Another long one for you!
Enjoy!
oOo
"Can I feel anymore?
Lie to me: I'm fading"
- Need, Hana Pestle
oOo
Twelve miles northwest of Inuvik, Northwest Territories, Canada
The snow deadened all sound across the frozen forest of the north. Below the soft blanket, small rodents scurried back and forth, burrowing through the dense drift to find what little food was available. Above ground, a wolf trotted across the top, her paws leaving huge prints dotting into the snow as she loped along the treeline.
A loud whooshing disturbed the peace, sending the few birds that were up in the treetops flying off in a racket of frantic calls. The wolf stopped in her tracks, nose pointed in the air, ears flattening back as she retreated into the protection of the trees. A ball of light smashed down, ploughing straight into the snow, sending a tidal wave of ice flying up high. Steam rose as heat poured from the mysterious object. Watching, the wolf's ears flickered back and forth, twizzling around constantly as she waited to see what emerged.
Gradually, a strange paw, unlike any she'd seen up close before, appeared at the top of the snow mound. It's long, blunt claws dug into the soft ground and soon a furless head appeared. She tensed, ready to bolt, her nose lifted to the air. It looked like the two-legged creatures that lived beyond her pack's territory but it didn't smell like one. The scent was…comforting. Her hackles dropped and she edged out of the treeline, stepping out cautiously as the creature reared up to its full height and looked around.
"Crap," Castiel grumbled, dusting the snow from his trench coat. All he could see for miles was snow. Pure, white, blinding snow and mountains surrounding him. Inwardly he kicked himself; he should've guessed that there would be some sort of trap. Yet again they'd underestimated Thomas' determination. Huffing, the angel pulled out his phone, annoyed to see that he had no signal at all. It was hardly surprising given his apparent location. Slipping the device back in his pocket, he saw a wolf stood watching him from a few yards away. Her thick coat was dusted with snow, the mottled grey fur along her back concealed beneath it. She eyed him curiously, her head cocked to one side slightly, waiting for him to do something.
"Where is the nearest human settlement?" Cas asked, fixing the animal with a look. The wolf simply stared back. Of course she wasn't going to understand English. Rolling his eyes, he projected an image forwards, into the mind of the canine, of a row of houses and people. He waited. The wolf turned her gaze away, her nose pointed to his left, following the line of trees. Looking back at him once, she turned and trotted off into the trees, leaving the angel in the frozen clearing.
"South it is then," Cas grumbled, trudging across the snow, his feet digging in deep into the thick snow.
It was going to be a long walk.
oOo
Outskirts of Geneva, Kansas
"How the hell are we trapped?" Jody asked, her wide eyes jumping from Dean's outraged expression to Ketch's calm façade. The Englishman walked forward and ran his hand over the invisible wall covering the doorway. It shimmered and distorted minutely beneath his fingers.
"I would imagine Thomas has warded the house. Such sigils are invisible to the human eye – excluding spell casters, of course – so we wouldn't have seen them. That," Ketch pointed to the scorched symbol burned into the porch by the front door, "is used to banish an angel."
"I thought you needed blood to do that?" Dean interrupted as he pulled his phone out, glaring at it.
"Most sigils, yes. It would appear that that one was activated by Castiel's presence alone. I shouldn't bother with your phone; you won't get a signal," Ketch explained, his expression remaining level even when Dean's glare hit him full force. "Unfortunately, we're just going to have to wait for the cavalry and hope that he hasn't been sent somewhere halfway across the globe."
"We can't just sit around and wait for Cas to get back!" Dean growled, his fists clenching.
"What else do you propose we do? We can look around the house, but I can guarantee that, if Thomas has warded this place, he certainly hasn't left us the ingredients or spell book to remove it. Waiting for assistance is the only play we have," Ketch replied, his tone almost exasperated.
"That's it? That's your answer?! Why aren't you pissed!" Dean barked. Ketch, unfazed by his ferocity, simply turned his own icy expression on the hunter.
