Sam, Dean, and Ketch arrived back at the British compound two days after they left – and half an hour before dawn.
Sam had quietly done the math before they left, and Dean had tried to adjust his speed to get back faster, but they weren't far enough away for it to make much of a difference – or to justify spending an extra night away on the Men of Letters' dime.
"You'll just have to wait your turn, Sam." Ketch was clearly amused, well aware of Sam's displeasure. "It's not as if you haven't manipulated the timing of your hunts a few times already in order to give yourself a bit of extra time. Goes both ways, mate."
Ketch's smirk inspired Sam's imagination to come up with all the various ways in which he could wipe it from his smug face – but he resisted the impulse as Ketch got out of the Impala's passenger seat and headed into the compound. It wouldn't do to overplay his hand – not now, when they were so close to beating Ketch for good. Sam took his usual place in the front next to Dean – a right he'd relinquished only because the idea of having Ketch at his back for the entire ride had made his skin crawl.
"It's just a few hours," Dean pointed out as he turned the car around and headed back toward the bunker. "We're both beat, anyway. You'll sleep them away. And then we'll be back here to pick him up. That software won't leave any trace on Ketch's computer; he's got no way of knowing anything's up. Nothing to worry about."
"I just don't like leaving Mick here with that psycho." Sam sighed, glancing in the rearview mirror at the compound swiftly fading from his view. "And after what Ketch did to that poor girl…"
Sam felt his anger rising up again as he thought back over the events of the hunt – the newly turned teenage werewolf that Ketch had poisoned without a second thought. In hindsight, Sam realized that he probably should have pretended not to care; compassion for monster children wasn't exactly a quality of the persona he'd constructed and portrayed in Ketch's presence for the past few weeks; but he simply couldn't restrain his outrage at what Ketch had done. Ketch insisted that it was the policy of the Men of Letters, and nothing else could have been done, he was only following orders, after all – but none of that mattered to Sam.
Ketch had murdered a child.
"Yeah." Dean's expression was dark and angry as he watched the road ahead of him. "Didn't seem like it fazed him even a little. I'm really glad we sent Claire away when we did – and that she actually listened."
"Yeah."
Sam smiled a little at the thought of their young friend, and her fierce frustration, but eventual surrender to the better judgment of the Winchester brothers. Only once he'd pulled her aside and explained to her that they were in the midst of a bigger mission here, something far more important and dangerous than a couple of random werewolves, had she – well, she hadn't agreed to leave. No, she'd been more intrigued than ever. It was when Sam promised to call her once they got back to the bunker and explain everything that she had finally left the case to them – and Sam was glad that she had. Otherwise, she might have gotten seriously hurt.
After a few quiet, thoughtful moments, Dean broke the silence, speculative. "You think he was telling the truth? That's what his superiors wanted him to do? That killing a kid like that lines up with their – code, or whatever?"
"Hard to say." Sam stared out the window, troubled. "I mean – I wouldn't exactly be shocked. To hear Mick talk about it… it sounds like they've asked things of him that…" He stopped, shaking his head a little. "It could go either way. Wouldn't put it past them. Wouldn't put it past Ketch to do it on his own, either. It's just – I'm starting to think that just getting Ketch out of the way – might not be enough. But if we move too soon – before we're ready, before we know more about them…" He was quiet a moment. "I need to talk to Mick."
"Tonight." Dean nodded firmly.
"Yeah," Sam agreed. "I hate to bring it up. I know he's been through – a lot of shit he doesn't want to talk about, and I feel like a lot of it is connected to the British Men of Letters, but – we need to know what we're dealing with. We need to know if they can be trusted. He – he wants to stay with us, but – I'm beginning to wonder if they'll even let him go, and – I'm not turning him over to them just to see him abused again by someone else."
"Tonight," Dean repeated. "We'll get him out of there, Sam. Just have to wait a few more hours."
Without the constant threat of Ketch's presence, Mick would have thought he'd have enjoyed the peace and quiet of the empty British compound. Instead, he spent the entire time uneasy, restless, doing his best to occupy his mind and keep his worries at bay – but mostly failing miserably. Every slight, occasional sound of the computers and various machinery about the compound made his heart lurch with mingled dread and anticipation, anxiously wondering if it meant Ketch and the Winchesters had returned – anxiously wondering if Sam was going to return at all.
