A stranger in a strange land, Sam took advantage of everything London had to offer. He hadn't changed his name, wasn't trying too hard to keep off the radar, and yet no one knew who he was. People tended to leave offish-strangers be, and not pry too hard. No-one's ears pricked up when the tall, long-haired man with American accent asked for a latte with a toasted teacake; world-wide accents of every kind surrounded him.
The climate was ok, even for early fall (…no, Autumn). It hadn't gotten too cold so far, and the end of the summer, whilst wet, had often been warm. The variety of food took Sam by pleasant surprise, he hadn't known London was so multi-cultural; curry goat, lamb samosas, chicken shish, meat pie with mash and liquor, there was always some new culinary discovery to try. He had put weight back on since his enforced near-starvation diet nearly two months ago, but his still-lean frame could more than take it.
Was he happy? Not the right word. Still too heartbroken for that. Settled? Six weeks was too short a time for that. Putting on a brave face and making do? Yes, that was something Sam could manage – he had been doing it all his life.
During the second week of his self-inflicted expatriation, at a time when Sam was still sleeping in stolen cars and feverishly attempting to obtain money and contacts, Dean sent Castiel to find him, to talk him round. Sam politely, stiffly, thanked Castiel for everything he had ever done for him, for being a damn good friend, then told him he was done talking and to please leave. Within an hour of Castiel's visit, Sam found himself a red hot piece of wire and scarred his own stomach with the anti-angel sigil that even Lucifer couldn't go near. He was out. With a capital O.U.T. Out of that world, out of their lives, out of the total and utter shit show that was his former life.
As soon as Sam had the NI number which meant he could work and pay taxes, he used the lifelong fraud skills he had always hated to set up a detailed credit history and résumé that would pass muster. He wanted anyone who performed a background check to see everything they would expect, and nothing more.
He wasn't gonna be a job snob – any paying work would do for now, but he fell on his feet after flirting hard with a fifty-something redhead at one of the City's best recruitment agencies. Heart fluttering, Shona put him forward for a research position at a huge international bank, and the interviewer at RBUK immediately took a shine to the earnest and knowledgeable American.
Hell, Sam oozed with confidence. Of course he did. No one could study shit like him; research was a transferrable skill he could use with ease. The salary was basic, but he had been told that once he passed the six-month probationary period, it would substantially increase.
Within his first week, all the secretaries in the typing pool were in love with the polite man with the charming smile, and the other lads in the office ribbed him mercilessly for it. Normally the researchers had to copy their own work but the girls (and one guy) battled with each other to do it for him; getting one of Sam's cute grins was a big perk of the job.
Normalcy became the new normal. Work, home, pub. Work, home, pub. No blood. No stabbings, shootings, burning or any other weird shit (although the first thing he did in his new 'flat' was draw a devil's trap underneath the door mat, and superglue salt lines at every window).
The routine was healing. Gradually he began to feel less like he was drowning; instead could feel pale sunlight on his skin and he did all he could to turn his face towards the warmth.
Flashback to six weeks earlier
Sam stood, swaying, in front of the door. He leant forward, hands leaving bloody prints on the metal either side of the window, the tip of his nose touching the glass. Winchester blood didn't flip the switch from this side, no matter how much you threw at it. He had tried more than once.
The vision of his mom stepped back from the window, stepped back from him, a shocked look on her face. Sam knew he must look a terrible sight…like something out of a horror film. So he smiled. It was nice to see her face, even if it wasn't real.
He tried to peer through the glass, to look around her to see if she was alone, to see if anyone was behind her, but the corridor was too dark.
Mary Winchester took a tentative step towards the door again and Sam immediately slammed his palm against the glass. He knew from experience that no matter how loud he shouted he couldn't be heard from outside the door unless 'they' wanted him to. Once he had her stopped in her tracks again, he dipped a finger into the gash on his side and began to write in mirror-speak on the glass. His backwards, her forwards.
TRAP
But his mom, lips pursed determinedly, raised a knife in preparation to cut her palm open, ready to hold her blood to the lock and break the spell. Sam shook his head angrily at her, shouted futilely at her. Didn't she care this was a trap? That he wouldn't be able to live with himself being the cause of his mother's death again?
Wait… Again…?
Fuck! What was he thinking? She wasn't really here anyway - she was just a hallucination!
The blood loss, dehydration and sleep deprivation was messing with his mind. They say familiarity breeds contempt, and he was intimately familiar with sleep loss and hallucinations. Contempt? Downright fucked-off venomous anger was what he felt at being forced to undergo these particular tortures again, even if they weren't as horrific as his past Hallucifer visitations.
The food, water and sleep they allowed him was highly rationed (to the point of being barely there) and the sharp, pointy stabby creature that they kept sending in through his food tray wasn't helping either. He was cut to pieces thanks to that little fucker. The slashes were plentiful, and a few of them were deep. None of them had gotten infected so far, but it was just a matter of time as he had no water to wash with, and no clean place to hide.
He didn't even know what Little Fucker looked like; they only sent it into him after they turned the light off, but he pictured it in his mind as a mean looking tribble, with spikes instead of fluff. It was super-fast too, and he hadn't been able to come close to catching it before it zoomed back out of the food flap after causing bloody chaos.
Weak, thirsty and unable to stomach the sight of the hallucination any longer, Sam was beginning to sadly turn away from the door, when he heard the unmistakeable voice of his brother shouting blue murder and mayhem from the corridor outside.