"What would that achieve, Dean? Logically, we must wait and no amount of 'getting pissed' is going to change that. When faced with a situation such as this, we must use the time to regroup and plan our next move. While we may not know where Thomas has gone, there will be things here that will aid us in our search," Ketch responded, eyeing the room with calculated interest. Dean's fist clenched and, before he did something he knew he'd (probably) regret later, he stalked off.
It was going to be a long few hours stuck in the house with Ketch's smarmy attitude.
oOo
Lakewood Balmoral, Chicago
A warm yellow glow bathed the room softly, taking the edge from the darkness and casting a blanket of calm throughout. It was sparsely furnished with just the essentials: a wardrobe, chest of drawers and a cast iron bed painted white. Heavy navy curtains blocked out the world, letting Sam pretend that he could hide, even if it was just for a little while. He was exhausted: perhaps more so than he could remember feeling in a long time. Even when Toni had deprived him of sleep for days, he wasn't sure he'd been as tired as he was now. Mentally he was drained beyond belief. The rest of the journey had been a waking nightmare. Now, he simply ached. Ached for his past, for a simpler existence and for Dean.
Sam's heart squeezed painfully, reminding him again that he would never get his real brother back. He only had the imitation that Lucifer had concocted to keep him compliant. The thought was sickening; he didn't know what he'd do if he met that…version again now. It would just drive that spear of grief in deeper, keeping the wound open and bleeding.
Yet, ultimately, he wanted Thomas there. He wanted the Englishman's comforting presence and the reassurance that he wasn't angry anymore. Sam knew that it was a bizarrely childish feeling to have, but he no longer cared. Thomas was the one who was helping him and, if he'd pushed the older man away, he might abandon Sam altogether and then that would leave him with nothing.
The thought was unbearable.
Thomas had brought him in to the new house, released his restraints except for a single chain attached to a cuff on his left ankle which threaded under the bed. He'd left Sam alone, walking out with a faint click of the lock. Sam had curled up on top of the crisp white duvet, one arm snaking up under the pillow, and just lay there in the soft yellow light.
Eventually, he must have dozed off; a warm hand shook his shoulder gently, rousing him. Blinking owlishly, he looked up to see Thomas standing over him, a bottle of water in one hand.
"How are you feeling?" Thomas asked, his tone soft, comforting. Running a hand over his face and through his hair, Sam cleared his throat and sat up, propping himself against the headboard.
"Pretty crap," he admitted, taking the bottle that was offered. His mouth felt woolly and dry, his tongue feeling like it was too big.
"You must be exhausted," Thomas commented as he watched Sam take huge gulps of water. He didn't like the unhealthy pallor of Sam's skin; he was much too pale, his hair limb and dull. The dark stubble that lined his jaw further accentuated it. There were dark circles etched beneath his eyes, darker than they'd been before if that was possible. The spark in his eyes was gone, flattened and drained.
"I'm sorry," Sam murmured, raising his eyes to meet Thomas'. "I know you couldn't pull over and I know I put us all in danger, but I couldn't stop." Satisfaction whispered through the Englishman; it was the first time he'd got an unprompted apology. Perhaps Sam hadn't slipped back as much as he'd feared.
"What happened?" Thomas pressed, withholding his forgiveness temporarily. He saw doubt, and what appeared to be fear, flicker across Sam's face when he didn't acknowledge the apology.
"Honestly? I don't know." Long fingers played with the label on the bottle, his eyes downcast. "I was fine and then everything just got…too much. I felt like I was being suffocated, like the car wasn't big enough. I couldn't calm down; I didn't have the control." He was silent for a moment, his teeth worrying his bottom lip before he dragged his gaze up to Thomas. "Do you think it had something to do with Lucifer?"
It was as good a reason as any; Thomas couldn't exactly tell him that it may have been caused by the numerous spells he'd cast on his unsuspecting ward. Gravely, he nodded.
