Disorientation Day
John Winchester stared up at the ceiling above Bobby's pull-out couch. The night was oddly quiet, not even the chirrup of crickets hiding among the junkers out front cut through the silence.
The hunter draped an arm across his eyes and tried to sleep but sleep did not come easily. His mind seeming to take advantage of the lack of distraction, turned and whirled with thoughts. Alone in the darkness, John mulled over the events at the Roadhouse, grasping for answers. Bobby Singer's suggestion that Ellen Harvelle was involved in more than just wanting to get revenge bubbled up and John frowned. Could it be true? Could she really be working in a human trafficking ring? The idea seemed ludicrous at best but, of course, at one time, the idea that vampires and werewolves and ghouls were real had seemed insane to him.
The thought of not knowing who these people who were after his son frightened John. How was he to protect his son- both his sons- if he didn't know what to look for? He needed answers and unfortunately it seemed like Ellen Harvelle was the only one who could give them. John decided then and there that he would return to Nebraska and ask Ellen the questions that had been simmering away in his brain since they'd left the Roadhouse and, if by chance she wasn't willing to talk, it wouldn't be his fault if he needed to get a bit rough.
Sitting up, John raked a hand through his hair before standing and crossing the living room slowly, manoeuvring between the furniture until he reached the stairs and headed upstairs.
Steps creaking and squeaking underfoot, John climbed up to the second floor and down the short hallway to where his sons lay sleeping. The door was closed but not latched. The father eased it open silently and peered into the room. Moonlight streamed through the window, casting everything inside the bedroom in a silvery glow. It took a second for John's eyes to adjust to the meager light and he tensed automatically when he caught sight of movement. Rumsfeld lay at the foot of the bed furthest from the door, lifting his head to look at the hunter before grunting and resting it on the blankets once again.
John frowned when he realized that only one of the beds was occupied and, stepping into the room, his heart skipped a beat. Sam and Dean were sleeping in the same bed. The older sibling had his arms wrapped around his younger brother. The Rottweiler lay at their feet.
Without turning around, John left the room and inched the door closed again. Heading back downstairs, John went into the kitchen and made himself a pot of coffee in the near-darkness. Once the coffee had percolated, he found a travel mug in the cupboard, filled it and left the house, intent on being to Nebraska and back before Bobby or his sons woke up.
The Impala growled when he turned the key in the ignition and for a moment John feared he would wake his friend. But, glancing up at the second floor windows, John breathed a sigh of relief when they remained dark. Carefully, he reversed down the gravel drive and turned once he was at the road- deserted at this time in the morning- and started towards Nebraska.
SPN
Ellen Harvelle woke when it was still dark outside. She got ready for the day quickly, brushing her teeth and hair, dressing, and checked her cell phone. Frowning at the screen that showed she had received no new text messages or calls while asleep. She had had an idea that John Winchester would have gone to ground as soon as leaving the Roadhouse but she hadn't thought he'd be that difficult to locate. Oh well, maybe she was overthinking it; only a day had passed since the Winchesters had left anyway. There was still time for someone to catch sight of Sam.
Shoving her phone into her pocket, Ellen headed down the hallway towards the bar proper so she could get it ready for the day. She decided to let Jo sleep for a while yet, she wouldn't need her daughter's help until later in the morning.
Ellen stepped across the threshold separating the business side of the Roadhouse from the domestic side and closed the door between the two, turning on lights as she went.
Working steadily and silently, Ellen set the Roadhouse up for the coming day; opening the blinds in the windows at the front, taking the chairs down from the tables, uncovering the pool table, checking the alcohol and non-alcoholic drinks were stocked, wiping down the long, wooden bar.
Once the essentials had been seen to, Ellen added grounds to the coffee maker behind the bar and waited for it to percolate. Sitting on the opposite side of the bar- on a stool for patrons- she stared out the window, watching the sunrise as she waited for her coffee.
SPN
Dean woke, squeezing his closed eyes as sunlight sliced through the lids. Lifting his head out of the beam of light, he peered at his brother. Sam lay on his side, facing him, mouth open slightly as he continued to sleep.
"Sammy," Dean murmured.
Rumsfeld lifted his head and yawned widely before panting, watching the young man.
"Sammy," Dean tried again, "Wake up, man."
His brother muttered something unintelligible and half-rolled onto his back.
"Sam," Dean persisted, "C'mon, wake up."
Hazel eyes opened halfway.
"Huh?"
