Sorry it's taken so long – January is a bitch of a month! I hope this makes up for it!

oOo

"Tonight I start the fire,

Tonight, I break away."

- Break, Three Days Grace

oOo

The cellar was quiet again and, for the first time in a while, Sam was truly thankful for the peace. He'd endured Anna's company with as much grace as he could muster, barely containing his frustration throughout most of it. It was only Anna's sly glances towards the shelf that made him bite his tongue, almost literally, at several points. Her warning was clear: be nice or suffer for it. He didn't plan on giving her more ammunition. The sight of Thomas' sickening enthusiasm and his gushing praise when he came back down was enough to make Sam's stomach turn. He wasn't even sure anymore if the Englishman was intentionally trying to be patronising or if it was just a normal state of being for him.

After changing the bandage on his shoulder and removing the handcuffs, the pair had left him alone with his food and his thoughts. The dull throb of his injured shoulder served as a constant reminder that something deeper was wrong. He didn't want to believe Thomas, couldn't fathom how he'd supposedly done it to himself, but, try as he might to recall it, the memory of that night remained patchy and elusive. He remembered Thomas and Anna, a few snippets of what was said, but none of it was threatening. It was all Thomas' brand of 'comfort'. He'd been on a hard surface – it could've been the bed – and he'd been held down. That wasn't unusual. As much as he wanted to, Sam couldn't link the branding to Thomas through his memory and that was concerning.

The idea of having done it himself wasn't as farfetched as he wanted to believe either. It was certainly something he would have been able to do back when his psychic abilities were active. Yet, they'd been dormant for years and there was no reason for them to have flared up again.

There had to be another reason; Thomas had to have done something. Sam just couldn't figure out what.

The small glimpse he'd got of the injury hadn't revealed much of anything; it was a strange symbol – probably Enochian – and resembled the weird necklace which had since disappeared. Sam hadn't seen the symbol before, but he'd guessed it's use: blocking angels. He'd prayed to Cas almost routinely since being in the cellar and he'd expected the angel to appear in his dreams to at least let him know what the hell was happening. Yet his mind had been quiet. The only thing that had changed was that mark's appearance.

His heart thumped when the door opened again. Thomas' heavy footfalls announced his arrival. The Englishman smiled genially at the hunter who backed up, easing himself down onto the edge of the bed. Thomas' eyes skimmed over the empty plate, satisfaction flashing across his face as he sat in the wooden chair.

"Anna said you made good progress this morning," he remarked, meeting Sam's drawn gaze.

"What is that mark?" Sam asked, ignoring Thomas' comment. He watched a glimmer of annoyance shadow through Thomas' eyes but it was gone in an instant.

"I think you've already guessed its Enochian. It's designed to block angels," Thomas replied, his tone level. Sam blinked, surprised; he didn't expect Thomas to admit that. "Do you know why I gave it to you on a necklace?"

"No." Of course he did; Thomas didn't want him contacting Castiel. That was the only reason he forced the necklace on him.

"To protect you, Sam." Thomas insisted. The hunter fought the urge to laugh. He was so sick of hearing that. "It blocks Lucifer – he is still an angel, after all. He cannot directly influence you if you're wearing it. That's why I gave it to you. Did you know its use before? Had you seen the symbol in the bunker?"

He'd done so much research over the years in the bunker, seen hundreds of sigils. There was no way he could remember seeing it or not.

"I don't know," Sam murmured uneasily.

"I think that mark is the first step in your…awakening, Sam. I think it's your subconscious trying to block Lucifer. You knew, deep down, what the necklace did and this is your mind trying to protect itself from him," Thomas explained, his look earnest, open.

"If that was the case, the necklace would've been enough," Sam countered.

"Necklaces can be lost. Removed." Thomas retorted softly. Logically. Doubt gnawed at Sam's gut and he had to work to push it down. He couldn't believe it. He wouldn't. But Thomas needed to believe he might.

Sam swallowed.

"Are you sure?" he asked. Thomas frowned, confused. "That it blocks Lucifer? A lot of things that work for 'regular' angels don't for him."

He was questioning; that was good. It meant that doubt had been planted. That's all he needed right now; outright compliance would come later. Thomas kept his expression carefully concerned, keeping his pleasure carefully hidden.