Ketch had made it quite clear recently how he felt about his necessary association with the Winchesters, how impatient he was to be rid of it – and to be rid of Sam, completely. Mick had no doubt that if the opportunity arose to kill Sam under cover of the hunt – or even simply to allow Sam to die when a better man would have had his back – Ketch would certainly take it.
Sam's not just any average hunter, Mick reminded himself repeatedly. There's a reason why Ketch wanted his endorsement in the first place, why Sam has lived so much longer than most hunters ever do – because he's smart, and observant, and he'll be watching for Ketch's tricks. And Dean's there too, and Dean's almost as amazing as Sam. He'll be looking after him, protecting him… he'll be fine. Sam will come back. He will.
And then we'll go home.
Mick awakened on the third morning to the sound of his alarm, and began getting dressed in the quiet near-darkness of his windowless room, the only light provided by a small lamp on the floor beside his mattress. As soon as he'd pulled on his trousers, he bent down, reaching under the edge of his mattress to retrieve the thumb drive he'd stashed there.
The door to his room abruptly opened, and Mick straightened quickly, his heart in his throat as he turned to face the shadowed silhouette of Ketch, standing in the doorway. Immediately Mick slipped his hand into his pocket, out of Ketch's sight, hoping that the darkness of the room and the way his body was angled away from the door was enough to prevent Ketch from seeing the motion.
"You're back," he observed, pointlessly, reaching into his wardrobe for a clean shirt. "How did it go?"
Ketch said nothing, but flipped the light switch by the door, and Mick stopped for a moment, blinking as his eyes adjusted. When Ketch's face finally came into focus, he was smiling – cold, calculating, with a secretive amusement that made Mick shiver.
"Badly for you, I'm afraid."
An icy fist clenched around Mick's heart, and he stopped halfway through buttoning up his shirt, staring at Ketch as he strolled into Mick's room, his smile widening a bit at Mick's reaction. Mick swallowed hard, struggling to keep his words calm and level.
"What does that mean?"
It means that Sam is dead. It's all over. Ketch has been onto us all along, and he saw his chance and he killed Sam, and he's not coming back and you belong to Ketch again and he's about to prove it, right now, why are you even bothering getting dressed or waiting for an answer or fucking drawing your next breath because it's over and Sam is dead…
"It was – an unlucky sort of hunt for Sam from the start," Ketch began, and Mick felt the blood drain from his face, his breath coming with difficulty as Ketch continued. "As it turns out the werewolf turned one of its victims – and Sam was quite put out when I put the bitch down. Surprising, as cruel a man as he seems… to have such a soft heart for a monster."
Mick was vaguely aware that Ketch was watching him for his reactions, knew on some level that he should try to guard them – but it was all he could do to keep standing, keep breathing, the rush of his own blood pounding in his ears, bile rising in his throat at the thought of what Ketch's deliberately drawn out story was inevitably leading to.
"So… I suppose he was a bit distracted, going into the fight with the original werewolf. It – wasn't going well for him." Ketch shook his head sadly with a little grimace of false regret. "The werewolf had his back to the wall. He was losing, and – I saw the opportunity for what it was." Ketch's eyes met Mick's, and the false sorrow on his face shifted into a malicious smile.
Mick couldn't speak as Ketch closed in on him, his mind rebelling against Ketch's words, fighting not to take them in, even as he was already certain what he was about to hear.
"Sam's been a bloody thorn in my side ever since we made our little arrangement. And his brother was dealing with the second werewolf, one the first had sired, so – there was nothing to stop me. I drew my weapon and took aim… and pulled the trigger."
Mick shook his head, backing away from Ketch, rejecting everything about his advance, until his back hit the wall and there was nowhere else to go. Ketch smiled, closing in and placing his hands on Mick's arms, holding him still as he concluded his horrifying tale.
"Of course… I'm loyal to the Men of Letters, and Sam is a useful asset to them still, despite my personal opinion, so…" He gently stroked his fingers through Mick's hair, studying his reaction closely, his voice hushed and level as he concluded, "… it was the werewolf I shot. Not Sam. Thanks to my intervention… Sam survived this hunt."
