You are overwhelming me guys: thank you so much for reading, following, favouriting and reviewing! You make this so much more enjoyable!
"I've lost who I am" – Shattered, Trading Yesterday
oOo
It wasn't possible. There was no way that Dean Winchester was alive; Sam had convinced her he was dead. Not through what he said but with his whole demeanour. The hunter was entirely broken – hollow – without his brother. That hadn't changed from the moment she'd met him, seeing the raw agony in eyes that had glistened with forced back tears, his whole expression a mask that was struggling to stay in place. He hadn't wanted to share his pain with her but she had seen through it. He wasn't faking that.
So if Dean Winchester was alive, what the hell had happened?
Toni's grip on her phone tightened, knuckles whitening. She pinched the bridge of her nose and exhaled in a whoosh.
"I want you to find out everything you can, James. I mean everything. I need to go to the council with this; we don't know for certain that it definitely is him and I want proof. They will want proof. Find it for me."
She ended the call and placed her phone carefully on the table in front of her. Her fists clenched, nails digging into the soft flesh of her palms. She had come this far and for what? To let that…savage ruin everything they were working towards?
No. She wasn't going to have it. If Dean had risen from the dead, the council would know what to do. And Toni would only be too happy to do their bidding.
oOo
His eyes eased open, something having prodded him awake on a subconscious level; he wasn't sure what. Blinking against the darkness, he drew in the arm that was extended beneath his pillow and rolled over, fingers groping for his phone. Pressing the centre button at the bottom, the blue glow lit up his room as he peered into the light. 3.16am. Sighing, Sam rolled over, staring up into the darkness of the ceiling, fumbling for the light switch on his left. The light pooled in his room, bringing to life the rich texture of the brick wall over his head, the shelf littered with books, boxes and various case notes. Sam lay there, trying to settle the unease he felt. It refused to go, clinging to his chest and twisting in his gut. Getting up, he fished the handgun out from underneath his pillow and crept over to the door. Twisting the doorknob, he opened the door and stepped out into the corridor. Still he heard nothing. Everything was silent.
Too silent.
"Dean?" he called, but couldn't hear himself. He felt his heart thumping in his chest, could hear that pounding in his ears. The Winchester started walking down the corridor, gun held in both hands, raised in front of him. His walk became a run as the panic began to build. Something was wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong.
Running down the corridor, Sam barely noticed that he couldn't hear the slap of his feet against the stone floor. Almost skidding to a stop outside of Dean's room, he called again.
Still nothing.
He pounded soundlessly on the door, stopping and staring at his own hand in confusion, his eyebrows furrowing together. Twisting the handle, he found it locked. Stepping back, Sam raised a foot and smashed it into the door. Again and again and again. Finally, it gave way, dark wood slamming soundlessly back against the wall.
Sam stepped in, chest heaving. The gun dropped to the floor as he ran forward, landing on his knees by the bed, his brother's name a sob caught in his throat. Dean lay on the bed, staring lifelessly up at the ceiling, blood covering his face, drenching his shirt. He was covered in wounds – hundreds, thousands – of them littering his skin. Sam grasped at his hand, cradling the bloodied digits in his own. Dean's head moved to the side, eyes locking on Sam's. The words came out soundlessly, but Sam read them. Read them and wailed.
"You did this to me."
Sam woke with a gasp, properly this time. His eyes flew open but he saw nothing; everything was black. He waited for his eyes to adjust, for shapes to appear in the darkness but they didn't. The thumping of his heart, which had started to slow, began to pick up again. He should be able to see something – anything. He pulled at his arms and was met with the familiar resistance of cuffs holding him down. Sam could feel it now; the soft pressure of something cloaking his eyes and cupping his ears. That was why he couldn't hear anything but his own heartbeat. Squirming on the bed, he tried twisting his head to dislodge either implement. He flinched when he felt someone touch his head, fingers twisting in his hair, pulling sharply, ripping a gasp from his throat that he didn't hear. He felt something slip across his forehead and tighten, the hand disappearing from his hair. When he tried to move his head again, he couldn't. Panic started to worm through his veins; Sam had never been claustrophobic but this was different. Unable to see, hear or move. Jerking his arms, his legs, made no difference; he wasn't going anywhere.
A crackling noise sounded through the instruments covering his ears. It sounded almost like a gramophone's needle being placed on a record. Sam almost moaned with relief until a voice began whispering through the scratching. He frowned, unable to make it out. He needn't have worried; it continued to get louder until it was crystal clear and repeated, slowly, calmly, over and over.
"You did this. It's all your fault."
oOo
Toni stood on the other side of the glass wall, crossing her arms as she stood and watched. She had finally let him sleep; she didn't want him dead. He'd been dreaming – about what she didn't know, didn't care – until he'd started calling for his brother, shouting his name in a frenzy of sobs. There was no way he was lying about Dean being dead; she was sure he was convinced that the older Winchester was gone.
She stared impassively at her handiwork for a moment. Sam lay on the bed, leather cuffs tightened and padlocked around each limb, a matching strap crossing across his forehead. His eyes were obscured by black ski goggles with opaque lenses, large headphones covering the sides of his head. Sam's hands were clenched into fists, the muscles in his forearms tense, tendons standing out beneath his skin as he writhed.