"I did a lot of research into Lucifer – even before your time with me in London. We needed something that could keep you safe in case things took a turn for the worse. I'm almost completely positive that it will, but, as with all things, there is never a 100% certainty. I won't lie to you and say there is."

If only Sam truly understood how much he actually did care. Eventually he would, but, even now, Thomas could see the reluctance in Sam's mannerisms that spoke mistrust in volumes. It would be fine. They would get past this stage – it was only a short amount of time in the grand scheme of things – and then they would have everything they wanted for the rest of their lives.

If only they could get there quicker.

Sam watched Thomas carefully, observing the gleam in his eye, the twitch in his cheek where a smile threatened but was squashed down. He was enjoying this. Playing the saviour, being the hero. It didn't seem to matter to him that his view of both of those things was entirely warped, deluded. The hunter willed himself not to clench his fists. Play along, get his trust.

"Anna knew things. About me," he said softly, lowering his eyes. The feeling of…violation still burned in his chest. He almost wished that Thomas was the one who was supposedly psychic. Better him than her at any rate. Thomas smiled briefly.

"I know, Sam."

"Do you?"

"I know the things she tells me. If we think it will help you, she reveals it. I know this is difficult and you feel like we're invading your privacy, but how else are we going to help you realise what's truly going on? We can't send you out, get you to try and confront Lucifer. He won't fall for that – you're supposed to think he's gone. I'm sure he's somewhere in this fabrication, watching you. I just haven't found out who he is yet. I'm working on it though," Thomas explained. Sam said nothing, instead staring down at his hands, running his thumbs over the callouses on his palms. Thomas sighed and rose. "Do you need anything?"

"No."

Thomas nodded and left, grinning as he went.

Sam heard the door close, but relief didn't come with Thomas' absence. He'd confirmed Sam's fears and tension thrummed through him, snapping up and down his spine relentlessly. Contacting Castiel had been his only hope of getting through the Dean without using traditional methods. There was no way he was going to get hold of a phone. His heart pounded; he needed to burn off the tension – he couldn't think straight.

Pulling off his shirt, he put it beside him before sliding off the bed and onto the floor where he lay flat against the cold concrete surface. Curling his toes under him, he placed his hands just past the width of his shoulders, fingers pointed forwards. Even before he lifted up, he knew it was going to be murder on his shoulder, yet he welcomed the first ripple of pain that coursed through the brand as he pushed up. He grimaced as his muscles contracted beneath it, moving the healing skin. Adjusting his position slightly, the hunter started a series of repetitions, taking care to not overstress the brand. While the pain would eventually dull and he could learn to ignore it, he didn't want to aggravate Thomas; the last thing he needed was to be secured to the damned bed again.

Settling into a rhythm, Sam concentrated on his movements, letting everything else slip away.

oOo

"Oh, for goodness' sake," Thomas grumbled, his tone exasperated. Anna peered around the kitchen door at him, a wooden ladle in one hand.

"What's the matter?"

Thomas gestured to the computer monitor with one hand. "He's doing push ups. That's going to upset his shoulder. I can't have that." He made to rise as Anna came over peering at the image.

"Wait, Thomas," she replied, resting a hand on his shoulder. The Englishman looked up at her. "Let him be. He is a physical person; I imagine he's finding his residence in the cellar difficult because of that very fact. I'm sure his shoulder does hurt, but he's also probably used to high levels of pain and looking after a variety of ailments. If Sam feels he can do this, let him. Apart from anything, I think this gives you a perfect opportunity to break him."

"How so?" Thomas asked, noting her malicious smile.

"Sam needs to know that he's here to stay, despite anything he tries. That exercise is adding to the fact that he needs a shower; he hasn't had a proper one since he's been here. Bring him up to the house, let him clean up, feel like we're giving him more freedom and then we can see just what he'll do. It'll go one of two ways: he'll cooperate and do as he's told or he'll try to escape. We can be prepared for either eventuality."