"Sorry Sam," Dean said, "But you're lying on my arm."
The younger boy blinked before rolling over and off his sibling's arm.
Dean pulled his arm out from under his sibling, cradling it as he got the circulation back and pins and needles shot up and down the limb from shoulder to fingertip.
Dean slid out of bed and patted the Rottweiler's head.
"You stay here," he told the dog before leaving the room and heading downstairs.
Dean thought nothing of it when he saw the pull-out couch was unoccupied and headed into the kitchen. There was coffee in the pot and Dean eagerly grabbed a mug only to find the beverage was cold. Pouring himself a cup anyway, the twenty-two year old set it in the microwave and pressed the timer to run for sixty seconds. While Dean waited for his coffee to warm up, he glanced out the window above the sink and noticed the Impala was missing from the driveway. The microwave beeped and Dean grabbed his coffee, blowing on the steaming beverage before taking a large gulp.
SPN
Ellen smiled as Jo shuffled into the bar, still wearing an oversized 'Heart' t-shirt as a nightgown.
"Is there coffee left?" Jo muttered, ruffling her tangled blonde hair.
"Help yourself," Ellen told her and looked up at the sound of a car's tires crunching against gravel.
"Grab a cup and get dressed," she told her daughter and Jo nodded sleepily.
Ellen's brown eyes watched her daughter like a hawk as the sixteen-year old poured coffee into a white mug and then slowly made her way back the way she had come, sipping the hot beverage as she went.
Ellen turned her attention on the door to the bar as it was pushed open and the first customer of the day entered.
Smiling, the woman's bird-of-prey gaze took in the man who stepped through the door and her grin became fixed. He was clearly not someone who would willingly come to the Roadhouse for a bite to eat or a glass of beer. The man wore a finely tailored suit of navy blue, black dress shoes that reflected the overhead lights and an emerald green tie that shone a metallic gold when its owner turned the right way. There were silver cufflinks on his sleeves and a snowy-white pocket square in his breast pocket.
Ellen felt her grin melt into a frown. She knew who this was. How could she not? When he entered her bar as though it were a sewer teeming with waste and rats? The man walked across the floor and stopped in front of the bar, facing Ellen, not sitting, seeming to loom over the woman. She barely registered the sound of another car pulling into the parking lot, her gaze locked on this intruder who felt he could just come to her place of business- her home- simply because he hadn't yet received what he wanted.
SPN
John Winchester pulled into the Roadhouse's parking lot and stopped beside a champagne-coloured BMW. Climbing out of his Chevy, John spared a glance for the other car before he crossed the gravel lot and stepped up onto the narrow wooden porch, hand on the doorknob.
Seconds from opening the door, the hunter paused. He could hear voices, or rather, one voice speaking from inside. A female's voice, raised in rage or fear he couldn't tell. Ellen.
John listened, wondering what was happening inside. Another voice, deeper than Ellen's replied but John was unable to make out the words. Was it the owner of the fancy car in the parking lot?
Keeping a grip on the handle, John inched the door open ever so slightly, certain that Ellen's regular customers would not have driven BMWs even if they'd won the lottery.
Now that the door was open a sliver, the hunter was able to hear the male voice as clear as if he were just on the other side of the construction of wood and metal and what he said chilled John Winchester to the bone.
SPN
"Sammy," Dean's voice broke through the veil of sleep and Sam opened his eyes.
"Dean?" the younger man asked, pulling himself up on his elbows. His brother was dressed in jeans, a navy t-shirt and blue-and-black plaid button-down.
"Want to take Rumsfeld out?" Dean asked.
The Rottweiler, lying on the end of the bed at Sam's feet, looked up as though he understood Dean's words and wagged his stub tail.
"I don't know," Sam hedged.
"C'mon, we won't go far and both you and Rumsfeld need to get some exercise and sunshine."
Sam lifted his hand to his mouth and bit down on his thumbnail.
"I'll be with you," Dean assured his brother.
Sam looked up out the bedroom window at the buttery sunlight filtering through the gauzy curtains.
"Okay," he acquiesced and climbed out of bed.
"I'll just be downstairs," Dean told him and although Sam's heart skipped a beat, he nodded.
Once his brother was gone, Sam dressed quickly and headed to the first floor without bothering to brush his teeth or hair. Rumsfeld panted excitedly as he followed Sam down the stairs.
Dean stood at the front door, boots on his feet, the Rottweiler's leash in his hand.
