SPN
(LeClaire, Iowa … Tuesday, December 8, 2005)
"Dad? … Dad! … Wake up!"
As soon as John registered Sam's voice—distant, nebulous, frantic—he snapped his eyes open and raised his guard, banishing his drowsiness. What happened? Where was he? "Sam?"
"I'm right here," his son assured him. They were in the clearing outside the invisible fortress; Sam was kneeling over John, who was sprawled out on the snow with the angel blade clutched tightly in his hand. Despite the overcast night sky, they both had plenty of visibility, thanks to a nearby camping lantern—apparently, Magnus didn't mind dumping them out in the cold, but heaven forbid he leave them in the dark. Bastard.
"Are you okay?" Sam asked, helping him sit up. John nodded, giving the kid a once-over to evaluate his own condition. Sam was a tough young hunter, but John would always see him as a child—especially after this whole ordeal with the Stynes. Fortunately, he seemed unscathed for now—just a little shaken. His face was flushed, his unruly bangs were everywhere, and to top it all off, he was shivering. How could someone so gentle and vulnerable be the devil's chosen one? It didn't make any sense.
But at least now they had a weapon. They could finally take the fight to Azazel and stop this catastrophe from escalating. Mary would be avenged, and Sam would be safe—about time, too. Speaking of time, how much did they lose?
"How long was I out?" John asked, climbing to his feet. Sam rose with him, shaking his head.
"No idea—I was unconscious too—woke right before you did. Can you check your phone?"
John fished the small device out of his pocket, reminding himself to replace Sam's as soon as possible—damn Jacob for stealing it. Flipping open the screen, he was promptly notified of three unread texts from Benny. It was 2:20 a.m., and the vampire had messaged him hours ago. Quickly skimming the report, John's heart stopped, and he met Sam's gaze in a panic.
"We have to go. Now!"
SPN
Back in the spell-caster's drawing room, Sam frantically shuffled around his cage, searching for weak spots. As far as he could tell, the damn thing didn't have a door or hinges, and if he didn't know any better, he'd think it was built around him and welded shut. Then again, magic. God, he hated magic.
At least it was more comfortable than Jacob's dog crate. Seven feet tall and five-and-a-half feet in diameter, the cage was large enough for him to stand at full height and lie down, curled up. But standing was laborious. Every time he moved, the cage twirled and swayed, making him dizzy and nauseous. What he wouldn't give to have both feet back on stable ground.
Meanwhile, Magnus observed him from his chair in blatant satisfaction. Sam did everything he could to ignore the son of a bitch, but he was obviously a prized trophy, and such attention made him squirm. When would people figure out he had a life of his own? He wasn't a tool, or an object, or a slave, or whatever. He was a human being, and he shouldn't be treated this way. Frustrated, Sam turned on Magnus with all the indignation he could muster. "Let me out! Or I swear to God…"
"You'll what?" Magnus taunted with a twinkle in his eye. "What are you going to do, Sam? You're not the first of my pets to resist assimilation, and you won't be the last. I've got you, and you're not going anywhere. Now then…" He leaned back and propped his elbow on the armrest, holding up his hand. "Bear with me as I decide the best place to display you." He began twirling his index finger, and the chain that fastened the cage to the ceiling began wrenching upwards.
Sam braced himself as Magnus magically hoisted his prison up higher and higher off the ground. He clenched his eyes shut as the cage danced, but couldn't block out the spinning sensation that wreaked havoc on his nerves.
A pause. Sam listened stiffly as Magnus considered his new elevation. "Hmm… You know, the cage looks gorgeous up there, but it's hard to see you… Too much of an angle… Maybe I should set you closer to the wall." He flicked his wrist, and the chain tugged the cage sideways. Sam's entire world lurched, and he moaned miserably as he lost his balance.
Magnus oohed and aahed, but ultimately shook his head. "No, now you're just too far away." He continued shifting the cage around the room—up, down, left, right, up, down, here, there—until vertigo overwhelmed his captive.
"Magnus, stop! Please!" Sam hated the whimper in his voice. God, he was pathetic. Magnus reeled him back to his starting position, smiling triumphantly.
"What's wrong, little birdie? Don't like your cage?" He chuckled while Sam leaned against the bars, thoroughly exhausted. "Now, if you behave yourself, I might be inclined to let you out—on occasion. But this is your home now, Sam. I always immerse my live acquisitions in habitats that complement their breeds. You're Lucifer's Vessel, and Lucifer happens to occupy a cage, so there you go. It's good symmetry, and I trust you'll adapt."
Sam glared at him. "I hate you."
Magnus sighed, tossing up his arms. "Come on, kid! This doesn't have to be a bad thing. I'm willing to take you under my wing. I can protect you from your enemies—your real enemies—I can teach you everything I know—all my secrets—even the way of the Letters. We can be friends. I have to be honest with you; it has gotten lonely here over the years."
Sam curled his lip in disgust. "You're worse than the Stynes. At least they own up to their depravity."
"You know, you should be thanking me," Magnus rebutted. "I got that demon soot off your wrist, didn't I? And I gave your dad an authentic angel blade when, really, I'd like nothing more than to see him fail. Doesn't that make me generous?"