"Anna that's a splendid idea!" Thomas grinned up at her, placing his hand over hers where it still rested on his shoulder. He gave it an affectionate squeeze. "I'll make the necessary preparations."

oOo

The hunter was sprawled on his stomach across the bed, his face half-buried in his pillow, one arm tucked underneath it. His breathing was even and gentle, the rise and fall of his shoulders rhythmic and calm. After not exercising for days, his bout of push ups had left him spent. Poor lad. He'd done well over a hundred, more than Thomas thought he would be able to given his condition. And yet, Sam was a stubborn one; he would do what he wanted to do regardless of whether his body was feeling up to it. He was so exhausted that he hadn't even heard Thomas come down. It was almost a shame to wake him, given how peaceful he looked.

"Sam?" Thomas called, reaching out and brushing the loose locks of hair and tucking them behind Sam's ear. The hunter stirred groggily as his hand moved down, giving Sam's uninjured shoulder a small shake.

"Dean?" he mumbled, ire darting through Thomas. He bit back the hiss of annoyance that flashed through him. Sam's bleary eyes eased open groggily, blinking. Recognition, along with disgust, flicked through his gaze before he could mask it. It was fine – soon that look would be squashed, gone for good.

"You're sleeping the day away," Thomas chided softly as Sam moved away from his touch and hauled himself up. Not like there's anything else to do, Sam thought bitterly. His body ached already and it had only been a few hours since he'd pushed himself. Swinging his body around, he planted his feet on the floor, running a hand back through his hair. "Lift up your shirt," Thomas instructed, moving around so that he was on Sam's injured side. The hunter complied, pulling one arm out of his shirt so that Thomas could reach the bandage. He felt the adhesive tug at his skin. The Englishman clucked his tongue behind him, flaring up his annoyance once again. "You need to be careful, Sam. Those push ups have cracked the scabs. Reopening the wounds will take it longer to heal and we can't have that."

"It feels fine," Sam replied through clenched teeth. He felt Thomas press the tape back down again.

"That it may, but that doesn't mean it's good for you," Thomas remarked, tugging Sam's shirt back down. "Now, I will redress that but in a little while. I thought you might appreciate a shower."

Sam looked at him, stunned. Thomas smiled at him.

"Well unless you've remodelled down here while I was asleep…"

"You need to go to the house," Thomas confirmed. Sam's look turned suspicious. "Obviously, there are rules. What I'm suggesting is dangerous – for you and me – but I'm prepared to take that risk if you are."

The urge to roll his eyes was almost overwhelming, but Sam took a breath and asked the question, even though he already knew the answer.

"What rules?"

"You're still a flight-risk, Sam, no matter how much I want to trust you to do the right thing. Therefore you will need to be restrained at least from here to the house. That's completely non-negotiable," Thomas answered, his tone firm and unwavering. "We will go directly there and back again with no fuss. You'll have a limited time in the bathroom and then we'll come straight back down here. Am I clear?"

"Crystal," Sam murmured, keeping his demeanour subservient, calm. Thomas smiled and nodded.

"Good. Let's get ready then; put your shoes on."

The Englishman moved over to the shelf, picking up a mess of silver links. He advanced on Sam who stood up obediently, turning his back on Thomas and presenting his wrists. The links clinked and rattled as Thomas unravelled them. Cold metal caught each of his wrists, holding them securely against the small of his back. He felt something tug on his wrists as a long loose chain swung down against his legs. The long chain was attached to cuffs which circled around his ankles, one above the shackle that already held his left leg, leaving enough slack for him to walk. Thomas walked around him, threading a separate chain around his waist, securing his wrists to his torso and padlocking it at the front. The older man reached into his pocket.

"Open up," he instructed, holding the knotted cloth. Sam jerked back, glaring.

"Really?" he asked incredulously. Thomas frowned.

"You agreed to the rules, Sam and this is part of the description. Your choice," Thomas challenged, fixing Sam with his no-nonsense look. He hated this. Hated it beyond measure as Thomas moved around him and he complied, grunting when the knot slid between his teeth and was tied securely at the back of his neck. "Good," Thomas praised quietly as he stooped and undid the shackle that was attached to the wall. "Let's go."

Thomas grasped the chain around Sam's torso, giving him a gentle tug. Sam moved forwards, taking short steps, nearly half his usual stride. His heart began to thump, anticipation spreading through him. They advanced to the steps where Thomas stopped him again, pulling out the blindfold once more. Sam eyed him furiously, for once almost glad he couldn't speak; it stopped him saying something that would've jeopardised the whole exercise.

