Dean wasn't coming round and Sam didn't know what to do next. He thought of Cas, bleeding away his grace, and his life, all alone.
"Dammit!" Sam climbed back onto unsteady feet. He still held the shard of mirror in his sticky, wet hand. Imagined thrusting it deep into Haversham's vile heart. The idea of poking several fatal holes into the man that had murdered them all gave Sam all the impetus he needed to full-body throw himself at the door.
That one, huge hurl was all it took for the hinges to come away and the door to fall open.
The woman Sam had seen earlier was standing guard outside. Blonde and tall, the mean smirk that twisted her lips ruined anything that could have been attractive about her. She expected Sam to be unarmed and weak. The shard of mirror Sam drove deep into her guts removed her of that notion, as well as her smug grin. She opened her mouth to scream in shock and Sam slid the glass out of her belly and quickly shoved it into her neck, silencing her.
One accomplice down, too many to go.
Much as he wanted to, if he went downstairs to fight the murdering bastards on his own he would be eviscerated from the inside out within minutes. Then no one would be able to save Cas or his brother.
Cas, he decided, was their only chance. And a small one at that. If he could somehow find him, and if he could get him away from the poisonous warding in time, the angel might have enough juice to heal himself and maybe Dean. It was the only thing he could think of that might possibly work. He ignored all the 'iffs' in his plan as they weren't particularly helpful.
Sam stepped over the woman's body, taking her knife in exchange for the shard of glass he'd left in her neck.
The corridor was beautifully decorated. Everything looked designer and ridiculously expensive. Sam made sure to drip and smear as much blood as he could on everything he touched.
The first room he came across was small, looked like some kind of dressing room. Five matching sets of identical grey suits and shirts hung on a rail. And five pairs of clean-as-new shiny shoes laid out underneath each set. Fucking weirdo. It didn't take much more than one flick of his torn hand to ruin all the suits in one go. Petty, but satisfying.
Next was an empty bathroom, equally as tidy and minimalist. Even the toilet paper was out of sight, hidden behind some kind of fancy chrome dispenser.
He had no idea if it was the taser or concussion causing the nausea, but another strong bout welled up as he walked on. He had to waste too many precious minutes leaning against a wall, eyes closed, clammy forehead resting on his sodden sweater sleeve.
As soon as it receded enough to move again, Sam walked past the staircase he had been dragged up earlier. The thumping at back of his head increased in protest at returning to the scene of the crime. Sam pictured Haversham down one floor below, sitting in that cosy armchair waiting comfortably for Bill and Gavin to arrive.
Impatience moved him onwards.
Three more rooms remained on this floor. But before them a narrow staircase led up towards what must be an attic.
Sam was hyper-aware of how much energy he was using to incubate his little fucker. Having to keep physical movements to a minimum meant he was forced to search cleverly instead of thoroughly. Where was the most likely place they would keep Cas? Whatever option he chose was a massive gamble. He dismissed the idea of searching the three remaining first-floor rooms and went for the attic instead.
Breathing softly, climbing smoothly, he made his way up the uncarpeted staircase.
The steps, like the rest of the house, were beautifully maintained. No squeaky boards. A door opened easily onto a large, airy room. The lights were all on, casting a bright glow over dozens and dozens of large plastic crates neatly lined up against all four white walls.
Wondering whether he could spare a moment to peek inside one (Haversham was Men of Letters after all, who knows what useful items might be hidden away?), a wheezy cough took him by surprise. Midway down his chest he could feel a lump forming inside him. Like he had swallowed a piece of meat that was too big and it had gotten a bit stuck.
Sam pictured the little parasite growing and thrashing around inside his windpipe. He badly wanted to puke but couldn't spare himself the luxury - he was dangerously running out of time.
He quickly eyeballed the room - from where he stood he could see the entire attic.
Either Cas wasn't there or, dear-god-no, he was in one of the dozens of stacked up crates that Sam didn't have a hope of searching on his own.
