Thank you so much for all the moving well-wishes and waiting so patiently for this! I hope you all think it's worth it!
Deep breath, everybody!
oOo
"Finders keepers, losers weepers."
- Emperor's New Clothes, Panic! at the Disco
oOo
West Homer Street, Chicago
Coming back to reality was slow and painful…his mind was clogged with a thick, sludgy feeling. The more he fought it, the harder it sucked him back in, sending him plunging back into the darkness. Eventually, he stopped fighting, instead letting the sludge work his mind back to the surface like a splinter.
He head rolled to the side and heaved up with effort, his neck feeling as though it was balancing a cannonball rather than his head.
"Sam?" His voice was thick and far off, muffled despite coming from his own mouth. He could feel his eyes tighten involuntarily, unable yet to face opening them while he waited for awareness to settle back into his extremities.
What the hell had happened?
Nothing hurt – as such – there was no throbbing on his head to suggest he'd been hit although there was a sharp stabbing in his ribs whenever he took a breath. By the feel of it, at least one was broken. Something – or someone – had had a go at him while he was out. Judging by the way it was pinpointed to one area, Dean assumed he's taken a well-aimed kick. A cold breeze tickled across his skin when he shouldn't have been able to feel it; his jacket and shirt were both missing.
He could move his fingers next after his head. They twitched and spasmed and slowly feeling returned into his hands. Soon enough he could feel a roughness encircling his wrists, one that bit and tore into his skin when he tried to twist and flex his hands. A similar feeling ensnared his ankles.
None of it made sense.
Sam was supposed to be there. If Sam was there, why was he tied to a chair?
Finally, Dean was able to blink his eyes open. Light lanced straight into his pupils, making him wince and screw them shut again, waiting for the pain to dissipate. He eased them open again, blinking slowly. It took a few agonising seconds for his distorted vision to refocus, his legs becoming clear first. The floor beyond was uncarpeted concrete floor that was mottled with dark splotches and dust. He lifted and rotated his head slowly, dragging his eyes from right to left, trying to centre himself. The room swooped as his gaze dragged upwards, flickering over the bare walls, the dirty windows that the dampened sunlight struggled to pierce. The desk was empty…what had been on the desk? His memory dived and rolled until it landed on a memory that was wrong…out of place.
Sam's memory box.
It wasn't there, wasn't meant to be there. He'd opened it then, nothing.
Groaning, Dean jerked, wrenching his arms. The ropes held. He tried again. The yanking burst stars inside his eyes and banged his brain in his head but he ignored it, like always, fighting the pain as he struggled to get loose. Neither was really working.
"Sam?!" he shouted, louder this time, clearer as the fog lifted from his mind. "Sam, y'there? Where are you?!"
oOo
Back and forth. Back and forth. Sam's feet carried him in circles, making him pace the length of the room. He was fighting his lung's desire to quicken his breathing, trying his hardest to contain his agitation.
"SAM!"
Every shout of his name sent a jolt through his heart, forcing it to lose its rhythm. It didn't matter how many times his head tried to say it wasn't his brother; his body reacted as it always did when Dean was in trouble. Sam wanted to run. But this time, instead of running to Dean's aid, he wanted to run completely.
That's not like you.
Wasn't it? If he was brutally honest with himself, which he always was these days, Sam had no idea who he was anymore. His old life, the one where he had been a confident hunter, a scourge on all things supernatural, was long gone. That Sam was a stranger now and, despite what Thomas told him, he doubted, even if he allowed himself the chance to get back into the life, that he'd be able to. He was broken and he knew it.
"SAM!"
He clamped his hands over his ears, stopping and sinking to the ground, to his knees, curling in on himself. Lucifer was mocking him and he couldn't take it. He couldn't.
Thomas walked into the room, enjoying Dean's torment, his smile vanishing the moment his saw his ward curled into a ball on the floor. He rushed forward, kneeling in front of Sam in an instant and gently clasped his wrists, inadvertently making the younger man flinch at the contact.
"Sam, it's okay, it's me," Thomas soothed, tugging the lad's hands from his ears. Wide, frightened grey eyes rose up to meet his. "What's wrong?"
Sam's response was automatic, like he didn't have any choice but to share. He barely noticed.
"It's him. He sounds like Dean and every instinct I have tells me to go and help him. Having to constantly remind myself that he's not my brother…I could deal with it before but, now, hearing, him…he's so convincing, Thomas, and I can't take it," he blurted out, his eyes welling.
"What can I do to make this easier for you? Tell me and I'll do it," Thomas offered instantly, helping his ward to his feet. Sam's gaze darted to the door over his shoulder. He wasn't looking to bolt; Thomas knew that with absolute certainty but he was intrigued to see a war raging behind Sam's expression.