As soon as Sam had slipped his shoes on, they stepped outside onto the front porch.
"Dad's gone?" Sam noticed right away, grip tightening on the dog's leach.
"Probably just clearing his head or replenishing Bobby's stock of beer," Dean commented, "C'mon, Rumsfeld wants to walk."
The Rottweiler had been whining and pulling at the end of the leach, eager to get going and Sam obliged, Dean keeping stride beside him.
They walked down the gravel driveway, not speaking, listening to the sound of birds welcoming the morning, the chirruping of crickets and the Rumsfeld's panting.
As the Rottweiler paused to sniff at a rust-eaten hubcap lying in a tuft of grass beside the drive, Sam closed his eyes and took a deep breath of fresh air.
Opening his eyes, he saw Dean looking at him with a small smile.
"What?" Sam asked.
Dean shook his head, "Nothing."
"Want to walk down the road a little?"
Sam glanced over his shoulder at Bobby's house before nodding.
They stepped through the open gate and turned left, keeping to the sandy shoulder of the road as they walked.
SPN
John had heard enough. Sick of heart and of stomach, he tore himself away from the Roadhouse's door and hurried to the Impala. Climbing into the driver's seat, slamming the door and turning the key in the ignition so quickly the engine nearly stalled, the hunter swore out loud as he pulled out of the parking lot and headed back the way he had come.
SPN
Few cars passed the brothers as they walked Rumsfeld, each bringing with it a rush of warm wind and the strong smell of burning gas. The sun climbed steadily in the sky, turning from cheerful yellow to a strident white, signalling a coming heat wave.
Rumsfeld panted heavily, pink tongue lolling from his mouth; Sam wiped an arms across his brow, swiping beads of sweat away.
"Want to head back?" Dean offered.
"Yeah," Sam nodded.
The brothers turned around and began the slow pace back to the salvage yard.
W
The brothers had nearly reached Bobby's house, they were in fact only a few yards from the edge of the property- the chain-link fence looming up ahead when a BMW the colour of champagne slowed and pulled up close to the shoulder of the road beside them.
Dean paused, thinking the driver was going to ask them for directions.
The driver, however, did not simply roll his window down but opened his door and stepped out.
Dressed in an expensive suit and tie, his hair slicked back with pomade, the man looked as though he were on his way to a wedding.
"Hey," Dean began when the stranger stepped around the front of the car and reached out towards Sam, his eyes focused on nothing but the teen, his expression hungry.
Sam, startled by the man's brazen actions, stepped back as the stranger reached out, his hands grazing the boy's shirt.
Rumsfeld, standing beside Sam as the man approached, growling lowly in his throat, hackles raised in warning, suddenly leaped forward.
Mouth open, the Rottweiler jumped up, jaws clamping onto the man's outstretched hand. The stranger staggered backwards with a cry of surprise and pain, kicking at the dog.
Dean grabbed at Rumsfeld's collar as the man booted the dog in the chest.
"The fuck are you doing?" Dean snarled and yanked the dog back, thrusting the collar into his brother's fumbling hands.
The stranger looked up from his bloodied hand.
"He's mine!" the man ground out through clenched teeth, "I own him. He's coming with me."
Dean leaped forward as Rumsfeld had done and slammed the man against the side of his fancy car. With one hand gripping the stranger's shirt by the collar, eyes narrowed, Dean hissed, "The fuck did you just say?"
The man's gaze slid away from Dean's incensed expression to Sam's confused and frightened one.
"He belongs to me."
Dean brought one knee up and jammed it between the man's legs, causing the stranger to double over in agony.
"Dean!" a voice, not Sam's, suddenly called his name and the twenty-two year old felt strong hands grab his arms and pull him away.
"Get out of here," John hissed in his eldest son's ear, "Take your brother and go."
Dean opened his mouth to protest but John's expression stopped him. He pulled free from his father's grip and took hold of Sam's upper arm, yanking him forward, urging him towards Bobby's.
"Dean," Sam said breathlessly as he struggled to hold onto Rumsfeld's leach and keep up with his brother's pace, "Dean."
Dean didn't answer, didn't stop until they had made their way down the driveway, crossed the porch and over the threshold into the house. Dean slammed the door shut behind them and grabbed his brother in a bone-cracking hug.
Bobby poked his head out from the kitchen.
"What the hell happened to you two?"
SPN
Dean and Bobby looked up when the door opened and John stepped inside; Sam had his face pressed against his brother's chest, still locked in his brother's embrace.
