw up some minor task around the office, or speak to Ketch with less respect than he felt he deserved, or give him a bloody look he didn't like.

Your own fault… if you'd just learn when to keep your mouth shut… learn to be a better hunter, a better assistant, to listen, to obey… and now Sam can see just what a useless failure you are, at everything...

Sam cursed under his breath, his hand on Mick's shoulder flexing slightly, and Mick shuddered. He could feel the anger pouring off Sam in waves, and it made him want to shrink away, made him want to hide, to become invisible. He closed his eyes, his arms wrapped tight around his torso – and then he felt Sam's hand, warm and gentle over his.

"Hey…" Sam's voice was hushed, coaxing. "Mick, look at me, okay?"

Mick opened his eyes, through the rush of his rising panic aware only that he had to obey. Sam was crouched in front of him, looking up into his face. His eyes were warm and sad, and his voice was soft with compassion.

"This – none of this is your fault. Okay? I'm not angry at you. And I'm not going to hurt you. All right?"

Mick nodded.

"If this is too much for you, we don't have to do this. I just want to make sure you're not, you know, bleeding internally or anything serious. I want to make sure you're okay. But – if it's too much…"

"I-it's not," Mick assured him, his every instinct insistent that he had to give Sam what he wanted, had to please him, no matter how badly he wanted to tell Sam to leave him alone, put his clothes back on and burrow into the warm bed beneath him. "It's fine." He hesitated a moment before adding, "Th-thank you."

Sam gently stroked the back of Mick's hand as he said, "Your back doesn't look too bad." He grimaced, amending, "I mean, it's bad, but – there aren't any open wounds or anything. But I just – I thought I saw something the other day. Can you… move your arms for a second, please? I just wanna see…"

Mick knew what Sam was talking about, and winced a little as he reluctantly lowered his arms, revealing the dark bruise at his side, just under his ribs. Sam's touch was warm and gentle as he carefully cupped the bruise, then pressed just slightly. It hurt a little, but Mick managed not to flinch away, his expression carefully calm as Sam searched his face.

"It doesn't feel hot, isn't swollen," Sam remarked. "Can you lift your arms?"

Mick obediently demonstrated that he could, though the stretch was a little painful.

"How long ago did it happen?" Sam asked.

"A few days."

Sam frowned. "What happened, exactly?"

Mick swallowed, looking down at his lap with a tight, bitter smile. "He – he was knocking me about a bit, over some – some appointment I'd mixed up for him, and – I was thinking what an ignorant tosser he is. Guess I thought it a bit too loudly." He grimaced, remembering the feeling of Ketch's boot connecting with his ribcage, the breathtaking pain of it. "He kicked me."

Sam's hands stilled, and Mick's stomach lurched. He could feel Sam's anger rising again, could hear it in his voice, low and dark.

"Yeah. He's exactly the kind of bastard to literally kick you when you're already down, isn't he?"

Mick looked down, his face flushed with humiliation.

Weak, worthless little bitch… once he realizes how pathetic you truly are, you won't have to worry about his intentions… he won't waste another moment of his time.

Sam sat down again in the chair facing Mick, and reached out to touch his hand again. Mick reluctantly looked up at Sam, who was patiently waiting for his attention before he spoke, his voice quiet and careful.

"Mick, this is – awkward, but – I need to know, so I know if you're okay. How long has it been since, um – that time with the hunter you told me about?"

Since Morgan… Mick blinked, processing Sam's question, its purpose and implications. That time – because he thinks it was just once. And he doesn't know about Ketch. Thinks he's just beat me, not... He shuddered.

It had been a couple of weeks since Morgan had raped him. Ketch – that was a different matter entirely. Ketch rarely went a couple of days without cornering Mick – in his empty office, in his bedroom, in Mick's tiny prison of a bedroom – to take what he wanted and reinforce Mick's status as nothing more than his little fuck toy.

The last time had been the night before they'd gone to the bunker to make Ketch's offer to Sam, and Mick could still feel the razor sharp pain of it every time he moved at just the wrong angle.