"It's very possible. We knew there were risks moving you, but we had to take them. If anything like it happens again you must tell me immediately. I'm sorry I had to be so severe with you," he apologised, giving Sam a small smile. The corner of Sam's mouth lifted minutely, dropping again almost instantly.
"I don't blame you: you needed to be. I was putting us all in danger and you and Anna don't deserve that after everything you've done for me."
Oh this was marvellous! Thomas' heart swelled. Sam was his: completely, unequivocally his. There was genuine conviction in Sam's response; of that, Thomas had no doubt whatsoever. There was no rebellion left in him; this was the beginning of their future. He reached out a hand and patted Sam's leg gently.
"Tell you what: why don't I run you a bath? You've got your own bathroom through that door and I'm sure you'll feel a lot better afterwards. Then you can rest and get a bit more energy back. How does that sound?"
Sam gave him a soft smile.
"I'd like that. Thank you."
With a final pat on his leg, Thomas stood up and wandered into the bathroom, a new bounce in his step, his earlier fears disbanded completely.
Sam watched Thomas disappear through the door that was set off to his right, the sound of running water echoing out. He had felt ashamed at his admission of weakness, but Thomas had never judged him; he was one of the few individuals Sam could be open with and not have to worry. Taking another sip of water, he pulled a face at the slight chalky taste to it; his sense of taste was definitely off. Replacing the cap, he put it on the bedside table as Thomas came back out, a set of keys in hand. Wordlessly, he bent down and removed the chain from Sam's ankle, motioning for him to follow. Sam did as he was told, his bare feet padding across the soft carpet.
"Towels and clean clothes are there. You'll find an electric razor in the cupboard and everything else is out for you," Thomas explained, pointing to various points. "Pull off your shirt; I need to check your shoulder before you get in."
Sam complied, pulling his shirt off over his head and throwing it into a corner. Thomas' hands were warm as he peeled off the dressing from his shoulder. Glancing backwards, he watched Thomas inspect the wound. "This is looking a lot better. Try not to get it too wet if you can," Thomas instructed, throwing the bandage in the trash. "I'll leave you to it. If you need me, shout – I'll hear you."
"Thank you," Sam nodded as the Englishman left, closing the door quietly behind him. Sam heaved a sigh, his broad shoulders sagging. It had been a while since he'd been in a real bathroom; the last time had been before his reckless escape attempt. Shame panged again. He'd been a fool. He could see it now.
Reaching down, he turned the taps off. As he straightened up, he caught a glimpse of himself in the cabinet mirror. He looked like shit. Peering at his torso, he was shocked to see just how thin he'd become. You need to take better care of yourself, Sammy. Dean's voice rang clear in his mind, sending a needle through his chest, making him tear his gaze away from the mirror. It wasn't like he was starving; he'd just lost definition through weeks of inactivity. It disgusted him; his mind had thought of every minute detail to trick him into thinking it was real. No wonder he hadn't been able to see it for himself.
Stripping off the rest of his clothes, Sam stepped into water, wincing slightly at the heat, but relaxing when his skin absorbed it and adjusted. He slid himself down gently, groaning with relief as the warm water lapped at his worn, aching body. The porcelain surface of the bath was cool against his shoulders and arms as he lay back, closing his eyes, yet again fascinated and dismayed by how easily his mind had replicated the real sensations.
"Please" he whimpered, his fight gone. Toni just smiled and put the soaking cloth back over his face, his ears filling with the sound of his own choking.
His eyes snapped open, staring up at the ceiling. He fought to regulate his fear. She wasn't here; she couldn't hurt him anymore. Sam was almost grateful that Lucifer had left her out of his world. He raised himself up a bit, letting his legs straighten a bit more, keeping his head well clear of the water. It was going to take him a while before he'd even be able to contemplate trying to wash his hair or get his face wet.
The water pressure in the Letters' shower room is marvellous.
Another pang. Why was something so simple dredging up so much? Sam could remember that day as though he was right there. Seeing Dean practically skip into the war room, dressed in nothing but a robe and slippers, his hair fluffy and a broad grin on his face, had been their first real taste of the bunker as home.