The outrageous remark chilled Sam to the bones. "Wait… Why, for the love of God, would you want to see him fail?"
Magnus hesitated, choosing his next words carefully, and when he finally spoke, he was dead serious. "Sam… It's not in my interests as the curator of this fine collection for your dad to succeed. Think about it. You're Lucifer's Vessel. If Azazel and the Stynes do manage to unleash him, his top priority will be to find and claim you—you're the perfect bait. Then, it's just a matter of trapping him, and voila! I get to add an archangel to the mix. Why wouldn't I want that?"
Sam sat in stunned silence. He couldn't believe what he was hearing! Trap Lucifer? And what, turn him into a zoo creature? Was this guy insane? Sam might not have much experience with angels, and didn't know whether they were choir singers or instruments of God's wrath, but one thing he believed—Lucifer was the freaking devil, and his reputation was no joke. Setting a trap for him would be suicide.
"Tell me something, Magnus. In your time with the Men of Letters, did they ever mention the word, hubris?"
Magnus laughed. "Oh, they wouldn't shut up about it! But you know what, Sam?" He winked. "They're the ones who suffered the tragic downfall. Not I."
It was growing more and more difficult to contain his frustration, and Sam pounded on the bars. "You're crazy! Let me out!"
Magnus downed the rest of his whiskey and climbed to his feet. "This conversation's going nowhere. It's getting late, and we're both tired. Why don't we call it a night?" He ambled toward the cage, gazing in at Sam with an indulgent expression. "I'm going to give you a few hours to cool off, kiddo. Hopefully, in the morning, you'll be more agreeable."
"Don't count on it," Sam spat.
Magnus nodded. "You'll come around. It might take months—it might take years—but I'm a patient man, and we have all the time in the world. Literally." He spread out his arms, flaunting all the treasures he had on display. "Welcome to the collection." Smirking, he turned to leave.
Sam felt a wave of panic. No… He didn't want to spend the rest of the night stuck in a damn bird cage! "Magnus, wait!"
"Nighty-night, Sam," he called back, not even sparing a glance over his shoulder.
Sam clutched the bars, steeling himself for a fight. This wasn't the first time he found himself backed in a corner, and if he had to ram his way through Magnus, so be it. Concentrating, he closed his eyes and opened his mind. In this distance, he perceived countless monsters of all varieties—evil, angry, impotent—but they were too far away to channel. He had to focus on his captor.
Like Olivette, the high priestess of the Grand Coven—who attended the Stynes' wedding and accidentally supplied the psychic with her powers—Magnus had a wealth of magic at his disposal. If Sam could tap into it, hijack it, perhaps he could escape. Such a strategy worked before—it had to work now.
But the moment their minds linked, Sam sensed surprise, astonishment, and finally retaliation. Magnus didn't just block him out, he blasted him out, knocking Sam backwards while making him gasp. As the cage rocked, Sam curled up in a ball, moaning in pain. So much for that.
Magnus stalked towards him, unable to hide his elation. "Psychic, Sam? You never mentioned you were psychic." He clucked his tongue, and Sam buried his face in his arms. "I have to say, I am impressed. Unfortunately for you, the Men of Letters always trained diligently to hone their mental discipline, so you'll find I'm not that easily manipulated. But nice try. You're obviously more valuable than I realized. That's good. So now, if your dad kills the demon and stops the devil from rising, I won't be quite as disappointed."
With that, he grabbed the cage and gave it a hard spin—it twirled faster than a speeding merry-go-round, and there was nothing Sam could do to slow it down.
SPN
Even with duct tape spread firmly across Dean's mouth, his muffled cries were loud and agonizing. As Cyrus cowered behind a steel column, he tried covering his ears, but it didn't help. Eckhart relished the sound of screaming, and went out of his way to encourage it—breaking fingers, stabbing, punching, even electrocuting. He alternated between the two hunters, subjecting Bobby to the same abuse, and while he tortured one, his lackeys performed healing spells on the other. After all, they were necromancers—they had the ability to reanimate the dead! What were a few nonfatal injuries to the likes of them?
Cyrus couldn't stand it. The screaming, the smell of blood, the Nazis' cruel laughter. It was unbearable, making tears spill down his face. He had to do something! But what? What could he possibly hope to achieve against a demon and four thugs? Maybe… maybe if he ran away, he could find Sam and his father—or at the very least, call the cops. They would be far more useful to the prisoners than one measly kid.
Taking a deep breath, Cyrus peered around the column. With only a few old lanterns casting light in the abandoned building, the scene before him was truly sinister, shadowy and hellish. Everyone's attention was fixed on Dean, whose face was battered, bloody and bruised. His clothes were in tatters, and he was struggling to breathe—but despite all that, his eyes were brimming with fury. In the past, every time Jacob exposed Cyrus to such violence, the victims were always terrified—beyond terrified. But not Dean, and not Bobby. If they felt any fear at all, they masked it well with righteous anger.