"It was – a long time ago," he lied, forcing himself to meet Sam's eyes for at least a moment. "I-I'm not hurt… like that, right now."

"Okay." Sam let out a heavy breath of relief, nodding. "Good. Anything else I should know about? I don't want you to have to undress any more if it's not necessary…"

Mick swallowed hard, shaking his head, his eyes downcast.

"Just – more of the same on my legs," he lied, gesturing vaguely toward his back. "That's all."

"Mick," Sam said softly, gently squeezing his hand, and Mick made himself look up. "This is not your fault. And it will never happen to you again. All right?"

Mick nodded, wishing he could believe that it was true. After all, Sam's conditions on the deal had been intended to prevent Ketch from hurting him anymore, and he'd still managed to do so the very next day. By this point, Mick was beginning to believe that Sam's intentions were good. If Sam had wanted to hurt him, he'd certainly had plenty of opportunities by now.

But just because Sam wanted to help him didn't mean that he could. It was frighteningly possible that Sam's efforts to help him could actually result in Mick's being hurt even worse, if Ketch figured out what they were up to.

"Okay," Sam said, sitting up straight, withdrawing his hands and reaching for the first aid kit. "Then all we need to take care of is your wrist." He smiled. "I was prepared for a lot worse. This bunker is pretty well stocked for a place that stayed buried for decades. We've got pretty much everything we could possibly need right here…"

Sam's voice trailed off, and his hands stilled before actually making contact with Mick's wrist. Mick looked up at him, uncertain, to find Sam resting his face in his hand for a moment, shaking his head with a rueful smile.

"I don't know what I was thinking," he sighed. "I shouldn't have put you through this at all."

Mick blinked, confused. "What?"

He wasn't sure what Sam was talking about. It had been a little nerve-wracking, yeah. But Mick was used to a lot worse. Of all the terrible things he'd imagined when Sam had led him from the library, none had actually happened. From where he sat – Sam hadn't put him through anything at all.

"Just – wait here a minute, okay? I have an idea."

Sam was back in a minute, but he stopped just outside the door, his expression hesitant, a little apologetic.

"So… I brought Cas with me," he explained, stepping into the room, slow and cautious. Castiel moved into the doorway, waiting when Sam held out a hand behind his back to halt him. "I asked him to help…"

Mick rose to his feet, startled. He felt incredibly exposed, vulnerable, half-dressed before them both. And suddenly, one single fact from his extensive education regarding angels stood out in his mind, and made his stomach lurch with dread.

Angels could read minds with a single touch.

"Sam…" he started, backing away from them, his hands raised in front of him. "Please, wait…"

"It's okay," Sam assured him, moving quickly to close the distance between them and catching Mick's arm, stopping his retreat. "It's okay, Mick, no one's going to hurt you…"

"Don't," Mick pleaded, automatically going pliant in Sam's grasp, though his heart was racing with panic. "Please, Sam…"

Sam suspected Mick was keeping something from him, planning something, working against him – and Sam wasn't exactly wrong. And in just a moment, Sam was going to know rather than suspect, and for all his promises, for all his kindness, Mick knew better than to expect mercy once Sam knew Mick to be a spy. The angel would read Mick's mind, and tell Sam everything, and Mick would never have to worry about Ketch again, because Sam would destroy him for his treachery.

"He's not going to hurt you," Sam insisted. "Mick… please trust me, okay? He's just going to help."

"I'm going to heal your injuries," Castiel explained, moving into the room, but carefully staying a good distance behind Sam. "It's painless, I assure you."

Mick went still, looking between them, uncertain. "What?"

"Yeah." Sam smiled, releasing his grip on Mick's arm and taking a step back. "One touch and it'll all be gone."

Mick swallowed slowly; that was what he was afraid of.

