SPN

(Omaha, Nebraska … Friday, October 23, 2005)

Special Agent Nathan Findley had to admit, despite the circumstances, it felt good to be back with his team. This six of them—Victor Henriksen, Calvin Reidy, Joel Paulson, Brian Hale, Connor Burckle, and Findley himself—were by now well versed in the supernatural, and they huddled together in a spacious conference room within the Omaha field office to deliberate over their impossible case. It wasn't looking good.

"Okay," Henriksen said. "Let's review the time line. Wednesday, Elizabeth escapes prison in some kind of freak earthquake. Not exactly subtle. Her cousin, on the other hand, could have been gone from day one, for all we know. Somehow, he managed to find a replacement and swapped out all his records—everything we have on file—with the substitute's information. No one noticed his breakout till I came to visit yesterday. A feat like that takes skill, resources, and probably outside help."

Findley nodded. "When Dean called last night, he told me Sam was kidnapped by five of the Stynes. Jacob, some guy named Victor, and three others. From what Jacob told him, we can assume he also escaped on Wednesday night, and that thirteen months in isolation really amped up his sadistic side."

That phone call had troubled Findley more than he cared to admit. He was supposed to be calm, professional, impartial… Nothing could compromise an agent's performance quite like personal involvement. But the Winchesters—and Sam in particular—were different. They had been his primary focus for over a year, and during that time, he grew fond of them. He liked them, he pitied them, and the thought of Sam in danger honestly upset him. Why wouldn't Dean accept his help?

Because twenty-six years of experience taught him that even the most well-meaning of authorities were either oblivious or incompetent, and Findley had yet to prove him wrong.

"So Jacob escapes," Henriksen said, "and recapturing Sam's his first order of business. Why?"

"Vengeance," Reidy suggested. "That's why he left Dean behind. To torment them."

"But it's more than that," Findley added. "The Stynes think Sam's special, and according to Elizabeth, we could be dealing with several interested parties who'd like to get their hands on him. He's an asset, and they might be able to profit from his capture."

Hale tapped his fingers on the conference table. "That's what I still don't understand. I mean, have we seen any evidence that Sam—or any of the Winchesters—has any kind of… what do you want to call it? Supernatural proclivities?" They all glanced at Findley, who shook his head. "I mean, there's literally nothing to suggest he's anything other than a regular young man. If we're to believe Elizabeth, his duress could spark an unspeakable, monstrous cataclysm, but how? What's the deal? Would it really be the end of the world if he's compromised?"

"Who cares?" Paulson asked critically. "He's a twenty-two year old boy who never asked for this. He's a victim, and we're going to make rescuing him our priority simply cause it's the right thing to do. God, my own kids are older than he is." The thought of his children in Sam's place obviously sickened him, and Findley was glad to know someone else shared his sense of urgency.

Unfortunately, finding and rescuing Sam would be easier said than done. They had spent the last twenty-four hours chasing every lead they had, without success. According to Ash—Ellen Harvelle's computer-hacking friend—three of the Stynes had entered the country from Europe under the names Henry Clerval, Alphonse Beaufort and Caroline Beaufort—identities stolen from the novel Frankenstein. Go figure. But once they left the airport, they seemed to disappear.

Paulson, Hale and Burckle had hoped to intercept them in Shreveport where Jacob's little brother, Cyrus, lived with the family lawyer, Arthur Fontaine, but they arrived too late—Arthur and his wife, Paige, had already absconded with the child. Every trail went cold at the motel in Cedar Rapids, leaving them with one potential advantage. Jessica Moore. And it did not take long for Hale to bring her up.

"I hate to say it, but if that girl's their next target, then she might be the best way—the only way—to draw them out."

Paulson bristled. "You want to use a twenty-one year old college girl as bait against an evil, magical family like the Stynes? Please tell me you're joking?"

"I never said I wanted—"

"Ellen won't allow it," Burckle observed even as Findley asked, "Do you have any idea how the Winchesters would react if they found out?"

"That's enough!" Henriksen barked, and they all grew silent, visibly chagrined. "Hale's right. We need to weigh every option, whether we like it or not. Who knows? The girl might want to help. Otherwise, she'll either be cooped up here or in a hotel under tight security for the foreseeable future, and she's not gonna want that. It certainly doesn't hurt to ask."