Presently, Eckhart primed a gun with a silencer and aimed for Dean's knee. Cyrus spun around, covering his mouth to keep from crying. Dean howled as the bullet shattered his joint, and Cyrus made a break for the warehouse door. He realized he wasn't very sneaky, but his emotions were going haywire, and he lost control.
Sure enough, Shax noticed. "HEY!"
Cyrus ran as if his life depended on it, but didn't get far at all. Shax quickly caught up to him and grabbed his arm, yanking him back. Cyrus yelped as Shax spun him around and slapped him hard across the face.
"You little runt!" he snarled. "Jacob's already pissed that I lost track of Sam, and now he's on his way here, when he really wants to be searching for your bitch of a cousin, and how would it look if I had to explain your disappearance on top of all that? Do you have any idea how much trouble I'd be in?"
"Good!" Cyrus shrieked. "I hope he kills you!"
Shax narrowed his eyes and slapped the boy hard enough to fling him to the floor. Cyrus landed heavily on his hands and knees, whimpering in pain. The next thing he knew, Shax was tinkering with a pair of handcuffs. He knelt down and roughly fastened the adult-sized shackles around Cyrus' child-sized ankles. Securing them as tightly as possible, Shax picked the boy up and carried him over his shoulder back to the others. He made it a point to drop Cyrus in a puddle of Dean's blood, where he planted a foot on the boy's back to keep him from crawling away. The Nazis chuckled as Cyrus squirmed pathetically.
"Perhaps a short respite's in order," Eckhart suggested, nodding at his subordinates. They dutifully gathered around Dean and began the incantation to restore his health while their leader approached Bobby. The gruff old hunter strained against the duct tape, but was no match for his unyielding encumbrances. Eckhart leaned over him with a sadistic smile. "What if, this time, instead of breaking your fingers, I cut them off?"
"No!" Cyrus shouted.
Eckhart drew his knife and pressed the blade lightly against Bobby's right thumb—but instead of hacking, he waited, relishing in the hunter's helplessness. Meanwhile, his cohorts accomplished their healing spell, and Dean bellowed hysterically, struggling with renewed desperation. Everyone turned to watch as Eckhart toyed with his captive.
But then, out of nowhere, two guns fired from above, and two of Eckhart's lackeys hit the ground, dead.
Shax cursed while Eckhart and his fellow spun around. They all glanced up at the rafters, where they discerned movement in the shadows. A second volley discharged, raining bullets down on the surviving Thule with lethal precision. Shax stumbled backwards as the Nazis fell. A moment later, one of their assailants jumped from the ceiling to the floor, landing gracefully on his feet.
Cyrus gasped. "Benny!?"
The vampire snarled at the demon, baring his fangs. Unfortunately, with Shax possessing Rufus, he was reluctant to attack—which the demon noticed. He quickly drew a knife and held it against his own stomach, threatening to stab himself. "Stay back, or your friend dies!"
Bobby shook his head, protesting frantically through his gag, which compelled the vampire to retract his fangs. He held out his hands in surrender. "All right, just take it easy."
"Shut up!" Shax reached for Cyrus and snagged his hair.
"No!" the boy squealed, batting at the demon's hand. "Let me go!"
"SHUT UP!" Shax gave him a rough jerk, which sent shock waves coursing through his body. Cyrus groaned, glancing weakly at Dean—Sam's brother. Was that concern on his face?
Shax motioned for Benny to move aside. "You can have the damn hunters, but I'm taking Cyrus. He belongs with Jacob, and if you get in our way, Rufus will pay with his life. Understand?"
"By all means." The vampire backed off, much to Cyrus' alarm. He screamed as Shax began dragging him by the hair through the building—his scalp did not appreciate the mistreatment and burned painfully.
"STOP! LET ME GO! PLEASE!"
But Shax held on, and neither Benny nor his accomplice in the rafters did anything to help. In a matter of seconds, they were at the door. Shax shoved it open and heaved the boy outside—the freezing cold air made him gasp.
"Buck up, you stupid little brat," the demon chided, ushering him along. "You're only making things worse!"
Suddenly, Sam appeared through the shadows with a large bucket in his arms. In the blink of an eye, he tossed holy water in the demon's face. Shax yelled—literally sizzling—and dropped both Cyrus and the knife as he convulsed in agony.
Sam acted quickly, kicking the blade several feet away before scooping up Cyrus and scrambling backwards. "I've got you! It's okay! It's okay!" Cyrus buried his face in his friend's chest, unable to keep from crying.
Before Shax could recover, Benny charged from behind and tackled him to the ground. He made a swift search for other weapons, and confiscated a gun and two other knives. By the time he climbed off the demon, Shax was beside himself in fury.
"I'M GOING TO KILL EVERY LAST ONE OF YOU, JACOB BE DAMNED!"
"You're not killing anyone," Sam retorted. "Not from inside that devil's trap."
Shax started, glancing down at the cement sidewalk. Sure enough, beneath a thin layer of snow, he could make out traces of a red, spray-painted pentagram.
"You're inside a friend of ours," Benny said with an unforgiving snarl. "So if you don't mind, we're kicking you out. Enjoy hell, you son of a bitch."
SPN
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