"I need…" Sam swallowed. Oh, this was going to be good; Thomas knew it. If Sam didn't want to say it, it was something he'd never consider wanting done to his brother. Which make that Thomas would be more than happy to oblige. "I need him to stop. I can't listen to him. Please."
Thomas nodded gravely, keeping his expression serious despite the glee he felt inwardly.
"Of course, Sam; whatever you need. Anything to make this easier for you; that's my job – looking out for you," he stated, grey eyes full of conviction. Sam nodded, a grateful smile falling from his lips as quickly as it had appeared. Thomas stepped closer, wrapping his arms around his ward and pulling him into a hard embrace. "It'll be alright, Sam; I promise," he whispered in Sam's ear as he felt the embrace being returned. Sam needed all the comfort he could get and Thomas was always going to give it. The Englishman pulled away first, clasping Sam's upper arms firmly. "He won't be a bother from now on. You have my word."
"Thank you," Sam murmured, watching as Thomas left the room.
oOo
Dean's voice was getting hoarse but he didn't care. Sam should've answered him by now and the fear clawing its way through him wasn't helping; Thomas was behind it – he was sure of it. That wasn't the full premise of his fear though; it was the uncertainty. That the Englishman had put him in his current predicament was a given, but why? Was he planning on leaving Dean to rot? If so, why not just kill him? If he wasn't, why drug him? None of it made sense and yet, Dean was convinced that Sam was still nearby. He'd stake the Impala on it.
Cas hadn't shown up either and Dean could only assume that he'd been banished. Again. Whatever their plan was, they clearly had no intention of filling in the blanks for him.
"Sam, I know you can hear me! It's gonna be okay; I'm gonna get you outta here, y'hear me!" he shouted again, twisting his wrists again. "Just as soon as I can get outta this," he grumbled quietly to himself. His head snapped up and round when he heard the door behind him open. The hunter strained to look over his left shoulder, his glare livid and frightening as the newcomer sauntered in and around him. "What the hell have you done with my brother?!" he snarled, keeping his gaze rivetted on the Englishman in front of him. While he'd never met Thomas in person, there was no mistaking who he was.
He was roughly the same height and build as Dean, but older by a few years – probably in his early forties – with close cropped brown, almost black, hair which was peppered with silver creeping into his sideburns and the trimmed stubble on his cheeks. His eyes were a piercing grey: full of self-satisfaction and triumph, making Dean's blood boil instantly. He clearly thought he'd won as he strolled in, his hands clasped behind his back while he looked down on the hunter.
"So presumptuous, Dean. Sam isn't here because he doesn't want to see you," Thomas replied, his tone patronising. Dean's glare deepened.
"You're a damned liar. I don't know what kinda shit you've been filling his head with but Sam ain't stupid," he spat, flexing his arms again subtly, but still the ropes didn't budge.
"No, he's not," Thomas agreed, surprising the hunter. He circled casually around Dean, prowling, making his unease grow. "That's something that I've always understood about him. Something I don't think you ever appreciated."
Dean didn't bother watching him circle; he kept his eyes straight ahead, trying to fight the urge to rise to Thomas' goading.
"You don't know the first thing about my brother," he growled, keeping his tone even.
"Don't I? Huh," Thomas sounded speculative, his voice directly behind Dean. The hairs on the back of his neck bristled. "See, here's the thing, Dean," the hunter gasped as Thomas grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked his head back, making him look up at the Englishman, "Sam asked me to come and do this." Thomas' face twisted into a sneer as his other hand shot out. Dean yelped as something hard was rammed against his teeth. He had no room to jerk his head back so his mouth opened automatically.
"Mmmph!" The hard thing that had hit his teeth was forced between his jaws, filling his whole mouth, pushing his tongue down flat, almost making him choke. He shook his head frantically as the hand in his hair let go, but the object didn't move. Instead, he felt something cold and stiff wrapping around the lower half of his face, a strange tinkling sound, like a belt buckle, coming from behind him.
"You see, Sam doesn't want to hear your inane calling. He doesn't need you; he doesn't want to hear you. Now he doesn't have to," Thomas said calmly, despite the way Dean was fighting. He snapped his head from side to side, trying desperately to dislodge Thomas' grip on the straps. Dean grunted, the sound turning into a drawn out groan when he felt a buckle being tightened uncomfortably hard at the base of his skull. The material pressed into his cheeks almost painfully and the object in his mouth was forcing his jaws open wider than he thought they could go.