Mick stared up at Ketch, blinking, his panicked mind taking a moment to catch up with the abrupt shift. He wasn't quite sure whether or not to believe it, caught between grief and relief – far too overwhelmed to pull off any sort of convincing façade at the moment. His voice was a hoarse, uncertain whisper as he choked out, "Sam… Sam's alive."
Ketch smiled, his eyes calculating. His hand slid down from Mick's hair to brush the backs of his fingers against Mick's cheek. "Sorry to disappoint."
Ketch's hands came to rest against Mick's chest, pushing him gently back against the wall, and Mick was too stunned, his mind still reeling too much to even think of resistance – until he felt Ketch's hands running down the unbuttoned front of his shirt. Instinctively Mick tried to push him away, abruptly alarmed. Without a word, Ketch immediately grabbed his shoulders and slammed him against the wall behind him – not hard enough to hurt, not much; just a silent warning against any further resistance. Mick offered none as Ketch's hands returned to his shirt… and the patient work of slowly buttoning it closed.
"Despite my own… personal interest in the matter… despite my desire to have you to myself again," Ketch sighed. "I serve the Men of Letters. And they still want Sam alive. So – our little hands off policy is still in place, and he still has you all to himself. My own interests don't matter."
Mick's heart was racing, his mind muddled and struggling to keep pace with Ketch's words and actions – and he was unprepared when Ketch grabbed his right hand and held it against the wall, restrained and useless as Ketch reached with his other hand into the right pocket of Mick's trousers. Too late, Mick made an attempt to stop him, to snatch back what Ketch had taken – but Ketch swiftly stepped back, holding up the incriminating thumb drive in his hand.
He smiled at Mick, cold and angry. "Tell me, love… whose interests have you been serving lately?"
Mick's mind was still back on Sam's alive and can't let him see how relieved you are and why is he standing so close and touching and get away, get away from me! – too distracted to even process what this meant. For him, and for Sam – for everything they'd spent the last few weeks building and preparing. He swallowed hard, eyes focused on the thumb drive.
"It's – it's not… it's nothing…"
"I find that highly unlikely." Ketch smirked. "Tell me, because I'm going to find out anyway… what exactly is on this thing you were so quick to hide when I walked into the room?"
Mick glanced up to meet Ketch's eyes, but the cruel satisfaction he saw there made him look away.
He's going to know. He's going to plug the thumb drive in and find out what's on it and he's going to know and he's going to hurt me. What I say doesn't matter. Won't help. Could just make it worse…
So Mick said nothing, simply refocused his gaze on the floor at his feet and remained silent.
"Fine," Ketch remarked after a moment. "Have it your way. I'll find out soon enough just exactly how you've been conspiring against me."
Ketch turned and walked out the door, and Mick realized a moment too late what he intended, rushing to the door after him and grabbing the handle just as he heard the lock turn from the outside. He pounded the door once in frustration, despair sinking in as his mind finally caught up to everything Ketch had said. He was trapped in this tiny room, with no escape until Ketch decided to let him out – no doubt, after he'd examined the contents of the thumb drive and reviewed the videos and figured out basically everything.
Conspiring against him… that's what he said. And the way he told that story, he knew… he knew you wouldn't be glad to hear of Sam's death. He's been suspicious for a while, but now… he knows.
Sam wouldn't be back until nightfall, which meant that nearly the entire day stretched before him with nothing but Ketch's rage to look forward to – and if Ketch believed that Sam was working with Mick against him, Sam's feelings about it would do nothing to prevent him from hurting Mick in any way he desired. Mick shivered; he could still feel the careful brush of Ketch's fingers against his skin as he'd buttoned up his shirt.
He knew that once Ketch had viewed the contents of the thumb drive and knew the truth, there'd be no such restraint in his touch. He'd take out all his vindictive fury on Mick, making up for lost time and inflicting all the suffering that'd been denied him for the past weeks.
And Sam would arrive later, completely unsuspecting, just to walk into a trap.
It took a little while to get past the panic – to slow his racing, despairing thoughts until he could focus and try to come up with some kind of a plan – but Mick had time. He had nothing but time, locked in this tiny room with no weapons, no means of communicating with Sam, nothing but his own mind. So he began to think, to try to come up with some kind of a plan, some way of explaining what Ketch had found, some way to salvage some little part of all they'd worked for.