He missed it. All of it.
All the times they had done research, played silly games, argued, laughed, talked, fought…all of it had mattered and he would never get any of it back. The tiles on the ceiling blurred together as warmth spread behind his eyes and tears slipped from their corners.
He could do one last good thing: he could expel Lucifer and make sure that he could never use his vessel again. Then, he would join his family.
oOo
Outskirts of Geneva, Kansas
He felt like a ghost, prowling endlessly around the house, unable to leave.
Useless. Incapable.
All the things Dean had taken pride in not being. Now, he was completely defunct. He'd tried everything he could think of to break out. The windows and doors were sealed. Bullets, chairs, tables, obscenities: nothing penetrated the invisible warding holding him hostage. He'd been more than happy to try blowing something up, but, as Jody had pointed out, if he'd have tried – and probably failed in the process – he'd kill them all.
Since then, he'd wandered around, looking at nothing and finding nothing that could help. Jody had gone and taken stock of the kitchen; everything electrical still worked and the water was still on. There was food left as well so, as long as they were careful, they weren't likely to starve. Not that Dean was hungry at all. He'd joined her briefly, ripping the cupboards open looking for anything alcoholic.
The bastards had left none. What kind of psychos didn't keep any booze in the house?
He only had his flask on him and the thought was sickening. He needed a drink – screw that – he needed a lot of drink. It was the only way he'd coped for years – letting the pain out in spurts of violence and alcoholism had pretty much become his motto. Now, the hunter could do neither; he had nothing he could be violent with, at least, not in a way that was going to be able to take the edge off.
It had been six hours and eighteen minutes since they'd got stuck and he'd exhausted his attempts to get them out for the moment. Dean leaned into the wall in the shower, resting his forehead against the gleaming white tiles as the water battered down on his tense back. He'd turned it up high, his skin turning red from the prolonged heat. Watching the water rotate down around the drain, Dean's thoughts locked onto his brother. Had Sam been in here? Had they even let him shower? After seeing that damned cellar, he couldn't imagine they would. They'd torn his clothes from him and kept him chained to a bed like some sort of dog. That didn't exactly scream 'fair treatment' and knowing his brother, Sam would have fought.
Thinking about it, maybe they had tried it; that must have been when Sam escaped. Pride swelled in the older Winchester; his little brother had played them. The thought gave him a fleeting sense of satisfaction that didn't last. Dean didn't want to think about what Thomas would have done to Sam for getting away. And, as much as the hunter knew his brother was a fighter, Sam was not the same kid he'd been even a year ago. Toni had broken him; Thomas was doing it again.
His mind drifted back; an image of his own hands fixing the showers in the bunker coming forwards. Sam had been afraid of the water so he'd changed the showerheads. He didn't like the dark or bright lights; Dean had dimmed everything. He'd slept in the hard chair in Sam's room, wanting to be there when he woke screaming. Everything he could think of to help fix his baby brother had been done and yet it hadn't been enough. How much had Sam needed him in the last month? How many times had Dean failed to be there?
He'd failed again by getting stuck in the house.
Slamming the water off, Dean stepped out of the shower, finding no comfort in the water anymore. He scrubbed roughly at his hair with a towel, hating himself more than he probably ever had before – even more than he had when he was in hell putting souls on the rack for Alastair. He was still causing suffering; by failing to get Sam away from Thomas, he knew he was responsible for everything that happened to his brother.
He didn't know how he was ever going to deal with that.
oOo
Lakewood Balmoral, Chicago
"Is it a good idea to be letting him loose?" Anna asked as she bustled about, hanging Thomas' jackets in his wardrobe. The Englishman sat on the edge of the bed, his computer balanced on his lap.