"There," Thomas reappeared around to his front, clearly satisfied with himself. "Comfortable? That gag was one of my best instruments in helping Sam…rehabilitate. He became much more compliant after wearing it for a few hours during his retraining."
Dean could only stare up at him in horror, his eyes wide. Hours?! He could already feel an ache starting in his muscles and it had barely been a minute. What the hell had he been doing to Sam?! The string of profanities he wanted to fire at the Englishman were trapped in his throat; a muted growl was the only thing that managed to escape. Thomas smiled viciously.
"Effective isn't it?" he goaded as he walked back around in front of Dean. "To be honest, he was quick to remember his manners – it was only something I had to use on the bad days. We've had a fair few of those, but not recently. The mere threat of it soon became enough." Dean watched him pick up another chair, placing it down in front of the hunter, before taking a seat. He wasn't really…yes, he was. He was going to gloat. Dean's fists balled behind his back, his nails digging into his palms. He couldn't sit there and listen to him. He needed out.
"You see, Dean, you're upsetting my Sam," Dean's shout was kept in check, stifled completely as Thomas leaned back, relaxing into the chair. "He is mine; if he was in here I know exactly which of us he would side with and I can guarantee it wouldn't be you."
It was a lie. Dean knew it had to be. There was nothing – no one – that Sam would put in front of him.
"You don't think so?" Thomas asked, noting the disbelief that shone confidently in Dean's furious green eyes. "How do you think you got here? Do you really think Sam 'escaped'?" he quoted with his fingers and Dean's certainty wavered. "Why do you think he wasn't in the office where he said he would be? Why do you think he's not here right now? He's in an unlocked office upstairs – completely free to come and go as he pleases. He knows where you are. So, ask yourself, why isn't he here, helping you? He doesn't want to, Dean, and that's the truth. We've been working together for this moment – for his moment. The moment when he'll get rid of you."
Dean swallowed as best as he could with the gag nearly choking him. Doubt spread through him and, while he fought it, it brought a cold fear that sent shards of ice up his spine. He hadn't expected the smooth silver-tongue of the Englishman; his arguments were logical, almost faultless, and Sam had listened to him whispering in his ear for a month. Hell, his own doubt refused to be squashed and Thomas had barely scratched the surface. They'd been talking for less than ten minutes. He already knew Dean's insecurities – how did he know? – and he played on them perfectly; what kind of mess was Sam in after a month of this?
He'll believe anything Thomas said to him.
No, he wouldn't. Dean couldn't believe it. Sam was strong; he'd always fight it.
"You think very loudly, Dean," Thomas laughed, earning a solid glare from the hunter. "Your denial is amusing. You'll see what I mean later when Sam chooses to come down."
The door behind Dean opened again and he swung his head round, his brother's name an indistinguishable murmur. Footsteps clipped across the concrete floor and Dean knew instantly from the way they sounded that it wasn't Sam. A woman stepped into his line of vision and he stared up at her curiously as she walked around him. She was petite but far from frail; her back was ramrod straight, her frown severe over cold slate eyes that studied him with open distaste. Her dyed auburn hair was cropped close and the lines on her face were not laughter lines. There was nothing soft or warm about her.
"This is him then?" she asked, matching Dean's glare with one of her own. Her perfume, sickening sweet invaded the air around him. It was strong and unpleasant, but he was helpless to avoid it.
"It is. We were just talking about Sam's convalescence and how effective it has been," Thomas replied, smiling up at her. Dean's eyes darted from one to the other. Anna moved closer to Thomas, placing her hand on his shoulder as she sneered down at Dean.
"Oh absolutely. None of this modern 'spare the rod, spoil the child' nonsense with us. Samuel has benefitted exponentially during his time in our care. He knows where his loyalties lie," she gloated, clearly enjoying watching Dean seethe helplessly. Dread filled him as he looked up at them. Their presence alone was overbearing. Thomas was bad enough on his own, but the two of them together was…stifling. He shifted uncomfortably in the chair, running his fingers along the rung near the base. They brushed against nothing, but his wrist kissed the edge of a screw head. Settling, he stopped moving, keeping the discovery at the front of his mind.
"I can't believe we've had so much trouble caused by this miscreant," Anna grumbled, as Thomas got up and walked over to the desk drawer. She stepped closer, directly in front of Dean. If his legs hadn't been secured to the chair, he would've kicked out at her. He couldn't put into words how much he wanted to hurt her – how much he wanted to hurt both of them. They would pay for everything they'd done. "He certainly doesn't look like much."