But refusing the angel's help would be suspicious in and of itself. And it wasn't as if Sam couldn't force the issue if he wanted. Sam could easily hold him still, force him to accept the angel's touch, for whatever purpose he wanted to administer it. Unbidden, Mick's mind went back to the one and only time he'd tried to fight Morgan off, and how Ketch had intervened. He could almost feel Ketch's hard grasp on his wrist, his throat… could hear his vicious whispered threats in his ear as Morgan had closed in, already unfastening his pants…

"Mick… hey…" Sam's voice was gentle, concerned, and Mick flinched a little at the touch of Sam's hand on his face. "Look at me…" Mick complied, heart racing, obediently looking up. Sam's eyes were sad, but he was smiling, warm and reassuring. "Trust me… okay?"

Mick couldn't. But he couldn't displease Sam, either. He drew in a shaky breath, nodded, closing his eyes as Castiel closed in and reached a hand toward his head.

The slight pressure of his fingertips was accompanied by a flash of heat, bright and piercing and flowing from the point of contact through every nerve ending, right to the tips of Mick's fingers and toes. He gasped, stumbling a little as Castiel removed his hand and the heat faded as swiftly as it had come, leaving in its wake a feeling that had become utterly unfamiliar to Mick over the past few months.

There was… nothing. The dull, constant ache of countless bruises, where he'd been kicked and slapped and shoved into walls… was gone. Mick reached a cautious hand to touch the bruise beneath his ribcage, wondering when he pressed down hard, and felt not the slightest trace of pain in response. He looked down at his bare upper body and saw no marks – shifted his weight carefully and felt no lightning stab of pain from Ketch's assault of a few nights earlier – as if his lie to Sam were true, and no one had touched him in weeks… or at all.

Mick raised his hands in front of him, his vision blurring slightly, a lump forming in his throat as he focused on his left wrist, whole and smooth and clear – the constant throbbing ache that had been his ever-present companion for so long – gone. He looked up at Castiel in wonder, blinking away tears.

"Thank you," he whispered.

Castiel just nodded once, giving him an awkward little smile, and any lingering fears Mick might have had about the privacy of his thoughts vanished. If Castiel had read his mind, there was no way he'd be smiling at all. Castiel glanced at Sam, who gave him a nod of acknowledgement.

"Thanks, Cas."

Castiel turned and left the room, leaving Mick alone with Sam. He stood there for a moment, still trying to process the sudden, overwhelming shift in his circumstances. He slowly sat down again on the edge of the bed, staring down at his left wrist, holding it loosely in his right. He pressed at it a little, wondering at the sensation of ordinary, painless pressure.

He'd almost forgotten what it felt like – the complete absence of pain.

"Hey…" Sam's hushed, cautious voice was suddenly very close, but Mick felt no fear as Sam sat down beside him on the bed. "You okay?"

Mick nodded, swallowing hard. It was silly, really. He wasn't hurt, wasn't even scared anymore – and yet he couldn't help the tears that spilled down his face, the ache in his throat. Sam's hand was just within his view, reaching out but not quite touching – and Mick reached out instinctively to take it, with his newly whole left hand, clutching it tightly as he whispered out a choked, fervent response.

"Thank you. Sam… thank you…"

Sam squeezed his hand gently, his free hand rising to cup Mick's shoulder. "I didn't do anything," he pointed out softly, his thumb rough and warm, soothing over the bare skin under his hand. "You're welcome, though. You…" Sam hesitated, his words carefully chosen when at last he concluded, "… you deserve to be okay, Mick. You deserve… not to hurt. And – if I can give that to you, I will. I'll do anything I can – anything to help you. Okay?"

And for the first time since Sam had first made such an offer, first promised his help – Mick truly believed him.

When Sam left Mick at headquarters the following morning, Mick went in alone. There was no immediate case for the Winchesters, which meant that Mick was stuck with Ketch for the day – but also meant that Sam would be back for him promptly that evening, with no other obligations to prevent it.

The war room and office were empty, so Mick returned to his filing. He decided to go through the files as he had the chance, look for any record of inappropriate actions Ketch might have taken on a case, or lies he might have put into reports to make himself look better in the eyes of his superiors – just anything that might be useful against Ketch.

"There you are."