Findley shook his head. "I'm not so sure. Dean specifically warned us to keep her out of harm's way. If we want him to trust us…" He trailed off, feeling his phone vibrate in his pocket. Fishing it out, he examined the caller ID. Unknown. He glanced questioningly at Henriksen, who nodded, and therefore answered. "Special Agent Nathan Findley."

"Findley? It's Dean."

Surprised, Findley felt his stomach clench. This couldn't be good; the young hunter didn't want to have anything to do with the FBI. Why would he be calling? "Dean. We were just talking about you. Let me put you on speaker."

"No!" Dean objected loudly. "You put me on speaker, and I'll hang up."

Findley blinked. "What? Why?"

"I can only take so many special agents at a time."

There was no mistaking the ridicule in his voice, and Findley rolled his eyes. "All right. No speaker. Fine." He could see the disappointment on Henriksen's face. "What can I do for you, Dean?"

"The Stynes have a safe house in Atlanta. 111 Monarch Avenue off West Paces Ferry Road."

West Paces Ferry Road? Findley could hardly believe it. "Isn't that in Buckhead?" Or, as some liked to say, the Beverly Hills of the south? How could the Stynes have real estate in Buckhead without the FBI knowing about it? Oh yeah. Magic.

"That's what my sources tell me," Dean confirmed. "And it's probably where the Stynes are keeping Sam. You won't be able to infiltrate the damn place—technically, it's not even part of our reality. It occupies the space between realities. We'd have to open a portal to get in. Don't ask."

As if Findley could even formulate a question! Space between realities? This supernatural crap was starting to piss him off. "Okay. So…?"

"So, since you've clearly mastered the art of surveillance, I thought you and your pals might keep tabs on the place, and if anyone comes out, shoot them."

"Shoot them?"

"Right in the head," Dean insisted. "Trust me. They are too dangerous to fool around with. If you get the chance, you kill them. Don't hesitate. You hear me?"

On the one hand, Findley was pleased to finally have the hunter's recognition, but on the other, he was talking about assassination. Findley couldn't blame him—the Stynes had his little brother—but they just couldn't go around murdering people. Not even criminals. That was crossing a line. Still, he could afford to play along. "Okay. I understand. Meanwhile, what's your next move?"

"Figuring out the best way to open the portal, but like I said, don't ask. You don't want to know."

"Probably not," Findley agreed. He glanced over at Hale, wondering if he should broach what was sure to be a touchy subject. Might as well. "Listen, Dean. It's been suggested that we recruit Jessica for help. Since we know which city they're in…"

"Are you out of your damn mind?"

Findley smiled mirthlessly. "Yeah. That's pretty much the reaction I expected."

"Look, I get it," Dean assured him. "She's a big girl who can make her own decisions, and if she's brave enough to risk her own life to catch the bad guys, I can respect that. But it's not just her life on the line. It's Sammy's spirit. Why do you think the Stynes care about her in the first place? Cause Sam cares about her. And if I know my brother, right now he's doing everything in his power to fight, to escape. He's a trained hunter, and he'll keep acting like one as long as he's got breath—unless the Stynes get their hands on Jessica. She's his Achilles' heel, and if they can use her against him, he'll break. You can't let that happen. Please."

It was disconcerting to hear Dean of all people pleading with him. Findley didn't much care for it. "Okay, you've made your point. We'll keep her safe. I promise."

SPN

(Atlanta, Georgia … Friday, October 23, 2005)

Sam remained wallowing on the floor long after Jacob, William and Victor left him there to welcome their guests. His entire body ached from the neck down, and while Jacob had merely bruised him, it still felt like he'd been run over. Dazed and shaken, he struggled to recover, and took advantage of his seclusion to drop his guard and whimper.

Honestly, he forgot all about Elizabeth until she knelt down next to him. "I wish I could help you," she whispered sympathetically. "But even if my powers weren't blocked, healing spells were never my specialty." He flinched when she brushed the hair from his eyes. "Come on. You'll be more comfortable over here."

Since her wrists were cuffed in front of her, she had the mobility to help him sit up, and for some reason, she was gentle about it. Her face betrayed several conflicting emotions—anger, fear, grief, disgust—but she didn't take it out on him, and despite his best judgment, he appreciated that. Together, they managed to get him on his feet, and they staggered to the sofa. Sam had to admit, it was better than the cold, hard tile.