"The worst rarely do. Although, we can all admit that he wouldn't have got near the farmhouse if it hadn't been for Mr Ketch and he definitely wouldn't have got here without Sam leading him by the nose," Thomas replied, pulling several items for the large drawer in the bottom of the desk. "Ketch was the one who has been closest all along. He was right when he told you that I was responsible for Sam's wellbeing in England; a role I take seriously. I didn't appreciate his use of 'obsessive' though. I prefer to think of myself as…passionate about my assets."
The Englishman turned when he heard Dean's quiet grunt, smiling when he saw the confused bunching of the hunter's forehead. "Yes, Dean, I know all about your conversations with Ketch and Jody and Castiel. I left a little something in the bunker when I collected Sam's personal effects."
Son of a bitch. He'd bugged the bunker. No wonder he'd been able to get out of the farmhouse before they'd got there. How much had he heard? The invasion rankled, but it scared him more that he wanted to admit; they were so organised. So precise. He didn't like where any of this was going and the realisation that he'd left half of his back up at the bunker because he'd been made to believe that Ketch was involved filled him with dread. He was on his own; somehow, he knew, Sam wasn't going to be much help.
How could Sammy lie to him?
"Real Men of Letters would never have missed such a device in their home," Anna chipped in, "they would have known to check. Mr Ketch is losing his touch. That's what happens when you're surrounded by imbeciles."
He was getting sick of their insults. Rolling his eyes, Dean snorted and looked away. The less he reacted, the sooner they'd stop goading him and the sooner they'd go. Then he could work on getting loose. Anna shuffled away from him, moving over towards Thomas who was stood with his back to Dean, fiddling with whatever it was he'd pulled from the desk. Dean cautiously moved his arms up, keeping an eye on the pair out of the corner of his eye as he tried snagging the rope around his wrists on the screw head. It caught.
Good.
Lifting back up, he eased his arms back down gently just as Thomas shuffled out of his view. The last thing he wanted was for them to realise he could get through the rope; it wasn't going to be a quick process.
"Right." Strong hands suddenly grabbed either side of Dean's head from behind, making him thrash. Thomas' hand fell away from his right side. "Stop it," the Englishman snarled, cuffing the hunter around the ear. It hurt, but it didn't stop the hunter; he didn't give in that easily. He bucked and writhed, inhaling sharply when Thomas threaded his fingers through his hair and wrenched, his other hand snaking around Dean's throat. His grip tightened, fingers digging in hard enough that Dean knew there would be marks.
"Hold still," he hissed in Dean's ear. "If you don't, I'm going to start enjoying myself. I can be very…creative, Dean. And I'm excellent with hot metal; you've seen my work." Dean wriggled in indignation but a firm squeeze of the fingers digging into his neck stopped him, leaving him gasping for air. "I've been waiting for this for so long…don't tempt me to get indulgent. I don't need you in one piece." The hand around his neck loosened and he coughed, the sound muffled by the gag.
Dean watched Anna come forwards, a bowl in one hand, an artist's paint brush in the other. He shifted uneasily in the chair, still trying to regain his breath, a feral growl emanating from his throat when he felt Thomas' fingers hook through the strap that was wrapped around his head, instantly holding him in place. "That's better," Thomas chuckled sadistically, "do you remember the designs, Anna?"
"You needn't worry; I know what I'm doing," she replied as she stepped closer. Thomas tilted Dean's head to the side, exposing the side of his face as the hunter watched Anna through the corner of his eye. Her sickening perfume assaulted his nose when she leaned forwards. It was overpowering and he groaned, wishing he could breathe through his mouth. The paintbrush was wiped against the edge of the bowl before she lifted it to his face and began to draw. He squirmed but Thomas held fast.
The brush was soft against his skin, but Anna had to return to the bowl constantly; the liquid was cold and too runny to be paint. When she had finished on his cheek, she moved up to his forehead as he watched her constantly, following her movements with his eyes as he fought the nausea caused by her revolting perfume. She bared her teeth in the parody of a grin when she saw him looking.
"It's only lamb's blood; I'm sure you're used to being covered in worse," she sneered. He jerked away but Thomas simply manipulated his head into a different angle, giving her better access.
They would die. He didn't know how yet, but he was gonna make sure of it.
oOo
I-80E
Jody's fingers drummed against her temple erratically as she stared out of the windshield, the highway stretching ahead of them endlessly. Ketch drove silently beside her, his foot pressed down hard at her bidding. She was more than willing to flash her credentials if they were stopped at any point. As much as she hated being a passenger, she knew Ketch driving was the better idea. Her focus wasn't on the road; it was fixated on her boys. Cas had called her an hour before, shouting about banishing sigils and traps. He'd been flung to Seattle and Dean was alone.