Ketch's voice was low and close, his breath hot against Mick's neck. Mick startled at the familiar press of Ketch's hands at his waist, one sliding around to draw him back against Ketch's body. He'd been so lost in his work that he hadn't even heard Ketch approach. His heart pounded as Ketch slid his hand up to Mick's throat, tilting it back and kissing his neck with the leisurely pace of a predator who'd already captured his prey.

"Missed you, love," Ketch whispered, taking Mick's arm and turning him around, pushing him back against the wall and pressing in close. "So tell me about your night. Was it – productive?"

Mick swallowed slowly, holding Ketch's gaze as he admitted softly, "Not particularly."

Ketch's smile faded, his grip on Mick's arm tightening. His tone was warning. "That's not what I wanted to hear."

"I-I know," Mick replied, keeping his voice low and steady, dropping his gaze in apologetic submission. "I tried, but – they don't appear to be working on any particular case at the moment, and – they didn't talk about anything of importance. At least – not within my hearing. They – did a bit of weapons maintenance, had a meal, and then – Sam took me to his room for the rest of the night. Everything after that, well – was not of any interest to you."

Ketch's smile returned, slow and cruel, as he shifted in closer, sliding a hand under Mick's shirt and pressing him back against the wall. "I'm quite certain that's not true."

Mick drew in a slow breath, struggling to keep his rising anxiety at bay. "I'm sorry," he continued, trying to keep the conversation on topic. "I don't think Sam trusts me. The Winchesters – they aren't idiots. Perhaps he suspects that you've sent me to spy on them."

"Then perhaps you aren't doing your job properly," Ketch countered, his voice harder.

"I'm sorry," Mick repeated, his voice low and subdued. "I'm keeping my eyes and ears open, looking for anything useful. If I do anything more at this point, Sam will definitely be suspicious. You have to give me a bit more time…"

"I don't have to give you anything," Ketch snapped.

Mick was utterly unsurprised when he reached down to grasp Mick's left wrist. He winced out of sheer habit, as Ketch slammed it hard against the wall beside his head. Ketch immediately went still and quiet, and Mick closed his eyes, braced for his reaction when he discovered what Sam had done. Ketch slid Mick's sleeve back a little, brushing his thumb against Mick's wrist gently.

"Well," he remarked, his voice low and soft. "Seems Sam Winchester put his angel to work, didn't he?"

Mick nodded, swallowing slowly as he raised his eyes to meet Ketch's piercing gaze. "He did say he prefers an unmarked canvas."

Ketch's eyes narrowed, and Mick felt a rush of intense satisfaction at the frustrated clench of his jaw, confirmation that Ketch's intentions had been thwarted. He couldn't risk leaving a mark on Mick that Sam might find later. Even so, Ketch slid his hand down to grasp Mick's arm, raising it over his head and holding it against the wall as he moved in close, his free hand stroking the bare skin beneath Mick's shirt.

"Careful, love," Ketch warned, his voice low and menacing against Mick's ear, sending a shiver through him in spite of his new sense of triumph. "There are a hundred ways in which I can hurt you without leaving a single mark."

"I know," Mick whispered, nodding slowly.

His heart raced. He knew it was true, knew better than to push Ketch to lash out. He had a new measure of protection, it was true – but Ketch was creative in finding ways to administer pain, and Mick knew him well enough to know that it was possible to push him past the point where the deal mattered to him anymore. He was safer, now, but not quite safe.

Still… Ketch let him go, backing up a step, without hurting him. "We will give it time," he decided. "Give Sam the chance to get used to your presence in the bunker – to start to see you as part of the furniture, so to speak. Then he'll begin to let things slip, to be a little more careless, perhaps. And then, perhaps, you'll find something useful to bring me."

"Yes," Mick agreed, nodding. "I will do my best. I'm – sorry to have disappointed you."

Ketch just sneered at him, derisive as he turned and walked away – without hurting Mick at all.

And Mick felt a rush of satisfaction and power that he hadn't felt in as long as he could remember, and a bright surge of hope, that maybe Sam's plan could work. Maybe they could beat Ketch, and remove him from his seat of power, and bring the British Men of Letters' operations in the US back to what they were originally intended to be.

Maybe they could win, after all.