"Just so we're on the same page," Elizabeth said. "We're in the middle of Atlanta, in a magical safe house that sits between realities. My dear mother wasn't lying when she said we need permission to leave. Even if we could get outside, there's nowhere for us to go. Just a whole lot of nothing. Emptiness."

Sam thought back to the incident on the highway. "All those people…" His voice still quivered. "On the road this morning… Your dad used a vanishing spell to shift them from our reality… to somewhere else…"

Elizabeth nodded, unsurprised. "They would have been sent all the way across the gap. We're only halfway." Her indifference to their fate reminded Sam why he couldn't trust her, and he looked away sullenly. She must have read his response. "Listen, Sam. My cousin Victor mixed some kind of magic with holy oil to burn Thomas alive. He planted a vision in my head to make me watch. Imagine if it had been someone you loved. Imagine if it was your girlfriend."

Jessica. Sam shuddered, picturing the scene from his nightmares—Elizabeth stabbing her with some kind of ceremonial knife.

"I don't know if Thomas survived it or not," she said with tears in her eyes. "He's supposed to be immortal, but Victor's magic is strong. When I saw that, I just… I lost control. That rampage this morning, it was a mistake, and I'd take it back if I could. I'm sorry. I wasn't myself."

If she was sorry, Sam couldn't help but think it was for no other reason than her capture, but he didn't say as much. Instead, he fiddled with his handcuffs and breathed through the pain. Caroline claimed his restraints were magically reinforced, which meant he wouldn't be able to slip free. At least he had more liberty here than he did back at the Stynes' Shreveport estate, where they had him chained to the floor in the attic. Or maybe it was just the illusion of more liberty.

"What do they want with me, Elizabeth?" he eventually asked, dreading the response. Obviously, they wanted to adopt him and groom him for whatever catastrophe Azazel had planned, but what did that mean? "You read my palm. You called me the Holy Grail. Why? What did you see?"

Elizabeth hesitated, staring at her bare feet. The question made her tense, and the color drained from her face. Damn. If the thought of his so-called fate was still making her sick, it had to be worse than he feared. "I can't…" she spoke haltingly. "I shouldn't…" The demon specifically said not to spoil the surprise. "Sam, knowing the truth won't do you any good. It will just distract you, scare you, it might even push you over the edge."

"But—"

"Forget it!" They stared at each other; Sam's shoulders sagged, and Elizabeth sighed. "Let me tell you what else I saw when I read your palm. I saw your love for John and Dean. And when I read Dean's palm, I saw his love for you. That's what you need to concentrate on. That's your best defense. Something I learned about fortune-telling a long time ago, it's not set in stone. You can fight it. But it's not going to be easy, especially not for you, and the more you doubt yourself, the harder it becomes. So if you want to screw my relatives, if you want to screw that demon, then don't dwell on the future. Dwell on your family."

Her sincerity stunned him, and he sank back on the sofa in bewilderment. Maybe he could trust her? Or maybe she was every bit as selfish and vindictive as he thought, and she was simply using him to defy their mutual enemies. Either way, her words made sense. "You know, you're pretty good at the whole guidance counseling thing. Maybe you should've stayed in Lily Dale."

"I tell myself that every day," she confessed. But they couldn't change the past, and speculating on how things might be different wouldn't solve anything. Especially when Caroline reappeared in the threshold, still disguised as Mary Winchester, her scratched face fully healed.

"All right, you two," she said buoyantly. "It's time for dinner!" She gestured for them to join her, and while Elizabeth dutifully stood up, Sam froze. Dinner? Of course, he knew better than to hope they'd let him starve himself. Back in Shreveport, Rhett Styne had force fed him cold soup from an army canteen. It wasn't a pleasant experience, and something told him a meal in this house would only be worse.

"I'm really not that hungry," he apprehensively assured the woman.

Caroline sighed before smiling benignly. "I don't blame you for having a poor appetite, but after everything you've been through, sweetheart, it's important for you to replenish your strength. So I really must insist."

The last thing Sam wanted was to humor her, but knowing the layout of the house would make escaping that much easier. He should familiarize himself with as much of it as possible. Then again, the thought of food made him queasy, and he knew Jacob wasn't done tormenting him. The only thing waiting for him at the dining table would be more humiliation. He shook his head. "I appreciate the offer, but honestly, I might throw up, and no one wants to see that."

Her smile disappeared. "That's enough, Sam. Don't make me call your father in here."