He reached the conclusion that the best he could do was to distance Sam from himself – his motives, his actions – and keep Ketch's focus off of him. If Ketch believed that Mick had acted alone, then he alone would face punishment, and Sam would be safe, and free to perhaps find some way to help him. At the very least, Sam wouldn't suffer for Mick's stupidity in allowing himself to get caught, allowing Ketch to take away their hard-earned evidence.
If he could convince Ketch that Sam had nothing to do with it…
But Mick knew better than to think that Ketch would believe him at this point. The more strongly he protested Sam's innocence, the more convinced Ketch would be that he and Sam were working together – and rightly so. He was supposed to hate Sam, wasn't he? Supposed to be terrified of him and want to be rid of him, and Ketch already doubted that extremely. If he could just find a way to convince Ketch that those things were true…
As he waited in the overbearing silence of his room, Mick reached a single conclusion, bearing down on him with the weight of its possible implications, all the ways it could go wrong – but still, the only option he had, the only way to keep Sam from becoming Ketch's immediate target.
In order to save Sam – Mick was going to have to betray him.
When Ketch returned, Mick waited until the door was open and Ketch had stepped inside to hastily, anxiously go to his knees, facing him, making no attempt to hide the fear that made his stomach quake, his eyes locked onto the floor at Ketch's feet.
"Yeah," Ketch huffed, derisive. "Like that's going to save you."
"S-Sam…" Mick whispered, hoarse and unsteady.
Ketch's fierce backhand across his face took his breath, knocking him down, and then Ketch's hand was gripping the back of his head, searing pain across his scalp, as Ketch leaned in close, barely restrained fury in his eyes.
"He's not going to save you, either," he snarled.
"… made me do it!" Mick choked out, raising his voice, allowing his desperation to show clearly. "Please, he – he told me what he'd do to me – if I didn't. I didn't have a choice!"
Ketch went still, his eyes narrowed as he took that in, clearly surprised, and very skeptical. "Sam – forced you to use that thing to copy my computer. It was Sam's idea – to gather evidence against me."
"Yes," Mick insisted with a little too much urgency, his words rushed and stumbling and, if he was accomplishing what he was trying to – not quite believable. "He – he gave me the thumb drive and – and told me what it'd do and he said – he wanted to turn you in. Wanted – to run the Men of Letters in the States once you were gone. Yeah, he – he said if I didn't make the copy of your computer and bring it back to him, he'd – he'd kill me."
Ketch studied Mick's face closely, and Mick couldn't hold his gaze, guilty and self-conscious – which he hoped would only help Ketch to draw the conclusions he hoped for. Ketch's expression softened into a smile, and his hand in Mick's hair released its painful grip and instead stroked through it, a parody of tender affection as he leaned in close and spoke softly against his ear.
"You're going to wish he had."
Mick shivered as Ketch let him go, standing up straight and turning away. He reached out desperately, grasping at Ketch's ankle to stop him. "Please! You have to believe me, I – I would never…"
Ketch kicked at him – a glancing blow that was more disgusted than actually intended to hurt – and continued toward the door. "We'll just see what Sam has to say about all this when he gets here."
He left Mick locked in his room once more, trying to catch his breath – his heart and mind racing with the implications of what he'd just done. Surely Ketch had to be questioning his assumptions right now. If Mick and Sam were working together, if Mick held any sort of loyalty to Sam, then he wouldn't have just thrown all the blame on him, would he? If Mick was willing to betray Sam so fully, then surely Ketch couldn't believe any longer that they were on the same side.
And for his own safety, right now, the last place Sam needed to be was on Mick's side.
Sam couldn't sleep much that day, despite his exhaustion from the hunt. He couldn't turn his mind off, couldn't stop thinking about getting back to the British compound and getting Mick out of there – hopefully for the very last time. He was up and dressed and ready to go an hour before sunset, sitting at the library table with a cup of coffee while he waited for Dean to finish showering and getting ready.
He was tempted to go alone rather than wait, he was so anxious to get there. Ketch hadn't tried anything on the hunt – in fact, had saved Sam's life at one point – so Sam was fairly certain he could safely go alone. But this was too crucial a point in their plan, too near to the end to take any chances. As always, it was much better to have his brother backing him up. So he waited.
