And here is my Christmas present to you all! Time to get some answers!

oOo

"What if I said I believe?

Would you rescue me?"

- Rescue Me, Black Stone Cherry

oOo

"You said yes, Sam. You said yes to Lucifer."

No.

No no no no no no.

He was lying. It wasn't true. It couldn't be true. He would know.

"It is, Sam. I'm so sorry" Thomas murmured, keeping his hand on Sam's arm when the words poured, jumbled and frantic from the hunter. Sam just shook his head continuously, tears welling in his eyes.

"I would never imagine this. Why the hell would I imagine you? Why would I want this?!" Sam snapped, motioning to the whole room with his head. The tears, hot and angry, fell onto his pillow. Thomas reached up and wiped them away softly. Sam tried to jerk away from him but the movement sent a flare of pain through his shoulder and it took everything he had to suppress a pained sob.

"It's not about wanting it Sam, in fact, it's the total opposite –"

"That doesn't explain why I would create this – you abducting me, manipulating me, torturing me."

"You didn't create this event, Sam; I did," Thomas explained, letting his hand rest on Sam's bare, uninjured shoulder. Sam's frown turned quizzical. "I'm not a part of your mind – you haven't 'imagined' me; I'm…lord, how do I put this…I'm a…projection, for want of a better term. I'm the real Thomas, Sam, the one you knew from England; I'm not something you – or Lucifer – has created in your head."

"How is that even possible?"

Thomas gave a small smile. "Anna is quite the accomplished spell caster – and psychic. The best that the British Men of Letters has, in fact. For small amounts of time, she is able to project me into your mind. That's why I'm not here all the time. I've been trying to reach you for weeks, but it's only been in the last few days that I've been about to interact with you properly – hence why it took me so long to get you away from Dean."

"You seriously expect me to believe any of this?" Sam scoffed. He wanted to wrench away from Thomas' incessant touch, his constant 'soothing' stroking. The very feel of his touch made Sam's skin crawl but the straps held him down and the agony in his shoulder stopped him from wriggling.

"You're not supposed to believe any of this – that's Lucifer's game. Lucifer needs you tucked away, safe inside your subconscious, sheltered from outside influence. He needs you to doubt me. He needs you to fight me. You're letting him influence your emotions; you're meant to want out of here, to get back to your 'normal' life. The deeper you get into that life, the deeper Lucifer gets his hooks in you. I had to bring you here, had to get you away, keep you here, so that Lucifer can't find you. If I let you know where you are, he will find out. I'm trying to keep you safe – it's what I keep telling you."

"Safe?! You take me from my brother, keep me tied up in some hell hole and claim you're doing it all for my benefit. If it was true, you'd trust me – you wouldn't do any of this!" Sam growled.

"Sam, you can't even trust yourself right now – your back injury proves that. You're creating scenarios where you think I've physically hurt you – all to make yourself doubt me. I wouldn't be at all surprised if Lucifer made you do it, almost like a psychological trap. But I would never hurt you, Sam. Remember our time in London? I was never violent with you – I'm not a violent man. You know that."

Sam hesitated.

"Think about it. Why would I hurt you? What good would it do? It wouldn't make you trust me, would it?" Thomas murmured, brushing a lock of Sam's hair out of his eyes. Sam's jaw clenched. "The problem we have is that you asked Lucifer to trap you; you wanted this. You don't want to fight him. You don't want to trust me. That's why I've had to use the tactics I have; I'm trying to help you break Lucifer's hold over you. By associating restriction and negativity with the thoughts and emotions linked to the world Lucifer has created for you, I'm hoping you'll get stronger. Fight back against him."

"You're sick," Sam whispered, horrified as he felt the bile rise up his throat. "You've concoct some farfetched…fantasy where you get to be some kind of warped hero and then you expect me to believe it. I don't. I won't."

Thomas sighed deeply. "Think about everything that hasn't felt right since you got back. The things you've seen, the way you've felt. The mistrust you felt of your brother."

Sam's journal entry flashed through his mind – the one he didn't remember writing.

I can't trust him. There's something strange in the looks he gives me when he thinks I'm not looking.

He hadn't told anyone about that. How could Thomas possibly know that? It was too much. Way too much. He couldn't listen to it anymore.