He flushed angrily. "I wish you would! My real father, anyway."

As if on cue, William wandered into the room, glancing from Sam to his wife. "What seems to be the problem, Caroline?"

She crossed her arms. "Sammy's not cooperating."

"And I'm not going to cooperate!" he retorted recklessly. "You can threaten me, you can torture me, you can do whatever the hell you want to me, but there's no way I'm playing along with your perverted little game! I'm not your son, and my name is Sam Winchester!"

Elizabeth bowed her head, letting her golden hair fall across her face to conceal a slight smirk. William and Caroline, however, were not amused—or if they were, they did a good job at hiding it.

"You have two choices here, Sam." William spoke softly and slowly, his expression calm, but extremely dangerous. When he stepped up to the sofa and leaned over his captive, Sam couldn't help but shrink back. "You can behave yourself and join us for a nice family dinner or you can stay here for the remainder of the evening. And tonight, while the rest of the city slumbers, Freddie and Earl will sneak out and find a house with a precious little girl, and they will snatch her from her bed, and they will bring her to this very room, and they will teach you a thing or two about perverted little games. Do you understand me?"

"No!" The word slipped out before Sam fully processed William's question, and then his heart skipped a beat. "I mean yes… yes, I understand… Please don't…" Terrified, he shook his head. It occurred to him that his reaction to the vanishing spell back on the highway had exposed one of his greatest weaknesses—he could endure his own suffering, but not the suffering of others, and William was not above using it against him. Damn.

Victorious, the bastard grinned. "Now what do you say to your mother?"

Trembling, Sam averted his eyes. "I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry…?" William prompted.

"I'm sorry, ma'am." He couldn't bring himself to call her 'mother,' and fortunately they let it slide. For now, anyway.

"That's more like it," William said, patting Sam's shoulder in approval. Then, he hoisted him from the sofa and they followed Caroline and Elizabeth out of the living room. As far as Sam could tell, nothing was said or done to override the protective warding—it seemed to operate based wholly on his captors' whims. Not helpful.

They proceeded into the grand foyer where a tiered fountain bubbled in the middle of the marble floor, directly beneath a crystal chandelier. Two staircases with wrought-iron rails led up to the landing, and evenly spaced along the walls were impressive floral arrangements. The only thing missing was the main entrance—when Sam glanced in its general direction, he beheld nothing but a dark, shadowy floor-to-ceiling mirror.

Jacob stood waiting on the far side of the foyer where he held open the door to the dining room. Caroline and Elizabeth entered first, and as William followed with Sam in tow, Jacob reached out to rub his back. "Hope you're hungry, kiddo."

Sam refused to acknowledge him.

Unsurprisingly, the dining room was just as regal as the rest of the mansion. The long table could seat twenty people on upholstered chairs, and was decorated with glittering candelabras, red candles, and jack-o'-lanterns—Halloween was only a week away. Several covered serving trays beckoned with the smell of seafood, but so far no one had claimed their seats. Victor stood by the mantel, entertaining a middle-aged couple—Arthur Fontaine and his wife?—while Earl and Freddie showed off their guns to an awkward little boy—seven or eight years old—who wore a pair of browline glasses.

"Arthur! Paige!" Caroline exclaimed in delight, gliding over to her guests. "I'm so sorry to keep you waiting!" She chuckled at their obvious perplexity. "You probably don't even recognize me, what with my extreme makeover. I hope you like it. It took a lot of work."

The woman—a tall brunette with bobbed hair, a pointy chin, and a purple wrap dress—gave her hostess a closer inspection. "Caroline? You look stunning!" They embraced while William stepped forward to shake Arthur's hand.

Sam quickly tuned out their small talk and found himself instead observing the boy. He must be the 'little Cyrus' William spoke of earlier. Pale and thin, he wore an argyle sweater vest over a short-sleeved shirt, with a big mechanical watch on his tiny, fragile wrist. He seemed fascinated by Earl and Freddie's weaponry—but only in the way all children are fascinated by anything remotely off limits. There was something strangely innocent about him; he was a Styne, but he was also young, and from what Sam understood, he had been outside his family's influence for over a year. Granted, the Fontaines didn't seem much better, but still…

"Cyrus, why don't you come over here a minute," Jacob called out to the boy, having noticed where Sam's attention strayed. Immediately, all conversation died, and everyone turned to watch as Cyrus timidly approached his elder. He didn't look scared, just shy, and Jacob crouched down in front of him so they were eye-level. "Cyrus, do you know who this is?" He indicated Elizabeth.