The Woman of Letters stood perfectly still for a few minutes more, simply watching. Satisfaction filled her. Setting the playlist on repeat, Toni left the room, the sound of Sam's first scream echoing behind her as she shut the door quietly.
oOo
Men of Letters Headquarters, Westminster, London
It was a simply decorated boardroom that held all the character expected of an organisation like the Men of Letters. The walls were clad with chestnut, polished to a high sheen that reflected the soft glow of the lights that shone from gold sconces around the room. A large television dominated one wall but the table was the grandest furnishing; it took up almost the entire room. Made from solid cocobolo, it radiated a high gloss sheen with a reddish tint, perfuming the whole room with a faint spiced scent that Toni always found oddly comforting. Twelve matching chairs, seven of which were currently occupied, surrounded the table. She stood at one end, facing the Men of Letters. Three sat on either side with their leader sat at the head of the table.
Jonathan Markham was an imposing man in his late fifties. Broad shouldered with close cut silvery hair and piercing blue eyes, a neatly trimmed beard covering the lower half of his face, he filled the room with an air of authority that was palpable. He sat, hands clasped loosely together, resting on the table in front of him. The rest of the board sat facing her, their faces impassive and serious, listening to her explanation of James' preliminary findings.
"I cannot categorically say that it is Dean Winchester. At the moment, the evidence James has gathered certainly suggests that it is" she concluded.
"And you are sure that Sam absolutely believes that Dean is dead? That he hasn't been lying to us?" Jonathan queried, his thick silver eyebrows bunched together. Toni gave one curt nod.
"I am positive, sir. Sam has shown no behaviour to suggest that he believes his brother to be alive. His grief has been…prolonged." There was a slight ripple of murmuring from the board members. Toni leaned forward, placing her fingertips on the smooth wood. "How would you like James to proceed?"
"First, I want absolute proof that it is Dean Winchester. I want photos, better yet, videos. James is not to engage with him under any circumstances until we have determined his identity," Jonathan instructed, his voice silencing the men around him. "When we are reviewing his findings, James is to continue surveillance until we have decided on further action. I do not want this man to know we are looking into him."
"Of course, sir. James will use the upmost discretion" Toni confirmed.
"What about Sam Winchester?" one of the men sitting to Jonathan's left asked. The head of the Men of Letter's gaze slid over to him.
"What about him?"
"Would it be worth using him in the identification process?" he asked. Again, the board members bubbled with quiet murmurings. Jonathan sat back, rubbing his stubble with one hand.
"With all due respect, sir, I believe that would have a negative impact on Sam. I have spent years studying the Winchesters and there is one thing I am certain of – if Sam discovers his brother is alive, all our efforts will be in vain. We'll be back to square one because he will do what he has always done; anything to get back to his brother" Toni explained, her voice even. Jonathan nodded slowly.
"That has been the case in past experience. For the moment, I don't want him knowing that his brother is potentially alive. To be honest, Toni, I would have expected a change after his reconditioning though. You have been working with him for over three months."
"Indeed. Your reports of his progress have been slow and, to be honest, quite vague. We had expected more from you," one of the men remarked. Toni felt the bite in his comment but kept her anger in check. Her demeanour remained unchanged, but inwardly she seethed. They thought she was failing.
"Sam has been more…difficult than expected. I apologise; I will improve my efforts" she promised, fighting to keep her tone civil.
"Good. It is as we discussed in the first place; Sam Winchester has the potential to be one of our most valuable members but he is also far too dangerous. If you cannot recondition him, we will have no choice but to eliminate him."
oOo
Kensington, London
The door of the 1964 Rolls Royce slammed shut, rocking the whole car as Toni stalked into the house, her tan heels clicking sharply on the stone porch. Anna opened the door and she nodded a curt thanks, passing her bag and coat to her maid as she entered.
"Would you like some tea, milady?" Anna asked, hanging the coat up.
"No – thank you, Anna. I have work to do. I'd like dinner ready around-" Toni checked her watch: 2.04pm, "- seven."
"Of course" Anna replied, retreating back towards the kitchen as Toni made her way to the back of the house. She went to the wall opposite a window overlooking the garden, pressing in the insignia in the same manner as the mechanism for her office. The door slide smoothly to the side as she moved around it, descending the stairs. It closed behind her, blocking the outside world as she opened the second door along the corridor. Punching a code into the keypad by the final door, she entered Sam's cell.
The sight that greeted her wasn't enough to quell her foul mood. He gave no reaction to her entrance – he had no idea that she'd even left hours ago. A thin sheen of sweat coated Sam's skin, his white shirt soaked as a soft whimper slipped unbidden from his lips. His breathing was shallow, limbs twitching every now and then as if he had been fighting for hours and was finally spent. He probably had.
Grabbing an electrical unit that sat against one wall, Toni wheeled it closer, picking up a long metal rod tat sat across the top of it. Switching on the machine, she looked at the rod, waiting for it to power up. It was his fault they saw her as a failure.
It was time to up her game.
oOo
So Markham was the last known head of the MoL in 1956 and I figured that they'd be the type of institution that would have relatives in different chapters, thus the Markham here can be some distant cousin!
I feel bad for what I'm doing to Sam – I do love him, honestly! They say you hurt the ones your love the most (perhaps they don't mean it in this context, but meh).
Please review!