"Get the hell away from me" he snarled, trying to shrug off Thomas' hand. He turned his head away, staring stubbornly at the wall. He didn't want to listen to anymore of the Englishman's lies.

"Alright, Sam; I know this is a lot to take in, a lot to digest. I'm going to give you time," Thomas murmured, his hand disappearing from Sam's shoulder. Finally. Sam heard the chair legs scrape across the floor.

Thomas gazed down, almost sadly, at the hunter. He hadn't expected Sam to believe him straightaway; they were a long way off that. He would just need to be resolute. Relentless. Sam would come round eventually. Picking up the cloths from the table beside the bed, he leaned over, giving Sam's hair a final stroke. "I'm sorry, Sam," he repeated as he grasped the cloth in both hands and hooked the knot into Sam's mouth. The hunter grunted and recoiled, but Thomas secured the gag quickly. "This is for your own good; I know Lucifer is hunting for you and I don't know if he can hear you. I can't risk that. I also need you to think seriously about what I've said – no distractions," he explained as he slipped the blindfold over Sam's eyes again. Thomas fitted the headphones back on Sam again, turning the recording on but turning it down low.

"It's my job, Sam. It's what I'm going to do. I'll keep you safe. You'll be alright as long as I'm here."

Sam moaned and wriggled, the soft sound interjected with sharp gasps as his jostled his shoulder. Thomas ran a comforting hand down his back.

"I'll be back soon."

oOo

Lebanon, Kansas

The bunker was dipped in quiet: a heavy, oppressive hush that was stifling, unbearable. The corridors were dimly lit, the library the only room that was active. Both long tables were awash with paper, tomes, maps: there was barely any surface visible beneath it all. The lights cast a warm yellow glow throughout the room; it would have been comforting, homely, on any other day.

Not anymore.

Jody walked in, two mugs of coffee steaming in her hands as she climbed the steps up from the kitchen. Her soft brown eyes gazed sadly at Dean. The oldest Winchester was sat at one end of the table, sprawled across the sea of paper, his head resting on his arms, his frown indented into his forehead even in sleep. He'd conked out a few hours beforehand and the sheriff hadn't had the heart to wake him. If she'd insisted on sending him to bed, he would have ignored her and carried on working, the same as he had done for the last few days. Days which had been full of research, phone calls, endless circuits around dead ends which produced nothing.

Sam had been taken nearly a week ago and they had no clue who was responsible or why they'd grabbed him. No one had contacted Dean and no one had seen Sam. Even Castiel's numerous attempts to contact him had proved fruitless.

Jody couldn't even imagine how Dean had coped in the last four months. She'd seen him on occasion during that time and he'd somehow convinced her that he was on top of everything. She'd had every faith in him – she still did – but he was a mess. He ate when she shoved food in his face, drank the coffee she stuck in his hand after pulling the whiskey he automatically reached for out of his grasp and slept brokenly when she threatened to set Cas on him.

But even though he was putting everything he had into their search, he was turning up nothing. None of them were.

The sheriff set the two mugs down and turned her attention to the hunter.

"Dean? Honey, wake up," she called gently, running her hand through the soft strands of his hair. Dean stirred, inhaling deeply as his eyes eased open. Jody's hand was warm and welcome on the back of his head, calming the storm that began to rage as soon as he woke. He lifted his hand and wiped a hand across his face, clearing his throat.

"What time is it?" His voice was thick and raspy with sleep. Jody pushed the coffee into his hand.

"A little after 11am."

"You should've woken me earlier" Dean grumbled. Jody raised an eyebrow, giving him her disapproving-parent look.

"So that you could get cranky earlier? You're more use rested and you know it" she retorted, taking the seat next to him. They looked up as Castiel reappeared, his expression grim and frustrated.

"Anythin'?" Dean asked instantly, knowing the answer before the angel had the chance to say it. Cas shook his head and sat on the opposite side of the table.

"I don't understand it. I've attempted to contact him habitually every hour for three days. He must have slept at some point. And we know he isn't dead," the angel grumbled. One of the first things they had done was contact Billie who had revealed, with a clear sense of dismay, that Sam hadn't crossed over. She was still eagerly waiting for either brother to die so that she could reap them. There was no way any other reaper was taking them from her. "I'm being blocked – by what I don't know – but that is the only feasible explanation."