"Dad," Dean ground out, "What… Who… Who was that?"
John sighed, shaking his head helplessly. He didn't want to have to explain where he had gone that morning but now it seemed he had no choice. Instead of speaking right away, he approached his sons and put a hand on Sam's shoulder. It took everything in him not to let his fingers tremble.
Sam lifted his head from Dean's chest, his face tear-streaked.
"I'm sorry, Sam," John muttered through the lump in his throat, "I led that bastard here. It's my fault."
"What are you talking about? Where did you go this morning? Who exactly was that?" Dean asked as Sam once again pressed his face into his chest.
Bobby looked askance at all three Winchesters and it was Dean who explained about the stranger in the gold BMW.
John raked a hand through his hair.
"Johnny," Bobby prompted, "What've you got to tell us?"
"I just wanted some answers," the eldest Winchester explained, "That's all."
"What did you do?" Bobby asked.
"I went back to Nebraska," John confessed, finding himself looking at his boots, "I just wanted to talk to Ellen."
"John-" Bobby began but was interrupted, "It was a stupid thing to do, I know!"
There was silence for a moment, broken only by the Rottweiler's panting and Sam's sniffling.
"I just… I needed to know," John muttered, "Why us? Why Sam?"
"And did you get your answers?" Bobby asked, speaking almost in a whisper.
"That… asshole was there," John motioned to the front door, "I never went inside the Roadhouse but I heard him talking to Ellen."
The hunter shook his head, "This is bigger than I imagined, Bobby. You were right; Ellen isn't just doing this out of some sick idea of getting revenge on me for what happened to Bill. She's just doing it."
Bobby looked taken aback, as though he hadn't really believed it himself.
"The… the people who are buying these kids… they're the worst part of it… Doctors, lawyers, police officers, politicians… people with money and a God-complex. To them, us… the masses are no better than livestock, our only purpose is to be controlled, manipulated, enslaved."
"Jesus," Bobby whispered.
"They don't care if they take Sam," John replied, feeling his eyes prick with tears, "Because he's no better than a piece of furniture to be used until they get tired of him."
"You heard all that at the Roadhouse?" Bobby asked.
John shook his head, "Not all of it, I had to fill in some of the blanks but that asshole was quite vocal about what he said he owned. He wasn't happy with Ellen for letting us get away."
Bobby sighed, "The trouble you Winchesters get yourselves into."
"What do we do now, Dad? Do you think that guy will come back?" Dean asked, "He won't come back, would he? I mean, you told him where he could go, right?"
"I don't know, Dean," John replied.
"I know your first instinct is to run," Bobby spoke up, "But I don't think that'd do you any good. We don't know what's gonna happen next but it seems to be like the bastard is determined to get his hands on Sam. I'm gonna make a couple of calls an' let some others know what's going on. If that asshole shows his face again, we'll be ready."
John raised an eyebrow, "Are you suggesting we fight?"
Bobby shrugged, "No, but we don't know what these people are going to do. They could, in all seriousness, show up with an army to kill us and take the boy. I think we should treat this like any other threat."
John just nodded.
"Come into the kitchen with me while I make the calls," Bobby suggested.
"I'm going to take Sammy upstairs," Dean said.
"That's a good idea," John muttered and followed Bobby.
SPN
Sam clung to Dean as they walked up the stairs, as though he imagined the man was going to appear suddenly and spirit him away. Rumsfeld trotted ahead of the brothers, waiting for them at the top of the staircase and then once again in the guest bedroom.
Dean pulled the blankets back on the bed furthest from the door and urged his sibling to lay down.
"Don't leave me," Sam whimpered when Dean drew the blankets over him.
"I won't, Sammy," Dean sat on the edge of the bed beside his sibling. Sam reached out a hand and Dean took it, squeezing it.
The Rottweiler jumped up on the bed and laid down beside Sam, resting his head on his paws.
"It'll be okay, Sammy," Dean murmured and brushed his brother's bangs away from his brow, "We won't let anyone hurt you again."
SPN
Ellen looked up sharply when the door to her Roadhouse was shoved open with such force it ricocheted off the opposite wall. Magnus' former master stalked into the bar, his expression livid.
The woman couldn't help but a smirk as she took in the man's maimed hand and black eye.
"You did something stupid, didn't you?" she asked.
The man narrowed his eyes at her, not even noticing the half-dozen customers sitting at tables, eating and drinking, staring wide-eyed at the intrusion.