It had been a trap all along.
Jody had called Dean's phones countless times; at first it had rung several times before going to voicemail: now it bypassed the rings and went straight to his message.
This is Dean's other, other cell so you must know what to do.
Every time she called, her nausea grew. It was a trap. Dean could be dead. Sam could be gone – again. She glanced at the odometer; Ketch was doing 120mph.
It wasn't fast enough.
oOo
West Homer Street, Chicago
Thomas had gone, leaving Dean and Anna alone together. She'd painted several symbols in blood on his face, chest and upper arms; all the while, the pair remaining rough with him throughout. Dean's confusion continued to grow; why were they covering him in symbols? What was even stranger was the weird sigil Thomas had traced on the floor, in more blood, around Dean's chair. It wasn't quite Enochian but wasn't exactly a devil's trap: it was somewhere between the two.
It was almost like they were preparing him for a ritual, but for what? It didn't make any sense.
Anna was over by the table, pouring the leftover blood back into a jar. Dean looked around him, straining his ears, hoping to hear his brother. Floorboards creaked above him, but that was it.
"You know, this whole…expedition has been nothing but hassle," Anna's voice made him jump as she broke the silence. Dean turned his glare around to face her. She had straightened up, looking out of the window, her hands playing with something idly that he couldn't see while she spoke. "When Lady Bevell passed and Thomas asked me to join him, I had expected this revenge business to all be over fairly rapidly so that Thomas and I could get on with our lives. I hadn't quite factored in that nuisance you call a brother." Dean frowned, confusion lighting his eyes. Anna turned to face him, a curved knife twirling between her hands.
"Samuel has been the thorn in my side for far too long: much like you. We've waited a long time to get to this moment and, mark my words, I'll be glad to see the back of you," she spat as she walked forward slowly, putting one foot in front of the other in measured steps. "You see, once you're out of the way, Thomas believes we'll finally be able to be happy." She hissed the word, her lip curling. Dean shifted uneasily as she drew closer. "I couldn't possibly be happy with that pustule around, getting under my feet, snivelling and whimpering all the time. So you see," she leaned forward, grabbing his chin in one hand, "once this is all over with you –" she slid the tip of the knife down his cheek, avoiding the symbol she'd drawn, a slow smile curving on her lips, "it won't be long before Samuel meets his end too."
"Mmph!" Dean bucked, his eyes wide and furious. Anna chuckled darkly, keeping her grip firm on his chin but she dropped the knife down.
"Of course, Thomas doesn't know that and I've discovered some new…talents recently, so I can make it look however I want it to. And I can tell you all of this, Dean, because you're never going to get the opportunity to tell anyone," she crooned, bringing her face close to his. "But, rest assured, I'm going to make your brother suffer – I guarantee it."
Dean howled as the knife tip plunged into his thigh, straight through his jeans and into the muscle. Anna laughed, twisting the knife slowly before pulling it out.
"Just think about that when your brother comes in," she smirked, patting his cheek before wiping the blade on a handkerchief and returning it to the desk before walking towards the door, leaving Dean gasping in agony.
oOo
Thomas had done as he'd said and the shouting had stopped a while ago, but still Sam's relief was palpable. The quiet allowed him to think, to try and centre himself so that he could prepare. This was it; it was finally going to be over. All the torment, all the agony, had led him up to this point.
He could do it. He would.
The door opened quietly and Thomas walked in, his mere presence helping to quell the anticipation thrumming through Sam. The Englishman was the calm in the storm that Sam needed.
"How are you doing, Sam?" he asked gently, pulling up a seat and motioning for Sam to take the one opposite him. Sam sat down opposite him without question.
"Better. Nervous, I guess," he admitted, rubbing the palm of his left hand idly with his thumb. "I just want to get it done."
Thomas nodded, his eagerness rising.
"That's good, Sam; it means you're finally ready. Now, he's prepared for the ritual, but I want to go through everything first so that you know what to expect, alright? I don't want anything to be a surprise to you."
Sam nodded and Thomas knew he had him completely.
oOo
His leg throbbed, a steady trickle of blood bubbling up out of the open wound and snaking down his leg, soaking his jeans. It wasn't bleeding fast, but it was a large wound; it wasn't going to stop without intervention and Dean could already feel himself getting woozy. Jerking his arms up and down wasn't exactly helping to prevent it either, in fact, his heart was thumping hard in his chest as he worked the rope holding his wrists. It wasn't just that though that was sending his heart into overdrive.
I'm going to make your brother suffer – I guarantee it.
They'd spent so much time speculating about Thomas that they hadn't really considered Anna. She was the bigger threat and Sam didn't even know. Hell, even that bastard didn't and Dean had no way of warning anyone. If he didn't get free, Sam would die.