"So it has to be someone who knows about angels and what we do – which we figured anyway," Dean confirmed. He looked at Jody. "Could you start researchin' possible angel blocks? Anythin' that would stop Cas gettin' in and ways we can reverse it." Jody nodded and got up, giving Dean's shoulder a quick squeeze as she wandered back to the catalogues.

Dean took a large gulp of his coffee, glad of its instant warmth, both physical and emotional. He would've fallen apart without Jody and Cas' combined strengths. After finding Sam's destroyed phone, he'd lost it. He'd just got Sam back and to have him ripped away, again, with no clue about who had him or where, again, was too much. Jody had taken charge, giving him direction and focus when he hadn't been able to do it himself.

She'd put him back together.

"Dean." Castiel's voice snapped him from his reverie. "There is something else I think we should try."

"I'm all ears."

"With you."

Dean's brow furrowed. "Me?"

"Yes. With your memory of the night Sam was taken."

"We already tried that, Cas. It didn't work," Dean grumbled. They'd tried the instant they got back to the bunker, as soon as the angel had suggested it. All they'd pulled up were broken images, distorted and patchy, broken by the taser. Dean had resurfaced frustrated and disheartened, even though Castiel tried to point out that both his stress and the copious amount of whiskey he'd already consumed hadn't helped. Dean had seen it as a failure nonetheless and instructed the angel to concentrate on trying to contact Sam.

"I know it didn't work last time, but I still think it's worth another shot. Something could come up – I think last time you were so focused on trying to force it to work that it didn't," Cas explained. "I'll try to help you focus just on the events, not the emotions this time."

"Alright" Dean conceded. Cas moved around and sat in Jody's vacant chair and reached out a hand.

"Try to stay still," the angel instructed as he pressed both his middle and forefingers to both of Dean's temples. Dean's eyes snapped shut as light lanced through his mind's eye.

He felt the residue of annoyance flare through him as he stalked back to the room, prowling past a black SUV that towered over Baby. Damned teenagers. If they'd pranked a real agent, they'd be in so much trouble. He was sure they were probably hiding around a corner somewhere laughing at him. The damned woman in reception had ranted and raved at him about how despicable youths were for way too long.

Reaching their room, he opened the door, grumbling as he entered.

"Damned kids are nothin' but-"

His head snapped up when a muffled yell interrupted him, his eyes widening, horror filling him. Sam lay bound and gagged on his bed, thrashing desperately. The shock was pushed to one side, allowing Dean to analyse what was in front of him: just his brother, his eyes wide but slightly unfocused, his large frame dominating the bed as he lay on his left hand side. They locked eyes before Sam's gaze slid to his left.

The memory of agony, entering through his shoulder, dropped him to his knees even though he couldn't feel it. His whole body went rigid as electricity sparked through him. He lay convulsing on the floor, locking eyes with a cold blue that glared down at him.

The memory seemed to pause, letting Dean see the man's face properly. His dark hair was short and neat, a well-trimmed beard peppering his cheeks, a few flecks of silver starting to filter in. Dean didn't recognise him.

Time sped up again.

"Dean Winchester. You took someone very dear to me. I'm going to be repay the favour" the man snarled, his lip curled in disdain. Dean frowned.

His accent: it was British.

Dean wrenched away from Cas' touch, his eyes wide, the angel mirroring his look.

"Son of a bitch!" Dean swore, his voice gruff and angry, bringing Jody running back in.

"What is it?" she asked.

"The guy – he had an accent. He's English."

"Dean, anyone can put on an accent, especially if they're tryin' to throw you off their trail. Is there anythin' else you remember? Anythin' that could link him?" she pressed, folding her arms. Dean frowned, shaking his head.

"I can't think of anything…"

"What about the info the receptionist gave you?" Jody pushed. The conversation replayed quickly through Dean's mind. Weird name…lovely guy…I just adored his accent; you don't get it a lot 'round these parts…weird name…Mr Wemmick.

"Wemmick. He said his name was Wemmick and she said he had an accent which fits," Dean shrugged. Jody's eyes snapped to him.

"Wemmick?"

"Yeah. Why?" Dean asked as Jody pulled out her phone. She typed quickly, her smile triumphant as she showed him the results.