When they finally reached the compound, Sam sat there for a moment in the passenger seat, drawing in a steadying breath, closing his eyes for a moment, preparing to put on a repulsive persona that he hoped he'd be portraying for the very last time. It wouldn't do to make Ketch suspicious now. He would put on one last show, be the cruel, sadistic Sam he'd led Ketch to believe he was – and then take Mick home and never have to hurt or frighten him again, for the rest of his life.
And God help anyone else who tried.
Sam squared his shoulders, steeled himself for this last confrontation – determined and focused as he walked into the compound. The minute he stepped into the conference room, it was clear that something had gone terribly wrong.
Ketch was standing outside his office door – and Mick was kneeling at his feet, facing Sam as he entered. Ketch was smiling coolly, but his eyes were hard; Mick was staring at the floor, pale and shaky, fidgeting with his formerly damaged wrist. He looked up at Sam, eyes wide with panic – and Sam immediately saw the dark bruise high on his cheek.
He fought back the protective instinct he felt, instead allowing Ketch to see only annoyance on his face as he stopped, facing them. "What happened to his face?"
"Not nearly as much as he deserves," Ketch retorted. "My question is – is he the only one who deserves it."
As he spoke, Ketch reached into his pocket to retrieve something. Out of the corner of his eye, Sam saw Dean's hand edge back toward his own weapon, without quite reaching for it. But Ketch wasn't going for a gun. When Ketch held up his hand, Sam's heart sank at the sight of the thumb drive he'd given Mick, resting in Ketch's palm.
His mind raced, trying to focus both on the face he was supposed to present to Ketch, as well as trying to figure out just how much Ketch knew, just what sort of strategy he would need in order to get them all out of this safely.
Sam frowned, portraying he hoped only mild confusion.
"What's that?" he asked with an impatient shrug.
"You should know," Ketch replied, his eyes locked onto Sam's, scrutinizing and shrewd. "It's apparently yours."
"Mine?" Sam blinked, then looked at the thumb drive a bit more closely. "I've probably got about a dozen that look like that. How'd it end up here, if it's mine?"
Mick lowered his face into his hands, trembling, shaking his head a little. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he choked out, panicked. "Please, I'm sorry…"
Ketch didn't so much as glance at him, utterly unmoved, his attention focused on Sam. "He says you gave it to him. Told him to use it to copy my computer."
Sam allowed an expression of recognition to dawn on his face. "Oh, that's – yeah, that is mine. Given to me by a very dear friend who's now gone, by the way. But I didn't give it to him." He glared down at Mick, suspicious.
"He says you gave it to him and instructed him to make a copy of my private files, so that you could in turn hand them over to my superiors and get me removed from my position," Ketch further explained. "Said you wanted that position for yourself."
Sam's expression of suspicion shifted to anger and contempt, his voice low and furious. "You lying little bitch."
Mick flinched, looked up at him with tear-filled eyes for just a moment before looking away. "I'm sorry," he repeated miserably, the words almost a sob.
Sam ignored him, glancing over at Dean. "The inventory the other night."
Dean nodded slowly, a thoughtful frown on his lips. "Yeah," he went along with it easily. "I told you we should wait 'til he was back here before doing that."
"Yeah, well, I thought he was too fucked up to move at the moment," Sam snapped, "so I wasn't all that worried about it." He took a couple of steps in closer to Mick, crouching down in front of him, a malicious smile on his lips. "Guess I went a little easy on him, if he was still capable of sneaking around and spying and stealing."
Mick flinched, drawing his shoulders in as if trying to present a smaller target. His arms wrapped around his torso, he lowered his eyes, struggling over his words. "Please, I – I'm sorry. I heard you talking about it – what it was – used for, and I – I took it, and – I didn't know what else to do when he found it. Please, I'm so sorry…"
"Maybe not fucking steal from me in the first place!" Sam snarled, grabbing Mick by the back of the neck and yanking him in closer before shoving him away hard and standing up straight again – but relief washed over him, because now at least he knew what the play was.
Mick was taking the blame, playing the liar and the traitor so that Sam would appear blameless – so that, even with the loss of their evidence, their plan would be protected, and Sam could still find a way to get them out of here.