"Honestly, Anna, you wait until you see him; he was horrified by what had happened in the car. We're not going to have any more problems with him now – I guarantee it. He's exactly how he should be. He'll keep taking the dependency potion for a while but eventually I'll be able to ween him off it," Thomas explained, his eyes trained on his computer screen. Anna clenched her teeth, her lips drawing back in a silent snarl as she arranged his jackets, her back to him.
"What if you're wrong? What if he's playing you?"
"I can tell; Sam has always been an open book for me – something was different tonight. I don't know whether it's the effects of what I've given him or whether what happened in the car really made him stop and think. Either way, he's changed for the better. This is a good thing, Anna – it's exactly what we've been waiting for!" he replied, his voice getting more and more enthusiastic. Anna stilled, her hands wrapped around the shirt she was folding. What happened in the car.
She had done it. If Sam was as compliant as Thomas thought he was, it was all down to her. She had broken him – not Thomas. The thought sent a shiver of delight down her spine. She resumed folding.
"I've got more good news," Thomas insisted, catching her eye.
"Oh?"
"Look." He turned the laptop to face her. Holding the shirt, Anna leant down and peered at the video feedback he was playing.
"Is that…?"
"Dean Winchester in the cellar? Yes." Thomas smiled triumphantly. "We got out just in time – the camera picked this up this afternoon: an hour after we left. If he's in the cellar, they had to have gone to the house as well."
Anna smiled. "So they're stuck."
"Until someone comes and breaks the warding, yes. Hopefully that poxy angel got banished too so that will slow them down further. It gives us plenty of time to get our preparations sorted properly."
"When will you tell Sam?" Anna asked as he turned the laptop back around.
"Soon. I want to give him a bit of time to rest and recover. It's going to come as a shock for him, I know, so I need him to be stable enough to hear it and take it on board."
Anna nodded, putting the last shirt away and closing the wardrobe quietly.
"Soon the Winchester won't be a problem anymore," she commented, her lip curling into a satisfied sneer.
"Absolutely. Then everything will be as it should be."
"Oh, I don't doubt that," Anna replied, still smiling as she left the room.
oOo
Outskirts of Geneva, Kansas
The light outside had died, leaving the farmhouse isolated in a sea of darkness. Nothing was visible from the windows; the air was quiet with the sound of insects clicking and chirping reaching in through the open window. A slight breeze drifted in, ruffling the curtain edges, tormenting the occupants further, reminding them that it could get in but they couldn't leave.
Dean sat alone at a dresser in one of the bedrooms – Thomas' he'd guessed – an array of items laid out carefully in front of him. He'd ransacked the bedrooms after his shower, trying to get inside the head of his rivals.
What he'd found…
He couldn't even begin to fathom the depravity of it. Ketch had been right all along; Thomas was obsessed with Sam. No, that wasn't strong enough to even begin to describe it. The thing was, Dean didn't know how to even begin imagining it. It would seem Thomas had taken a lot of effort to get into his brother's head. His fears from the bunker had been confirmed when he reached Thomas' room.
On the desk before him sat the leaflet for Oak Park Retirement home, the amulet the girls had made for their musical production of Supernatural and a small notebook. He'd found the first two in the trash, the sight sending a flash of anger through him – how dare he throw away Sam's memories! – before a choking sense of despair cloaked him. He'd pulled the two items out, hunting desperately for anything else he recognised; there was nothing. He'd found the notebook in the bedside table but hadn't dared look in it yet.
Dean hadn't even realised Sam had kept the two items. His mind cast itself back, remembering the look Sam had given him when he'd hung the stage prop from the rear-view mirror in the Impala. It was one of their silent moments; the time when they didn't need to say anything to make their feelings known. The admission that he still valued the small object and what it represented had been another stitch in the repair of their relationship. The way Sam's mouth had quirked up into a small, grateful smile had brought Dean a simple sense of peace that nothing else was ever able to give him.
His gaze slipped to the leaflet and his mind's eye travelled forwards, landing in the bunker's kitchen, a cold can in his hand and Sam's face contorted in anguish opposite him.