He could feel the cord beginning to fray, but he had no idea how much time he had left.
It wasn't much; that he did know.
oOo
Thomas removed his jacket, placing on the chair back before releasing the cufflinks holding his shirt sleeves down as he began to talk.
"The first thing I want you to remember is that he cannot hurt you. He has been restrained, both physically and with a special Enochian trap that I pulled from the Men of Letters' archives. It suppresses his influence and his powers so he will seem human for all intents and purposes," he explained, rolling up his sleeves. Sam listened silently. "He is gagged – as you asked – but I would have done it anyway. He will use every trick in his arsenal to prevent us from doing this and I know how persuasive he can be, particularly if he plays the brother card. You need to be entirely focused – not worrying whether he is Lucifer or not. We know that he is.
"We've painted several different runes on him in lamb's blood; they're the basis for the ritual and, after I've done the incantation, they'll glow red, much like sigils you use to banish angels. That will be your cue," Thomas kept his eyes locked on Sam's, reading his every movement carefully. So far, nothing seemed to phase his prodigy; he was calm and attentive, absorbing the information he was presented with. "There is a dagger in the room, which I'll give to you once we're in there, that you'll need to use. I want you to stand behind him – I'll be in front where I'll say the incantation first and then I'll nod when I need you to use it.
"Now," he shifted, leaning forwards, closer to Sam, "I know this is going to be hard on you and I know how you feel about Lucifer, but this must be quick and clean – we haven't got the time for bouts of anger and revenge, as tempting as it may be. Just a quick, clean cutting of the throat. Just like you've done on many hunts before."
"I will," Sam said softly, shifting uncomfortably, rubbing his palm harder. He had no idea how he'd feel when he got down there: anger, fear, resentment, grief were all viable. It was the same when he'd confronted Lucifer back in Detroit; his determination had started to peter out the moment he got into the old apartment building, replaced by a cold fear that he only managed to suppress through sheer force of will. He could keep himself in check long enough to do it this time.
"Good lad," Thomas smiled, patting his thigh. "When the ritual is complete, you're going to feel lightheaded – in fact, I wouldn't be surprised if you lose consciousness as you transition back to your real body. The ritual will expel me and Anna as well, but I'll be there waiting for you on the other side, I promise. Have you got any questions?" Sam was silent for a moment before he shook his head. Thomas stood up, stepping towards the door. "Alright, let's get this done."
"Thomas, wait," the Englishman stopped and turned back to Sam who stood behind him. "Just in case something goes wrong –"
"It won't," Thomas reassured him but Sam put up a hand.
"If it does…I just wanted to say thank you. I know how hard this has been on you, Anna and the rest of the Men of Letters, and I know you could've chosen to just try to kill Lucifer without thinking about me being stuck in here," Sam gestured to the room but his eyes remained locked on Thomas. "I'm guessing you got a lot of criticism for helping me but you did it anyway. I'm grateful."
"I would never abandon you, Sam," Thomas replied, pulling the taller man down into a hard embrace. "You're like family and family never gets left behind." He let go and smiled grimly up at his ward. "Let's get you free."
oOo
Almost there.
The ropes were much looser than they had been; he could twist his wrists around now. A sheen of sweat irritated his forehead; he hoped it was washing off some of the crap they'd put on him. His breathing was laboured through his nose and the pain in his leg was making him nauseous. Flexing his biceps, Dean tugged on his wrists, trying to split the remaining rope. It bit into his skin, but didn't budge, not yet. He dragged it over the screw head again.
The door banged open.
No. Not yet.
Dean let his hands drop again and he swivelled his head around to look at the door.
"Mmpf!" He locked eyes on his brother for the first time in weeks and his breath died in his throat. Sam's dead grey eyes locked onto his for a moment before sliding away, trailing to the floor as he walked in behind Thomas. He looked…shrunken. Defeated. Like he had nothing left.
Dean couldn't take it.
Sam focused on breathing, keeping his eyes on the floor, avoiding looking at the thing that was supposed to be his brother. He'd allowed himself one look and it nearly crippled him. Instead, he concentrated on breathing, fighting to block the insistent moans that he recognised as his name.
"Well done, Sam; you're okay," Thomas reassured him, sneering down at Dean who glared balefully up at him, his chest heaving. He watched Thomas' eyes flicker down to his leg, but gave it no more attention before walking past him and over to the table, beckoning Sam over with him. Dean howled, trying to grab their attention, to make them listen, but they didn't. He tugged on his wrists again but they held fast.