"Cas?" He called out. Nothing.
"Cas?"
Shit. He slumped back against the nearest wall. His head hurt, his arm and hands hurt and the dizziness was back.
Guess I could maybe get one or two of the crates open before I die like John Hurt in Alien.
His friend could literally be anywhere in the house and Sam would never be able to find him in time. If he'd had the energy he would have howled in frustration. And if he had, he wouldn't have heard a horrible wet gurgling sound nearby. What the hell?
He heard it again, coming from a smaller tub on the floor near the door.
No...tell me they didn't…
They had. He dropped his knife, used two hands to unclip and pull off the lid. Those cruel bastards had stuffed the unconscious angel into a plastic box and left him to die.
Sam's fury flared white hot. If he was able, he would have made every single person in this house suffer for their barbarity.
Cas whimpered again. Sam reached out and touched his friend's crumpled chest. He was breathing at least, though it sounded more like a wet rasp.
He couldn't let his friend stay like that for one second longer. He tipped the box onto its side and gently pulled Cas's arms. An inch of blood that had pooled in the bottom of the tub helped slide him out.
With nothing more he could do to help, Sam put Cas into the same recovery position he'd put Dean in. As he did so, Sam noticed the angel had stopped bleeding. Nothing new was leaking from his nose, eyes or ears.
Was that good or bad? Sam didn't know. It either meant Castiel's grace was completely gone, or possibly the warding was less strong up here.
He prayed it was the second option but even that posed a problem all of its own. If he managed to get Cas out of the attic (hah! - he wasn't even sure if he could get himself out of the attic!) it meant exposing him to the warding in the house again. He wasn't sure Cas could take a second dose of the toxic spellwork.
Sam needed help, badly. He needed Dean.
He clambered down the stairs before realising he'd left the knife back up there. He left it where it was; he was no longer in any fit state to use it if he came across someone anyway. In fact, he was beginning to find it hard to breathe. He slowly made his way back to the bedroom, following the prolific blood stains he'd created on the way out.
He once-again stepped over the blonde woman's body and, even though he'd mostly expected it, his heart still sunk to see that Dean hadn't moved.
He half-stumbled, half-fell to his knees and clutched hold of his brother's hand. "Dean...please I need you! Wake up! I've found Cas but...I think he's dying." Dean mumbled quietly but showed no signs of opening his eyes. Sam shook him, hard. Again and again. "Dean, I forgive you man and if we make it out of here alive I want to get back to hunting with you as brothers again. But you have to wake up, please!"
His exertions were too much. A searing pain behind his ribcage took his breath away. Sam doubled over clutching his stomach and felt the hard, metallic lump inside of him move. Finally he did throw up, his abdomen feeling like it was ripping itself apart with every spasm.
He felt a rough hand on the back of his neck and tensed, ready to use his last remaining energy to kill whoever was behind him as savagely as possible.
Couldn't even do that properly without falling face first.
The hand pulled him over and he found himself staring into Dean's bewildered eyes.
"Sammy! What the fuck is happening?!" Dean had awoken to find himself in pain and his brother violently throwing up blood.
Sam clutched his brother's arm with his lacerated hand. "I used the mirror to cut the...thing out of you." He was struggling to breathe. "You need...to…" He couldn't talk anymore. He let go of Dean's arm and pulled up his new, ruined grey sweater over his chest. Hoped Dean got the message at the sight of the moving bulge.
"The fuck?!" Dean took it all in, including the dead spiky monstrosity on the floor "You got that thing out of me with a piece of glass?" He gingerly touched his burning, bandaged torso with a grimace. "Jeesus Sammy, you're fucking awesome!" Sam stared up at Dean, imploring him to return the favour.
"But I was out when you did it to me! I could kill you if I cut you open whilst you're still awake. If you move at the wrong time..."