"Wemmick is a character from Great Expectations. He's one of the good guys – he helps Pip when he gets to London. I'd say we've got a damned good chance he is British," she explained. Dean swore again as her look became quizzical. "But why would some random English guy take Sam? I thought the British Men of Letters were on our side."

"They are – supposedly," Dean growled as he pulled out his phone, scrolling through his contacts. He looked up at Jody as he put the phone to his ear. "I think it's time they told us who else was involved with that bitch."

oOo

London, England: two months earlier

Forty-eight days.

At least, he had assumed that's how long it'd been. He could never quite be sure; he hadn't seen daylight since he'd arrived. He used what he could; meal times, the regularity of Toni and James' visits. Thomas. Toni didn't want him to know how long it'd been since they'd taken him. Her 'sessions' (as she liked to call them) had become erratic of late; yet another way that she was messing with him. She would leave him alone for what felt like days, slowly building his anxiety, letting him simmer. Just when he'd think he couldn't take it anymore, she'd appear and he'd wish she was gone again.

He couldn't win.

Thomas was the only real constant he had. They barely spoke most days; the Man of Letters certainly didn't engage him in conversation but there was something…different about him. He wasn't malicious like Toni or psychopathic like James. He was almost…kind.

Sam had pleaded with him in the early days, tried desperately to form a comradery with the older man. He tried appealing to his compassion, his logical side. As much as Thomas demonstrated almost endless sympathy and patience, he never once hinted that he would help the Winchester escape.

Eventually, Sam stopped asking.

They fell into an awkwardly comfortable routine. Thomas would do whatever it was he needed to do – clean Sam up, restrain him, anything Toni wanted him to do, but he did it without the viciousness James took so much enjoyment in. In return, Sam would do as he asked without 'causing a scene' (as Thomas put it); if Thomas didn't hurt him, Sam wasn't about to encourage him to start. Toni did that enough.

"Why do you do it?" Sam asked quietly. He was sat, hunched over wearily, his elbows on his knees, on a hard metal chair as Thomas bustled around behind him. He stared down at his clenched hands, running a thumb over the abrasions that were almost becoming permanent on his wrists. A shiver rippled through his skin as the chill of the cell began to sink in despite the licks of fire that flared dully across his back. His shirt was gone, discarded on the floor next to the chair.

"This is going to sting. I'm sorry" Thomas murmured, ignoring the question. Water sloshed and tinkled in a basin as he wrung out a warm cloth. Sam hissed, his entire body tensing as Thomas dabbed at one of the long welts that ran diagonally across his shoulder blades. His hands clenched tight, nails digging in, as he fought the urge to arch his back forward and away from Thomas' tender ministrations. "I'm sorry, I know it hurts" Thomas repeated, his tone full of regret. Yet, it was regret for causing him pain, not for his involvement.

He never answered Sam's questions if they were to do with Toni or her actions. Sam still tried; he needed to know their reasoning. He wouldn't understand it, but he could use it. Thomas seemed to know that and so he never gave Sam anything.

Sam's sharp intakes of breath were the only sounds to disturb the silence while Thomas tended to the slashes across his back. His gentleness was a welcome comfort in a world that had become cold and cruel.

oOo

Outskirts of Geneva, Kansas

God, he had been so wrong. There was no comfort to be found in Thomas' care, no real compassion in the Englishman. There was a depravity in the older man that Sam could barely even begin to fathom. And yet…he hadn't lied. Sam was damned uncomfortable, frustrated and sick of being held captive, both then and now. But Thomas was right: he had never been violent with Sam, not in all the time he'd been in England.

The thought made Sam queasy; if Thomas was telling the truth, Sam was in way over his head. He couldn't believe Thomas – he wouldn't. He lay there, listening to Thomas incessant voice, repeating the same phrase over and over again, slowly becoming more and more numb. How was he supposed to fight this? What was he supposed to do?

He felt a slight tremor in the bedframe, signalling the door banging shut, and he twisted his wrists uncomfortably. Moments later, the headphones disappeared and the blindfold was lifted gently from his face. Sam looked up at Thomas from the corner of his eye, meeting the Englishman's look.