He's trusting me… Sam's heart raced, the pressure of the task ahead of him nearly overwhelming. Can't let him down, not now… not when he's put it all on the line in the hopes that I can save him… can get him home…
Just have to get him home…
"Like things haven't been strained enough already!" Sam snapped, pacing a few angry steps and then turning back toward Mick again, accusing. "And we've been trying so hard to make this partnership work, and then you go behind our backs and – you could have just gotten me shot, do you know that?" Sam stopped a moment, eyes narrowed, a cold, nasty smile on his lips. "Yeah, I bet you do know that," he concluded. "I bet that was what you wanted, wasn't it? Me dead, you stupid, lying little whore!"
Sam drew back his fist and brought it down across Mick's face in a brutal backhand blow that sent him reeling, face to the floor. He looked up at Ketch, who was watching him with mild amusement – relieved to see that the suspicion had faded from Ketch's expression; he seemed to be buying it. Sam glared at him, angry and accusing.
"You should have left the discipline to me."
Ketch shrugged, not in the least apologetic. "For all I knew you were in on it."
"Doesn't matter," Sam continued, turning his gaze down toward Mick. "He's not had anywhere close to what he deserves for this. Trust me – when I get through with him, he's never going to try anything like this again."
He reached down and grabbed the collar of Mick's shirt, hauling him up to his feet. Mick shied away from him, but did not resist as Sam started to drag him toward the exit.
Just a few steps, just a few more steps and I can get him out of here, we've lost the evidence but he'll be safe for now…
"No." Ketch's voice was soft, calculating, and Sam stopped, turning back toward him warily. Ketch was smiling as he took in Sam's fury and Mick's terror, before meeting Sam's eyes. "Please stay. At least for a while." He paused before pointing out, "I'm of course going to honor our arrangement. Discipline is yours to mete out. But you must admit, his offense was equally against both of us. I've a right to observe at least – to make sure his punishment is… adequate?"
Revulsion washed over Sam; he could see the hunger in Ketch's lecherous gaze as his eyes slowly raked over Mick, drinking in his terror and deriving pleasure from it. Ketch wanted to watch Mick suffer, simply to watch – to enjoy his pain and fear.
And Sam didn't know how to stop him.
"I don't like an audience," he pointed out, not for the first time.
"You needn't have one – not for the entire time. But – you have this annoying habit of cleaning up after yourself," Ketch smiled. "Or having your angel do it. And – I want to see for myself that he's been properly punished. I've got a room laid out with anything you could need, just perfect for meting out the necessary discipline."
Mick flinched in Sam's grasp, his breath quickening, and Sam felt a hot rush of anger at the realization that Mick was intimately familiar with the room Ketch was describing.
"You can make use of any of my tools you so choose," Ketch offered. "Punish him until I'm… satisfied that it's enough, and then take him back to your bunker and do as you will for the remainder of the night. Fuck him, play with him, punish him some more – have your angel erase the evidence, whatever you choose. But first – you spend some time here." Ketch's enticing tone shifted to something a little harder, his eyes locked onto Sam's, making it clear he had no intention of taking no for an answer. "I insist."
Sam swallowed hard, mind racing. He couldn't think of a way to avoid what Ketch was asking. He was certain that at this point, Ketch wouldn't simply allow him to leave with Mick. Their little act had been convincing, but he probably still had his suspicions. He needed time to think, needed to come up with a plan – but there was no time.
"Fine," he agreed at last, terse and mildly annoyed. "But this comes out of your time. I get extra in the morning."
"Fine," Ketch agreed with a smile. "Follow me."
"Wait here," Sam instructed Dean, who had remained mostly silent throughout their negotiation, and – now that Sam really looked at him – looked truly horrified by what was happening. "I'll be back as soon as I can. Don't – don't do anything, okay?" Sam kept his voice hushed, as Ketch started down the hall away from them, just assuming Sam would follow. "I – I'll come up with something. Just – wait."
Sam could see the conflict in his brother's troubled eyes, saw the way Dean swallowed slowly, jaw clenched with frustration, before finally nodding, reluctantly accepting Sam's instructions.
Sam dragged Mick along behind Ketch, down several corridors to a locked door that Ketch accessed with a key. Sam followed him inside – then froze, just inside the doorway.
The room was dimly lit, the walls arrayed with various implements of pain – blades in varying sizes and shapes, whips, clubs, and other items Sam didn't even know names for. Chains hung from the ceiling, and from the walls at varying heights. Other, more complicated restraint devices were on offer as well. On a small table against the wall were laid out several brands and lighters and other small implements.