Sam weakly grabbed Dean's hand and held it against the chunk of metal just under his skin. His lips were turning blue with slow asphyxiation. Dean's eyes widened as he realised just how big Sam's little fucker had gotten. And that it was killing him right fucking now!
"Ok, ok I'm doing it. Hang tight Sammy, I've got this."
There was a pause as Dean stumbled up, clutching at his own stomach as he went to find a shard of mirror. Then he was back and the look on his face said it all. "Don't die on me Sam. Don't you dare!"
Agony, sheer agony as Dean began to cut. But that was nothing compared to the pain when Dean stuck his hand inside Sam's torso and began to pull. The room went every shade of white, red and purple as the pain overtook him. He ground his teeth and cried silent never ending tears whycantijustblackoutplease! until finally he felt the pressure release as Dean removed his fingers. He had no idea if it had worked, the pain from his torso was still screaming at him. Then Dean began stomping up and down, shouting and swearing. "GOT YOU, you mother-fucking evil son of a bitch! Take that and die you...little FUCKER!"
It was gone.
The little fucker was gone! Even if he bled out and died right now, at least that...thing wasn't inside him anymore.
Sam couldn't help but take in a solid breath, then began to choke as the blood that had pooled in his windpipe got sucked into his lungs. Every shuddering pant turned the gash in his abdomen into a burning fire.
Dean turned his struggling brother onto his side to let the excess blood run out of his mouth. Sam saw the remains of his broken little fucker lying near him on the floor. It wasn't much bigger than Dean's had been, but it was a lot more stomped on. He tried breathing again, through his nose, and this time it was a little easier.
"Stay there." Dean patted Sam's arm and was up on his feet, scrabbling around inside of somewhere. He came back holding a tube of Superglue. "Saw this when I was searching the room before. Hold still."
Dean was gentle as he expertly glued the incision shut. Then cut up the remaining bed sheets to wrap tight around the wound. It wasn't perfect by any means, and they both needed some serious hospital treatment, but they had bought themselves some more time at least.
"I found Cas." Blood bubbled through crimson-stained teeth as he spoke.
"Where? When?"
"Attic. Went to find him while you were taking a nap. He's stopped bleeding, I think the warding might not be so strong up there." He didn't voice his other worry. "But I don't know how to get him out without taking him back through the house."
"Then we find another way. In fact, I say we politely ask 'Sir Keith' to turn down the fucking warding altogether."
Sam matched Dean's feral grin, tooth for tooth.
"What happened to her?" Dean pointed to the dead woman lying halfway out the door.
"Me." After what they'd done to Cas, Sam wasn't sorry.
"You know that bitch was first in line to come give you a kicking when you went down? Might even have been the one that bust your lip."
"My lip's the least of what they've done. If you saw Cas…"
"They'll get theirs...Even if I die trying, I'll bring em down with me."
"Who are they? Didn't you say you got all the Men of Letters bar Haversham?"
"Trust me - we made sure to get every single Men of Letters name from the more cooperative ones we...spoke to. There was only like twelve of them. Apart from the kids they were training up."
"Kids? What?!"
"Teenagers. They were running some kind of evil brat training camp. Not anymore they aint." Dean smiled. "Boom!"
"You torched a school?!"
"Fancy house. No one was inside - they were away on exercises or something. I ran through the place twice to make sure."
"Training kids to be psychos." Sam whistled. "The British Men of Letters really are something else."
"Were, Sammy. Were. There's only one of em left."
"The guys downstairs are just hired help like Bill then? Or is he using his MOD government connections?"
"Don't know, don't care. Just wanna get down there, kick all the British ass and save Cas. Hey - all that ruckus we made before - you think they think we're dead by now?"
"Not sure we're that lucky."
"We're still alive ain't we?"
"Only fucking just..." Sam rubbed his stomach bandaging.
"Then we're still luckier than her…" Dean replied, pointing at the dead woman.