I was originally going to have this in two different chapters, but that didn't exactly work out. It was too short, and I did this in school, so I didn't have much time.

This is un-betaed, so any and all mistakes are mine. Disclaimers see first chapter.

This went a completely different way...sheesh... At the end, I am using an idea from the TV show called Bitten. That credits to them. Loved it.

I appreciate the reviews. As to the anonymous person who commented about this being like a book called 1948 by George Orwell, I've never heard of it! But I definitely will check it out. Thanks for letting me know.

Enjoy!

Dean paces. He finds himself pacing a lot.

"Nothing on finding Mick?" he asks, a tinge of desperation in his voice making him sound afraid and lethal at the same time. Not many people can accomplish that, but Dean Winchester has perfected it over the years, so he's not too concerned. Other people should be, though.

"Nothing," Cas affirms, and Dean has to restrain himself from punching his friend in the nose.

"And Sam hasn't even prayed to you? Not once?" Cas doesn't answer, and Dean narrows his eyes accusingly. "Cas?"

The angel forces his gaze to his hands, eyes cast shallow and guilt-ridden. "He prays to me every moment of the day. I just can't find him because of the warding on his ribs. You know that."

This time, Dean can't help but swipe his arm across the desk and fold his hands over his head to calm himself. He knows Sam can hold his own—better than anyone, in fact—but it's been an entire month. An entire month. Dean hasn't felt this hopeless since he felt his brother's life leaving his body and watching it drain from his eyes a decade ago in Cold Oak.

"So he's still alive then."

"I told you that."

"Well, then what does he pray about, Castiel?" Dean says vehemently, and he can't quite manage to contain the anger.

"You, mostly. You don't want to know the rest."

Dean bites his lip. His brother was out there, calling for him eminently all the time, and Dean couldn't even hear. Let alone respond. It was tearing him apart, having nothing to go on, and simply waiting for a breakthrough. Patience was a virtue he did not have.

"He's my brother, Cas," he said finally. " Whether I want to or not, I have to know."

Dean thinks about his mother, searching endlessly for patterns not unlike himself. She'd been a wreck, after having just made up with her children for so many things, only to have them both yanked away so abruptly. Sam physically, Dean...well, emotionally.

Cas cocks his head, contemplating. "Don't let this greatly affect you. Sam needs you, now more than ever."

Before Dean can ask the many questions that just formed, two fingers are on his head and a blinding pain is in his temples. His vision tilts and whites out, and he feels his feet stumble. There's an echo of someone screaming, a figure moving in the extensive amount of bright, white color. A table, he sees, with a person tied down. Sam.

The scene suddenly lurches, Dean with it, and he's now somewhere dark. Cage bars, iron, rusted. A small enclosure no more than 4 feet tall, a dirty cot in the corner. Calloused hands wrap around the metal, pleading. A collar on his next. A fucking collar.

Dean gasps and resurfaces, searching for oxygen. Sam is being treated like an animal.

"I thought you said he was only praying? That you couldn't find him?" he breathes.

"That's what's interesting. I'm not reaching out to him. He's reaching out to me—sending me these images."

Dean falls silent, still catching his breath. "So...what? His powers?"

Cas nods. "That's the only thing I can think of."

At this, Dean closes his eyes and sucks in a heavy breath, fists tightening. "We're getting him back," Dean vows. "Now." It comes out as a snarl, and Cas flinches.

"Those sons of bitches think they own my brother. I'm going to show them just how wrong they are."

It's quiet for a moment, and Cas fiddles with his coat. Dean knows he wants to say something, knows he should walk away and not let it get to him, but he needs to understand what the celestial being is thinking.

"What, Cas?" he asks alas. "Please, buddy."

The angel's face falls, and he stares at the floor. "But don't they?" he says softly, and Dean's eyebrows pinch in confusion. "Don't they own your brother?" he clarifies.

Dean growls. Actually growls. "What in the actual fuck, Cas?"

"I'm just trying to say, you can't just waltz in there and take him back. They've made it strikingly clear that Sam belongs to them."

The elder Winchester shoves his friend, fury emanating from his skin in obnoxious waves. "You speak of him like he's property!" he nearly yells. Cas tries to recover, but Dean cuts him off. "Why do you talk like he's just this...this thing to be pawned and traded between ownership with? He's my brother. And I thought he was your friend!"

"Dean, you know that's not what I meant. It's just—"

"What, huh? He's a valuable war piece and nothing more?"

"No," Cas denies. "He's an army of one with the strength of a thousand."

Dean shuts up mid-interjection, mouth frozen in a halted 'o'. Cas continues. "Last time they wanted him to tell them the network of American hunters. Once he realized he wouldn't do that...well...why ask them to cooperate when they can take everything by force?"

It's a valid point and Dean knows it. "And...his powers?"

Cas shakes his head. "I don't know. But from what I've seen, they're trying to break him."

That night, Dean weeps.

Contrary to what the British think, they haven't broken Sam Winchester. Not yet, at least. He can still think. He can still move of his own, free volition, no matter how painful it is. But he's right back to where he was seven years ago—beaten into submission for a cause much bigger than him.

That's why, when he's in the blue room, facing Ketch, and the questions have come and gone, he displays one act of independency that runs everything. He didn't mean for it to happen.

"You're going to get Dean here," he said, and Sam sharply looked up. He looked up. Rule #6: No eye contact with your owner. Ketch's lip curled inward at that. "You're going to get him here, let us take him, then return to your cage. Got it?"

Sam blinked. Then, he laughed, and oh had he screwed up now. "No, he says, and then says it again when the word feels so good on his tongue. "No." Rule #3: Absolutely no talking.

"Man," Sam huffs, the chuckles subsiding. "I thought you were stupid before, but this is a whole new level of—" he gets punched in the face when he says that, stopping him short. He spits the blood out, and finishes, "Idiocy."

Ketch smiles, and Sam wonders why he's not being punished yet. "Shame." Ketch sighs. "I thought we had actually made progress."

Sam smirks. "We had, until you brought my brother into this. I could last centuries, now."

Ketch resumed like he hadn't been interrupted. "But I don't recall asking you."

With that, two guards yank him up, and he's dragged off to a room he's never been to in the 43 days he's been here. It's damp, lit up solely by lanterns and candles that provide an orange luminescence. It's ornately decorated, furniture carefully placed in the corners to make it decorative.

Expensive paintings dangle from the walls, and the floor is made of a velvet material. In the center is a large sigil Sam doesn't recognize, donned with white paint on the carpet and a black dust surrounding the outside. They shock Sam's collar, and he's forced to kneel in the center of it, still attempting to regulate his breathing from the electric current.

Two keenly dressed woman walk up to him, and one pets his head. Like he's a dog. Nobody speaks, but Ketch comes to stand in front of him. He smiles in faux melancholy. "Again, I didn't want it to come to this."

With that, Sam recognizes an incantation being chanted in Latin, and he tries his best to translate as they speak, but the words move by too fast. "Chain...keep...withhold...thy...mind...thou...ridden…" He's too confused to even try anymore.

It ends and everything turns black, the lights being extinguished instantaneously.

The smoke he didn't realize was there clears, and Sam feels empty inside. He holds onto those few emotions of anger and fear he still has, though, like it were a lifeline.

But then Ketch speaks.

"Sam."

He looks up unwillingly.

"I am the lock."

And suddenly, Sam finds himself answering, "I am the key," and those precious emotions fizzle out into...nothing.

Rule #1: No resisting.

tbc