"Let's talk in the back," Ellen suggested, "It's private and I can look after your hand."
The man opened his mouth as though he was about to say that he'd rather let the dog-bitten limb fester with infection than step further into the bar but he decided against it and followed Ellen past the bar and into the back.
"Jo, watch the front," Ellen told her daughter.
"But I want to-" the girl began but he mother snapped at her.
"I said watch the front!"
The woman led the man into the back bathroom and instructed him to sit on the closed lid of the toilet seat as she took a battered First Aid kit from the wall.
As Ellen pulled out the supplies needed to tend to the man's hand, she asked, "So, care to tell me what happened?"
Mutinously, the man explained what had happened, glaring at Ellen when she gave a chuckle.
"He's going to pay dearly for this," the man held up his bandaged fingers, "Once I get my hands on him."
"I'm sure you will," Ellen commented evenly, "But you'll never get Sam with the way you're acting."
"And I suppose you know how to get him?" the man growled.
Ellen met the man's gaze, "I do."
She began packing the supplies back into the First Aid kit.
"I know you think everyone are sheep," she continued, "But even sheep love their lambs."
"Just tell me," the man demanded.
"You're dealing with a family of hunters," Ellen said, as though that would mean anything to him, "And not just any hunters, the Winchesters."
She gave a brief description of the Winchesters' family dynamic.
"Why do you think I waited so long to get revenge?" she asked, not expecting an answer, "John's sons are all he has left. He isn't going to let them out of his sight so easily."
"I don't care," the man growled, curling his uninjured hand into a fist as though itching to punch something or someone, "Just tell me how I get a hold of the boy."
Ellen smiled.
"Let me get you a drink and we'll work out the details."
SPN
Sam opened his eyes to darkness. He shivered, chilled, and tried to yank the blanket over himself… only he couldn't move his arms, they were pinned. Confusion clouded his mind for a long moment until he heardthe creak of a door opening sounded somewhere above him and turning to look over his shoulder, saw a shaft of light illuminate a wooden staircase and wedge of hard-packed dirt floor. Seconds later bright light shone down from the ceiling, blinding Sam for a moment. Blinking water from his eyes, the teen craned his neck to try and see where he was.
He was still in the basement of the Beta Theta Upsilon house.
The blood pounded in Sam's head, white noise making him deaf to the sounds of the Brothers' footfalls as they descended the stairs, Magnus leading the procession.
Reaching the floor, the blond-haired man smiled at Sam.
The eighteen-year old squeezed his eyes shut and faced the wall again.
"What are you doing, Sam?" Magnus' voice asked condescendingly.
Opening his eyes, Sam looked over his shoulder and saw the man peering at him, head tilted.
"Please let me go," Sam whimpered.
Magnus' grinned widely and, stepping close, patted Sam's head.
"Today is your lucky day," he told the younger man, "You are leaving."
Magnus' words only sent waves of fear crashing through the young man's chest.
"Brother Clovis, would you unlock Sam's handcuffs please?"
As the other man approached, the teen shrank back.
"No, don't," Sam begged.
"What's wrong? I thought you wanted to go?" Magus asked, chuckling.
Pain constricted Sam's throat so he simply shook his head as the Brother unlocked the handcuffs. Before Sam could move, Magnus grabbed him by the hair and pulled him halfway up, turning him around as he did so.
Slow footsteps on the steps alerted Sam to another presence in the house and he struggled to pull free of Magnus' grip.
"Hold him," Magus shoved Sam in the direction of the other Brothers and Darius and Titus reached out to grab the boy's arms.
The man who descended the stairs was dressed as though he were very important, indeed. Dressed in a charcoal grey suit, snow white dress shirt, silver tie, black pocket square, diamond cufflinks and shiny black dress shoes spoke of a man who appreciated the finer things in life.
Hungry eyes fixed on Sam and the man approached, walking past Magnus and the Brothers as though they did not exist.
Sam tried to pull himself from Darius and Titus but they were too strong; he was trapped, naked and vulnerable.
The man stopped in front of Sam. He raised a hand and very gently touched Sam's cheek with his fingertips.
"He's not as pretty as his picture," the man said quietly, "Why?"
Magnus cleared his throat and stepped forward, "He was less than willing to cooperate. The injuries will heal, in time."
The man nodded, agreeing without even looking at Magnus.
Sam tried to back away as the man leaned forwards, his hand leaving the teen's cheek to trail down his throat to his chest and lower.