"Just breathe, Sam, good lad," Thomas murmured, picking up a dagger that was sat next to a gun and holding it out for Sam. He took it, tightening his grip when he saw his hand shake. He needed to concentrate; he needed to be strong for this. It was a long, curved blade which shone a bright silver, like an angel blade, with cursive runes etched down its centre. Thomas' hand was warm on his arm. "It'll be alright; you can do this. I'm right here with you," Thomas soothed, picking up a tome in his other hand. "Let's get it done, shall we?"
Sam nodded mutely and they turned back to Dean who sat, wide-eyed, shifting nervously in the chair. His eyes flickered down to the knife.
Sam had it, not Thomas. He would be fine; Sam would never hurt him. His brother walked behind him as Thomas stepped up in front of him, the tome open and balanced in both hands.
"Let's begin."
oOo
Jody held her breath as she walked into the warehouse. They'd parked her truck outside, not bothering with hiding it; Thomas and Anna were most likely already there and they wouldn't recognise hers anyway. Her fingers realigned their grip on her Glock, keeping her arms straight and the gun pointed at the floor. Her footfalls were soft and silent, avoiding any debris that was likely to make a noise and alert the occupants to her presence. Ketch had gone to scout the other side of the building, leaving the back to her. She scanned the empty room quickly; it was silent. Making her way towards the stairs, Jody climbed them, keeping her ears strained. She could hear something up ahead.
Slowly, carefully, she climbed.
The doorway up ahead was dark; the door was closed. The footsteps continued shuffling around. They weren't heavy; they whispered across the concrete floor. Definitely not Ketch, definitely not one of the boys. They were a woman's footsteps. Jody's grip tightened again.
Anna.
Reaching the door, Jody stood behind it, listening, moving her Glock to one hand, freeing up the other to grip the handle. The door opened inwards, towards the room. She listened. The footsteps came closer. Jody stepped back, letting go of the handle, grabbing her gun with both hands again.
Listened again.
With an almighty kick, Jody smashed the door open, timing it perfectly. A shocked cry mingled with a sickening smack and a thud as the person on the other side was hit full force. Jody leapt into the room, her gun trained on Anna who lay, dazed on the floor, blood pouring from her nose where the door had hit her in face.
"Where are they?!" Jody shouted, standing over the woman. Anna raised a hand to her nose, cupping it as blood dribbled down her face.
"You're too late," she sneered, her nasally voice thin and reedy as blood poured. She started to edge backwards.
"Stay down!" Jody barked, holding her ground. "I don't believe you; where are they?!"
Anna took her hand away from her face, grinning savagely up at the sheriff, blood staining her teeth as she began to chant, raising her hands.
Jody didn't hesitate. Her grip tightened and she squeezed, firing off a single bullet.
At that range, she couldn't miss.
oOo
"Transferatur foedere juncti et amovebis sangui–" A loud bang reverberated around the room, coming from somewhere else in the warehouse. All three of them stopped and looked. Dean's heart hammered. He looked back at Thomas who was staring straight at Sam.
"It's fine, Sam; it's probably just Anna," Thomas said calmly. "Let's continue. We're nearly there."
Dean grunted, shaking his head. Whatever he was doing, it was wrong! Dean's Latin wasn't that great, but the bits he was picking up were definitely not good and he couldn't understand why Sam hadn't realised. What was wrong with him?
"Sanguinem innocentem." Dean struggled, straining hard against his bonds. This needed to stop. Now.
"Facere consueveras separatum est."Sam stepped forward, barely hearing what Thomas was saying, keeping his eyes fixed on the back of Lucifer's head. The weight of the knife grounded him, keeping him in the present and fixed on his role.
He could do it.
"Et ligabis illum ad me." Dean looked up at Thomas who gave a slight nod. His breathing hitched when he felt the cold bite of metal against his throat. He tensed his arms.
Shit. No, Sammy, it's me!
Thomas watched as Sam placed the dagger at his brother's throat, the symbols on Dean's chest, face and arms lighting up, glowing bright orange.
"Go on, Sam. It's time!" he urged.
Dean whimpered. All Sam heard was his nickname.
Sammy.
The knife stilled. Sam hesitated.
Dean yanked with all the strength he had, snapping the rope around his wrists. Sorry, Sammy, he thought as he raised his arms and elbowed his brother straight in the groin, snatching the knife with his other hand. He lurched up, feet still bound to the chair, and threw himself at Thomas, landing on him and knocking the Englishman to the ground, the chair clattering against the floor.