"Just another precaution; you don't need to know where we are. I'll take it off when we're in the house. I'll keep you safe on the way, Sam," Thomas soothed as he shielded Sam's eyes. Sam huffed, flinching when Thomas tugged again, telling him when to step, guiding him up.

A warm breeze, that was starting to edge towards cool, ruffled his hair and slid across his bare arms, wrapping around him, calming him. Judging by the way it was warm not hot, he pegged it as early evening, the sun already starting to set. The ground was compacted and uneven beneath his feet: a lawn. Even though he couldn't see, the feeling of being outside again after being contained in the stifling cellar for so many days was overwhelming. The hunter stopped momentarily, just wanting to enjoy the feel of everything. Thomas' hand tugged on his chain.

How could this not be real? How could it be in his head?

Your mind can take you wherever you want to go, Sam. Don't lose that gift. Mr Wyatt's words echoed in his mind. The English teacher had loved what he'd seen as Sam's 'fiction', praising his ability to create such vivid description. Maybe it was possible.

That wasn't a comforting thought.

"Sam." Thomas' voice was coloured with warning, but, since he had no way to communicate the fact that he just wanted to enjoy being outside, Sam forced his feet forward. The Englishman guided him carefully while Sam counted his steps, all the while straining his ears to glean any information he could.

To his left, he caught the whisperings of the breeze gliding through trees; it wasn't close but there was definitely a wooded area nearby. There was a single bird singing brightly, it's chirps shrill but colourful. Sam frowned, trying to place the species. It sounded a lot like a western meadowlark. If that was the case, he was most likely near farmland; the lack of vehicular noise also confirmed it. It wasn't summer anymore – the meadowlark tended to head to the northern states to breed – so it was again likely that they were somewhere in the mid-states. Which were the biggest farming states? Based on the drive from Mason City, which had taken over six hours, they had to have gone west if he was hearing that bird; the closest states that farmed being Nebraska or Kansas. You're like a walking encyclopaedia of weirdness. The memory brought a degree of warmth with its resurfacing. While it was true, it wasn't enough to help him yet, but the fact that he could calculate even a rough position put a small part of the Winchester at ease.

He wasn't useless; he could get out of this.

"Three steps," Thomas stated. Sam made it up without issue, hearing the way the sound of his footfalls changed. His boots clumped against wood which groaned under his weight; the veranda was old. Another four short steps and he heard a door open. The breeze died as he crossed the threshold into the house, the door closing with a soft click followed by the clunk of the lock behind him. It had been about fifty steps, probably about twenty-five if he'd been able to walk with his normal stride. They had walked in near enough a straight line, pegging the cellar at about sixty feet from the house.

The blindfold was loosened and removed, Sam blinking as the artificial lights hit his pupils. He looked around, noting that they were stood in an open hall, stairs in front of him and large open doorways on either side. It was clearly the entrance to the house; the cellar had to be based in the front garden. All the windows were obscured by curtains even though it couldn't have been fully dark yet.

"Come on then," Thomas chided, giving the chain another tug.

"Mmph!" Sam groaned, looking down at Thomas expectantly.

"Oh, sorry," Thomas said, reaching up to tug the gag from his mouth. It fell around Sam's neck, the Englishman not bothering to undo it yet. The hunter followed Thomas up the stairs, looking around as they went. It had a real farmhouse feel to it – wooden cladding and beams splitting up the otherwise whitewashed walls and ceiling, the furniture old-fashioned and rustic. The room to the left of the front door had been the living room, another doorway leading out on the other side – probably to the kitchen. The room to the right had looked like a dining room, also with another doorway leading out the back. Farmhouses typically had huge kitchens; this one most likely took up the whole of the back of the ground floor. There would undoubtedly be a back door from there.

The stairs creaked and whined as they ascended and turned right on the landing. A quick glance to the left revealed two doors: potentially bedrooms. The door in front of the stairs was most likely a cupboard. Sam absorbed all of it, storing the information; he needed a clear idea of the layout.

Thomas pushed open a door on the left, flicking the light on and leading Sam into a spacious, and surprisingly modern, bathroom. Everything was a bright white, from the walls to the floor and the bath. An impressive mahogany counter top lined one wall, two sinks integrated into its surface with cupboard space lining the whole thing. A shower cubicle was set into the corner beside the window which looked like it was boarded up. Shuttered – from the outside, Sam realised.