"Please," Sam whispered, "Don't hurt me."
The man's hand continued to move downwards until it was between Sam's legs, fondling.
Sam closed his eyes, tears leaking past the lids.
Sudden agony coursed through Sam and he shuddered, crying out as the man tightened his grip. Nausea boiled in the boy's stomach and his mouth was awash with saliva, vomit threatening.
The man looked up at Sam's face, one corner of his mouth turned up and then he backed away, turning to Magnus. Sam lowered his head, breathing heavily as the pain slowly ebbed.
Titus and Darius, lulled by the presence of Magus' master, loosened their grip on Sam's arms but did not release him.
Moments passed and finally the teen regained his composure. Keeping his head bowed, he realized the two Brothers were at ease, not giving him their full attention.
Now, a voice in Sam's head that sounded reassuringly like Dean's, go now; run. Do it now, Sam, before you lose the chance.
Sucking in a deep breath, the eighteen-year old raised his head, gaze focusing on the staircase mere feet away.
You can do it, Dean's voice encouraged, don't even think about it; just go for it.
Sam decided that Dean was right. Even if he was caught again, at least he had tried to escape. No one would be able to say he had to take it laying down.
Before Magnus could realize Darius and Titus were slacking off, Sam yanked his arms roughly from their grip- pain coursing from shoulder to fingertips as he did so- and made a dash for the stairs.
Sam ran past the stunned Brothers and fell onto his hands on the staircase but kept moving, telling himself to keep going.
"NO!" he heard Magnus shout from behind him and the man cry, "Grab him!"
Sam hurried up the stairs, splinters of unsanded wood digging into the soles of his feet but he barely felt them. He was more than halfway up the staircase when he felt a strong hand close on his ankle and pull him down a couple of steps.
Looking over his shoulder, Sam saw Magnus almost on top of him, blue eyes blazing angrily, teeth bared in a snarl, round red wound in his forehead weeping blood.
A sudden vivid memory came to Sam then; climbing from the wreck of a silver Crown Victoria, Magnus trying to drag him back into the vehicle seconds before a gunshot sounds and the blond-haired man falls dead, bullet wound puncturing his forehead.
Renewed strength surged into Sam's limbs and he yanked his leg from Magnus' grip and scrabbled up the stairs, shoving the door open and stumbling through…
W
Sam jolted awake, eyes snapping open, heart hammering in his chest, a sour taste in his mouth.
A whine from beside him caught his attention and he turned to see Rumsfeld peering at him. Sam reached out a trembling hand and laid it on the Rottweiler's head, taking comfort from the strong bones, powerful muscles and soft fur.
Glancing around the room to see that he was alone but for Rumsfeld, Sam's hand automatically went to the amulet hanging around his neck.
"Where's Dean?" he asked out loud.
The Rottweiler whined again and cocked his head.
Sam wanted to call out to his brother but something stopped him. Instead, he pushed the blankets down and swung his feet out of bed. Rumsfeld stood up, panting and jumped onto the hardwood floor, turning to look expectantly at Sam.
The teen stood and raked his bangs back away from his brow. Crossing the bedroom, he opened the door and stood on the threshold, listening. The sounds of conversation rose up from the first floor and Sam lowered his hand from the amulet. Lulled by the knowledge that his family was nearby.
Padding quietly down the hall, Sam went into the bathroom and turned on the light. Rumsfeld squeezed himself inside just as Sam was closing the door and peered up at the young man, panting, waiting patiently.
The Sam gripped the sides of the counter and peered at his reflection in the mirror. He still had dark circles under his eyes, but the bruises had faded to a dull yellow and the gash on his brow had scabbed-over again. Glancing down, Sam pushed his sleeve up and stared at the numbers inked into his left forearm.
Shoving his sleeve back down, Sam met his own gaze once more in the mirror. He had fought. Even when all seemed lost and rescue seemed impossible, he hadn't given up. Sam had been trained from an early age that the Winchersters were not quitters, that, although a situation may be hopeless he must not lay down in defeat.
Sucking in a deep breath, Sam peered down at his hands, gripping the edge of the counter with white knuckles.
He was tired of being a victim.
Author's Note:
Thanks to mandancie for helping me out with this chapter.
Thanks to carlton1, bumblebeecas, TweetyRulz, CBloom2, reannablue, only-some-loser, Mama's Stories, jensensgirl3, Supermikeyninjalady, and mimmi85 for reviewing.