Thomas gave him a sympathetic smile, noting the utter defeat lodged in the depths of Sam's dull grey eyes. There was no fight in him, not today. That was good. It wouldn't last, but maybe, for today, Thomas didn't have to have a battle of wills. Honestly, it was proving exhausting on some days. It was a good thing he was a patient man.

"How is that shoulder feeling?" he asked softly, pulling the gag from Sam's mouth and dropping it on the table. Snapping on a pair of medical gloves, he leaned over, pealing back the tape holding the bandage in place. The wound glistened slightly in the light, still oozing plasma.

"It hurts," Sam murmured, lying still as Thomas inspected the wound. He pulled the whole bandage off, folding it and putting it to one side. Reaching for a white tube, he squeezed a generous amount of salve onto his fingers.

"This has a numbing agent in it. It should help. I can give you some over the counter tablets if you want them too" Thomas offered as he began to dab the salve onto the brand. Sam winced, hissing through his teeth. Thomas apologised but didn't stop, making sure that the whole wound was covered. "There. I'll redo it again in a few hours," Thomas remarked as he finished applying a new bandage. "Are you hungry?"

"Not really."

"I know this is difficult, but we must stick to routine if we're going to get you back to normal," Thomas insisted, unscrewing a water bottle.

"If this is in my head, it doesn't matter," Sam replied, his voice monotonous, dead. He wasn't trying to start a fight; he was just stating fact. Thomas held the bottle out, helping Sam drink from it, tipping his chin up gently.

"You know better than that, Sam. Your mind believes this to be real and therefore everything in it is. It's about nourishing your subconscious. You can't fight Lucifer if you're weak," Thomas countered. Sam pulled away, swallowing and resting his head back on the pillow. He gazed up at the Englishman, finally feeling the fire in his shoulder begin to subside. Thomas reached for a bowl.

"Wait," Sam blurted out. Thomas paused, looking down at him. Sam locked eyes with him, his gaze defeated and full of strain. "Can you at least let me up? This isn't exactly comfortable. Please."

Satisfaction coursed through Thomas as he saw the pleading in Sam's look. It was genuine and Sam needed him. It was a moment he'd been waiting for.

"Of course, Sam," Thomas smiled down at him. The Man of Letters made short work of untying the Winchester, letting him sit on the bed this time with short chains linking his wrist cuffs to the belt at his waist. "Here" he offered the bowl to Sam, letting him finally have the freedom to feed himself. Sitting back on the wooden chair, he watched Sam, monitoring him closely. The Winchester sat up, his long legs stretched in front of him as he ate the soup silently. His shoulders sagged, his shortened hair still managing to fall forward into his face. He was entirely dejected.

"I want to help you through this, Sam. I know you don't believe it and I'm certain that's all part of Lucifer's plan. But I'm determined to help you see the truth. I'm going to make amends for what has happened to you and, together, we'll stop Lucifer.

"It's not going to be easy; I'm not disillusioned and you're going to get frustrated – even angry – with me. I understand and accept that. You might think I'm feeling the same way with you but I won't be. I need to be firm – as does Anna – and there could be times when you think we're being unfair. But everything we're doing is either to protect you or help you; I need you to remember that. I will do whatever I can to help prove this is all the Devil's doing, Sam. You can trust me."

Thomas voice was soft and persuasive, laced with a concern that wrapped its tendrils around Sam's mind. He used to be so good at reading people, working out who the liars were and what half-truths they were spouting. But that Sam was gone, replaced by one who was riddled with doubt and heartache. He wanted so desperately to be at home, to feel safe again. Confident, like he knew what the hell he was doing. He was so tired of being alone and thinking. Constantly thinking. Hell, what he would give just to have a few hours away from his own thoughts.

Sam broke from his reverie, passing the empty bowl back to Thomas. The Englishman took it wordlessly, gathering up the salve and bandages. A wave of desperation hit Sam so hard it nearly knocked the breath from him. Before he knew what he was doing, he was speaking.

"Please, could you stay? Just for a little while."

Thomas stopped, a wide grin lighting his features. He put the items back down on the table, seating himself back on the wooden chair, clearly delighted.

"Of course I can. Anything you want, Sam."

oOo

So I'm not an expert on the aftercare of branding, but I imagine it's quite similar to tattooing (which tends to ooze plasma for a while) so that's what I'm basing Thomas' care on.

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays from Angst Towers here in the UK!

Please review!