"Yes sir," the boy said meekly.

"Who is she?"

"My cousin, Lilibet." Apparently, Cyrus didn't enjoy the spotlight, and he shot a nervous glance at Arthur, who nodded his approval.

"That's right, little brother," Jacob said proudly, drawing back his gaze. "Now, why do you reckon she's in handcuffs?"

"Because she broke the rules," Cyrus said, as if reciting from a script. "And she's in time out." Elizabeth fumed, but somehow managed to bite her tongue. Apparently, her father's lecture about consequences remained heavy on her mind.

"Good!" Jacob exclaimed before turning to indicate Sam. "Now, do you know who this is?"

Two wide green eyes peered up at the prisoner before snapping back to Jacob. "Yes sir."

"And?" When the boy hesitated, Jacob nudged his shoulder. "Speak up, Cy."

"Yes sir," he repeated, bowing his head. "His name's Sam, and we are adopting him into our family because his father was neglecting him. But Jacob…" He suddenly met his brother's gaze with a furrowed brow. "If his father was neglecting him, why would he kill our dad to get him back?"

"My dad wasn't—!" Sam stopped short at the sight of William's withering stare. Speaking out of turn did not qualify as behaving himself. He grimaced, even as an odd thought crossed his mind. By killing Monroe, had John orphaned this boy? He was only seven or eight years old!

Jacob sighed. "Actually, Cyrus, it wasn't neglect. It was negligence. Do you know what that means?"

Cyrus shook his head. "No sir."

"It means John wasn't fulfilling his parental responsibilities. Sam has a remarkable future ahead of him, but he's not ready, because John's been holding him back. And their relationship is so dysfunctional that Sam would rather wilt under his father's suppression than embrace his true potential. So you see, our daddy wanted to rescue him, to liberate him, and John killed him for it because he won't allow anyone or anything to help Sam thrive. Now what do you think of that?"

Cyrus gawked up at Sam not in sadistic delight, but genuine dismay. "Will he kill us too?"

Jacob laughed at the thought. "Well, he's definitely going to try, but not to worry. We're perfectly safe here. Besides, don't you think it's worth the risk to deliver a poor young man from abuse? We'll teach him how a proper family treats each other, and we'll prepare him for his destiny. Someone has to."

"Yes sir." Cyrus nodded uncertainly, though no one seemed to notice his discomfort. Jacob ruffled his tidy brown hair and straightened back up, smirking at Sam. His expression seemed to say, 'See how easily we can manipulate the truth?' And it was only William's threat about kidnapping a little girl that kept Sam from commenting.

Meanwhile, Caroline led her guests toward the prisoners. "Arthur, Paige, you remember Elizabeth, don't you?" The three of them traded pleasantries, albeit begrudgingly on Elizabeth's part. Then, they all turned to regard Sam, who looked away. "And here we have our newest son. Say hello to Mr. and Mrs. Fontaine, Sammy."

It took all his discipline not to roll his eyes. "Hello," he nevertheless obeyed.

Arthur grinned. "I've heard so much about you, boy. What a privilege it is! I'd shake your hand, but…" He trailed off, and Sam wondered how they expected him to eat with his wrists cuffed behind his back.

"Oh!" Caroline jumped, as if reading his mind. "How silly of me!" She snapped her fingers, and Sam felt his restraints disengage; they dropped to the floor, and suddenly his arms were free. Relief coursed through his muscles, and he would have liked nothing better than to retaliate, but he was outnumbered and surrounded. Ironically, the more leeway they gave him, the more trapped he became. If he chose to fight, not only would he lose, he'd also be subjected to a crime he couldn't bear.

"There we go," Arthur said, holding out his hand. Sam hesitated, but under William's menacing supervision, he didn't have a choice. He took the bastard's hand, and Arthur squeezed it tighter than necessary. "I'm impressed, Caroline. He's so deferential—much more than I expected." Sam flinched. "How long has he been in your care?"

"Not long at all," was her cheerful reply. "At this rate, in a few more days, he'll be all ours."

Sam yanked his hand back and sulked, much to everyone's amusement. Everyone, that is, except for Cyrus, who watched in confusion.

"Now then," said Caroline. "Shall we eat?"

SPN

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