Ketch had a literal torture chamber in the British Men of Letters compound.
As Sam's mind processed what he was seeing, he slowly became aware of Mick's reaction. Mick was pulling against him just a little – as much as he dared – his body shaking within Sam's grasp, his breath quick and unsteady with panic. His eyes were closed and he was shaking his head a little.
"Please," he sobbed, attempting to go to his knees, though Sam held him up. "Please no, please don't…"
"Shut up," Sam snapped at him, shutting out the guilt, the overwhelming desire he felt to just take Mick into his arms and carry him out of here, Ketch and the British Men of Letters be damned. He dragged Mick further into the room, leading him toward the center where a set of shackles hung from the ceiling. "You brought this on yourself."
"Take your time," Ketch spoke up, and Sam closed his eyes for a moment with his back to him, jaw clenched, resisting the urge to turn his violent behavior on Ketch instead. "Feel free to look around… restrain him as you choose." Sam could hear his cruel smile in his suggestive words. "There really are so many options…"
A tinny, artificially musical sound abruptly echoed in the room, mercifully cutting off Ketch's words, and Sam turned toward him, one eyebrow raised over a smirk as Ketch glared down at the phone he'd taken from his pocket.
"Somewhere else you need to be?"
Ketch waved a dismissive hand, turning toward the door. "Only for a moment. I've got to take this, but I'll be right back." He paused at the doorway with a teasing little smirk over his shoulder. "Don't start without me."
The door closed behind him automatically – and before Sam could take advantage of the silence to think, Mick had collapsed against him, pressed close against his chest as if trying to somehow hide himself away within Sam. Alarmed, Sam tried to push him back, though Mick clung to him too tightly to dislodge him.
"Mick, the cameras!" Sam protested in a whisper. "I know, I'm so sorry, but…"
Mick looked up, his face tear-streaked, his eyes filled with dread. "There aren't any," he explained. "Not in here. He – he never wanted there to be any – any record of – of what he does here…"
He glanced around the room for a moment but quickly lowered his gaze, shuddering as he drew in close against Sam again. Sam took a moment to process his explanation – and then swiftly wrapped his arms around Mick, hugging him tight.
"I'm so sorry," he whispered fiercely, "Mick, I'm so sorry, I didn't want to hit you, but I had to convince him…"
"I know," Mick sobbed. "Please, Sam, I'm sorry, he caught me hiding the thumb drive and he found it and I didn't want to betray you but if I'd insisted you weren't part of it he'd never have believed me and he'd have killed us both. I knew the only way to make him believe we aren't in it together was to turn on you. I – I did my best to sound like I was lying…"
"You did good," Sam assured him, one hand rising to cup the back of Mick's head protectively, and before Sam could think about what he was doing, he'd pressed a tender kiss against Mick's temple. "You didn't do anything wrong, you did the only thing you could, it's all right… it's going to be all right…"
Mick looked up at Sam, eyes bright with panic, his voice a breathless whisper. "How?"
"I – I don't know," Sam admitted after a moment. "But I'm going to find a way to get us out of this. I – maybe we just have to kill him."
"No," Mick objected, shaking his head. "If he dies, the British Men of Letters come in force and they kill you, and Dean, and anyone closely associated with you – including me. That's – not an option." He was quiet for a moment, before speaking again, despairing and ashamed. "Our evidence against him is gone. We've got nothing. They'd place all the blame on us, no question."
"Then – we get through this as best we can. We fake it," Sam suggested, nodding slowly as he thought about it. "I make it look good, and get you out of here and back home as quickly as possible. Then, we come up with a plan from there." He met Mick's eyes, raising a hand to gently brush across his bruised cheek, brushing away his tears. "Don't worry," he whispered. "I'm not gonna hurt you, not really…"
"Yes, you are." Mick's voice was hushed, strangely calm, and Sam was startled by the brave smile he forced to his lips. "He'll know if you're faking it. It has to hurt." He swallowed slowly, his eyes haunted and touched with dread, but resolved. "Has to bleed. Has to – to make him believe that you truly want to hurt me, and aren't afraid to do so. That's – it's the only way we leave here alive. The only way we – can get away from him. You are going to hurt me, Sam." He was quiet for a moment, as the agonizing weight of his words sank in, and Sam realized their truth. "You're going to have to."