"As you can see," Thomas began, finally letting go of Sam, before walking across to the window. He opened it and rattled the shutter. It didn't budge. "It's padlocked from the outside. The cupboards have had everything sharp, pointed or heavy removed." He moved across the room, demonstrating as he talked before pointing at a small collection of bottles. "The essentials you need are on the side there. Your clothes are in the end cupboard. Now, I'm going to remove your wrist restraints so that you can shower, but, once you've removed your trousers, the ankle cuffs will go back on. You may cover yourself with a towel. We'll repeat the procedure when you need to dress again. The door will be locked from the outside and I will be waiting on the other side. You have twenty minutes before I will come back in. Is that clear?"

"Yeah," Sam replied. He'd expected nothing else, although the ankle cuffs staying on was a frustrating turn. Thomas set to work undoing the locks, the chains falling away from Sam's torso and wrists. He pulled his shirt off, wincing slightly as it jostled his shoulder. He yanked the cloth from around his neck while the cuff was removed from his left leg. Grabbing a towel, Sam wrapped it around his waist before pulling off the pyjama pants and his boxers. The cuff was reapplied but removed from the chain attaching it to the wrist cuffs before Thomas removed the bandage from his shoulder.

"Don't put your shirt back on until I come back in – I want to redress that first," Thomas instructed, placing it in the bin. "Right, you've got twenty minutes. Knock if you finish earlier."

With that, the Englishman left, closing the door behind him. The lock clunked and Sam was finally alone. The hunter breathed a sigh of relief. Shuffling over to the shower, he turned it on. He might as well use the opportunity while it was presented to him; Thomas would be suspicious if he didn't hear the water. Letting it heat up, he relieved himself before moving over to the sideboard, pulling open the cupboards, checking them again. Of course, the things he could've really used – razor blades, tweezers, bleach – were missing. He could always squirt shampoo in Thomas' eye. He snorted at the thought. Spying a small tub of cotton swabs, he smiled slyly and grabbed one, placing it on the countertop. Steam was beginning to roll out of the shower cubicle, filling the room. Removing the towel, he draped it on the rail next to the shower and climbed in under the water.

And moaned with relief.

The water was hot and powerful, drenching him completely, battering against the tense muscles in his back. He kept his face out of the stream – he still couldn't face plunging his head underwater thanks to Toni – but slicked his hair back with his hands. Grabbing the shampoo, he lathered it in vigorously, glad to finally start feeling clean. The white suds slid down over his toned chest, running in rivulets towards the floor. His shoulder stung but it wasn't unbearable. He used the shower gel generously, scrubbing at his skin, wishing that he was scrubbing Thomas out of his head.

oOo

Thomas sat on a stool outside of the bathroom, his back against the wall. He listened to the sound of the water running, a small smile on his face.

"Anything yet, Thomas?" Anna asked, appearing from one of the bedrooms, closing the door quietly behind her.

"No, not yet," Thomas replied. "I left the ankle cuffs on him so I'm not expecting him to try anything until we're on our way back to the cellar. I'll deliberately leave the door unlocked then and see what he does."

"Do be careful," Anna remarked, her stern brows knitting in concern. "I know you want to trust him, but I don't, Thomas. Remember the gun is near the front door if you need it."

"It will all be fine, Anna; don't you worry."

oOo

It was over too quickly, but Sam didn't have time to waste. He'd climbed out of the shower, leaving it running before drying himself off, listening to the muffled exchange through the door. So Thomas did expect him to try something – just not yet. Good. He could catch the Man of Letters off-guard. He'd known the offer of the shower had seemed a bit too convenient. Yet he wasn't sure why Thomas was taking the risk. It didn't really matter – what did was that Thomas had wholly underestimated him.

That was all Sam needed.

Picking up the cotton swab, he pulled the fluff from the end, exposing the sharp plastic underneath. Perfect. Sitting down on the toilet lid, he bent forward, sticking the plastic into the lock on his ankle cuffs. His expert fingers wriggled it around, making short work of picking the locks on both cuffs. He left the chain pooled on the floor, his feet padding silently across the tiles as he turned the shower off and pulled the clean clothes from inside the cupboard. He wanted jeans and something warm, but had no such luck: more white pyjama pants, socks and a matching t-shirt. Sam dressed quickly, pulling his boots on.