"No!" Sam's cry melted into the background as the men fell. Dean raised the knife, plunging it down towards Thomas' heart. He grabbed Dean's wrist with both hands, pushing against him, trying to block him. His eyes widened as he stared up into the furious emerald that bore down on him. Dean growled, pushing down with everything he had. A loud bang resonated around the room, shocking Thomas just enough for his grip to slip.
Dean ignored it.
The knife sank down and in, slowly, inch by inch, until Dean had pushed it in up to the hilt. Thomas convulsed, his mouth opening and closing, gasping. With one last heave, he grabbed the back of Dean's neck.
"He's mine," he gasped, sneering up at the hunter one last time before his hand slipped away and his head rolled to the side. Dean slumped over, letting go of the knife, one hand fumbling with the strap around the back of his neck. He wrenched the gag from his mouth, wincing.
"Dean! Are you alright?" His head snapped around as he saw Ketch kneeling beside the prone form of his brother, gun in hand.
"Sam?!" he shouted, trying to stand, but falling with his legs still bound to the chair that had toppled over. He yanked the knife from Thomas' body and sliced through the ropes, scrambling over to his brother. Ketch had a bloody hand gripping the top of Sam's left shoulder, stemming a flow of blood. "What the fuck, Ketch?! You shot him?!" he roared, grabbing a fistful of the Englishman's suit, about to swing at him.
"If I hadn't, you'd be dead, Dean," Ketch snapped, knocking his hand away and pointing. Dean looked down at the ground beside him. A gun lay next to Sam's outstretched fingers. "I got here just as you went for Thomas. Sam grabbed that from the table and aimed it at you – "
"No, he wouldn't," Dean shook his head vehemently.
"I'm sorry, but he did. I had no choice but to incapacitate him – I couldn't get to him before he fired. It's not a lethal shot. He hit his head on the table when he fell. It was for your safety, Dean," Ketch explained. Dean glared at him venomously.
"You had no right," he hissed. His hand clamped around his thigh, blood pouring between his fingers. Both men looked up as footsteps echoed down the corridor, both guns raising to meet the sound.
Jody appeared in the door, her gun pointed at them.
"Jesus! What the hell happened?" she exclaimed, rushing forward. She was shrugging off her jacket instantly, balling it up and pressing it to Dean's leg as she knelt beside him. He gasped in agony as she pressed, his hand coming over hers.
"Where's the other one?" Dean rasped. Jody smiled grimly.
"Dead."
"Good," he growled.
"Dean, press this down on Sam's shoulder for me," Ketch instructed, using his own jacket to stem the flow of blood from Sam's shoulder. Dean did as he was bid, wincing as he shifted position. "I'm going to get the medical kit from the car. I won't be long."
They watched as Ketch jogged from the room, Dean's gaze falling back down to his brother.
"Dean, are you alright?" Jody asked, her voice soft. He swallowed hard, shaking his head. Her other hand reached up to stroke his cheek gently.
"Thomas wanted him to kill me, Jody," he whispered, trying to fight the crack in his voice.
"He didn't though; he wouldn't," Jody replied, her eyes lingering on Sam. Dean nodded, shoving down the doubt that rose within him. It was shock, that's all it was. Sam wouldn't try to hurt him. Ketch had overreacted. He was wrong.
The Englishman reappeared, a box under one arm and another, smaller one in his hand. He knelt down next to Sam again and opened the slim black one, extracting a needle and vial from it.
"What the hell are you doing?" Dean barked, making a swipe for the needle. Ketch leaned back out of the way.
"Dean, put pressure on that; I don't want Sam to bleed out," the Englishman ignored him as he pulled a measurement of clear liquid from the glass vial. "This needs to be done. Sam is going to be disorientated and distressed when he wakes up. I would rather not have him do that in the car on the way back to the bunker. We also need to pull out that bullet before we leave and he certainly won't want to be awake for that."
"He's right, Dean," Jody said quietly, avoiding looking him in the eyes as she reached over and grabbed a field dressing and bottle of saline solution from the other box. The hunter seethed, wanting to fight them both but knowing he wouldn't win. Deep down, he knew what they were saying made sense.
He didn't have to like it.
Ketch slid the needle into Sam's arm smoothly with practised hands before putting it to one side.
"Jody, can you please deal with their injuries? I'll see to the bodies until I can come back at a later time and process everything," he requested. Jody nodded wordlessly as she worked on Dean's leg, pouring the saline over the open wound. He groaned, nearly letting go of Sam's shoulder as she murmured her apologies. He locked his gaze onto his baby brother. Dean focused on him, on Sam.
They'd found him. That was all that mattered.
oOo
Jeeeeeeeeeez that got a bit intense. Don't worry – we're not done yet ;)
Please review!