He bent down and grabbed the chain, grasping it between both hands. The hunter stood still, visualising what he'd seen of the house. The bathroom door opened inwards: he needed to allow for that. Once he'd incapacitated Thomas, he'd have to get down the stairs – theoretically he should go out the front door, but it was locked. Thomas probably had the keys on him, so checking his pockets was a must. Anna was somewhere, but she wasn't a problem: she wasn't a fighter and weighed probably a hundred pounds soaking wet. If she was armed…well, Sam had no issue disarming her. She deserved it.

Plan B?

If he couldn't get the keys, he'd head through the dining room to the kitchen – less obstacles than the living room. He'd grab the gun Anna mentioned on the way. What about outside? If he was right and it was a farm, the likelihood was that the car was parked around the front. Again, if Thomas had the keys, he'd grab them. If he didn't, he'd leave the car – it was brand new, most likely fitted with immobilisers and a keyless system; he wouldn't have time to waste trying to get the thing started. Running would be his best option. He'd head towards the trees he'd heard earlier, find cover before planning his next move.

Wrapping the chain around his right knuckle, Sam breathed deeply, exhaling slowly. He was ready. Standing in the centre of the room, he waited. Listening.

"Sam? Time's up. I'm coming in," Thomas called through the door.

"Okay," Sam replied, aware that his voice sounded far enough away from the door to not raise suspicion. He ran silently to the door, gripping the handle with his left hand, raising his balled right fist.

The lock clicked.

The door handle depressed under his loose grip and the door edged open. Sam yanked, hard. Thomas stumbled in, his eyes widening in surprise before Sam's fist connected with his nose, the chain making a sickening crunching sound. The Englishman fell back, hands flying to his face as Sam shot forwards, unlooping the chain from his knuckles and stretching it between his hands. Surging forwards, he caught the chain around the back of Thomas' neck, kneeing him in the groin, forcing him to drop his hands unconsciously. Sam crossed the chain over in front of him, tightening it around Thomas' neck. The older man's eyes bulged, his mouth gaping as he tried to draw in a breath, the blood from his nose running into his mouth. His hands beat at Sam's arms, trying desperately to get him to loosen his grip.

Sam tightened it.

Slowly, Thomas' struggles weakened as he fell to his knees before Sam, his arms dropping to his sides, eyes rolling into the back of his head. Sam let go, keeping a firm hold of the chain but removing it from Thomas' neck. The Englishman slumped onto his side, unresponsive. Sam reached into his jacket pockets, searching for his keys and his phone. Neither was there.

Cursing, Sam stood up and raced down the hall, heading for the stairs. He bounded down them two at a time, skidding to a stop at the bottom. He listened and heard nothing. Where was Anna? It didn't matter. He grabbed the front door handle and yanked. Locked. The key wasn't there. Looking around wildly, the hunter searched for the gun Anna had mentioned. It wasn't there either. Alarm bells rang in his head, but he ignored them. Turning, he sprinted through the dining room, barrelling into the empty kitchen. The back door was on the opposite wall as he expected. He started towards the kitchen drawers, hissing in annoyance when he saw padlocks on all of them. He wasn't getting a weapon from them. It was fine – he still had the chain. Backpedalling, he got to the back door, yanking on it but it didn't budge. He swore again, swinging back around towards the other room. Running through, he yanked open the heavy curtains that concealed the window. Outside, the world was beginning to blacken as night set in. Backing up, Sam grabbed one of the high-backed dining chairs, lifting it and hurling it at the window. The glass exploded, shattered pieces flying out into the darkness. Sam climbed up and out, landing with a thump on the veranda.

Running around to the front of the house, his feet slammed against the wooden boards. Before him, the front lawn stretched out, surrounded by a makeshift wooden fence, a dirt drive placed to the left. The BMW sat facing away from the house. He left it – he didn't have the keys.

Taking in his surroundings, he saw the dark outline of trees off to the right. Clearing the three steps down to the ground, Sam raced forwards, vaulting over the small garden fence. Legs thumping, heart pounding, the Winchester ran fast, putting as much distance between himself and the house as he could.

His freedom was so close.

oOo

So, do we think Sammy is out of the woods yet? ;)