I should've looked for you. When you were in Purgatory…I should've turned over every stone. But I didn't. I stopped. And I've never forgiven myself.
Well I have.
Would Sam ever be able to forgive him for not getting to him sooner now? Did Sam even still know he was looking? The small voice in his mind shouted at him; of course Sam knew! The certainty that Dean was looking for him was guaranteed.
All that matters now, all that's ever mattered is that we're together.
He'd meant it then and it still stood now – Sam had to know that. London had to have proved it. He'd found his brother halfway around the world. And yet, he'd never be able to prove it until he was with Sam again, stood next to him, knowing he was really there. After this, he was never going to let his little brother out of his sight again.
Finally, taking a deep breath, the hunter picked up the notebook. He knew what it was. He knew it hadn't been left behind by accident. Thomas wanted him to find it. He shouldn't read it; he couldn't stop himself. Opening it, he began to read the careful, neat script, dated nearly four weeks ago – just a few days after Sam had been taken.
Sam is still proving to be difficult. Clearly his time back with that insolent cur has proven to be detrimental to his behaviour. He has forced me to keep him fully restrained in the cellar: a necessity that I was hoping to get past in the first day or so. Despite that, I can't help but admire his strength. I've never known anymore like Sam. He truly is a unique individual. Unfortunately, that's getting in the way of our progress. I've recently finished the sound recordings that I will be using to help reinforce my message – headphones will be sufficient for that and will be accentuated by his sensory deprivation. I intend to keep him gagged and blindfolded unless I'm present, he will eventually associate the positivity of freedom with me. Obviously, he will know that that's exactly what I'm doing (he's far too intelligent to not know), but he won't be able to fight it for long.
Today though, he started trying his old tricks of refusing to eat. He forced me to show him that he doesn't have control of his situation anymore. Fortunately I had a funnel to hand – I had expected this kind of behaviour at some point. It wasn't pleasant for him but it was necessary. I will go down this afternoon with a full kit and talk through the process with him. I would rather not go through with it, but if he'd not going to be sensible, I shan't be given the option…
Dean's lungs burned, bringing him back to the present. He exhaled hard, drawing in another ragged breath, his eyes wide and staring in revulsion at the page. Thomas had force fed his brother? An image of Sam tied to a bed, being told in explicit detail how his captor was going to shove a tube down his throat, forced its way to the front of Dean's mind. It took everything he had to swallow the bile that rose in his throat. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulled out his flask, taking a measured swig of whiskey before he flicked over the page. This one was dated a day later.
I decided this morning that it was time for Anna and Sam to get acquainted. They'd spent next to no time together in England and, if we're going to be a true family, they need to start building that connection. Anna has been gracious enough to begin Sam's education. I couldn't believe the absolute tosh I read in John Winchester's diary; it's nothing but a load of unplanned, thoughtless hunts that had no strategy. I'm surprised the idiot didn't get himself and his boys killed sooner…
Dean's grip tightened.
…Sam has clearly been misled by his inept father and miscreant brother. They know nothing of the history behind the noble profession of the Men of Letters and are no better than the monsters they hunt. Luckily, Sam is different – I knew that from the moment we met all those months ago. He's salvageable and has a thirst for knowledge. Exploring his room at the Men of Letters' bunker was such a treat. To browse his favourite novels, see the things that make him passionate…
I digress.
I asked Anna to go right back to the basics – to James I's Daemonology – which she was more than happy to oblige with. I left them to it (they can't bond properly if I'm hovering and interrupting!). Yet again, Sam pushed the boundaries. I can't blame him at all; it's stressful having to relearn how to behave in a proper, civilised manner after being exposed to someone with absolutely no decorum. Anna is old fashioned; she is much stricter than me as Sam found out to his detriment. It's another lesson learned though and one that I don't think will have to be taught often. Although it didn't help with their bonding as much as I would have liked, it was wonderful to see the look in his eyes when I got back! He wanted me to be there; he needed me. That's such an important shift for him. Of course, I couldn't pander to his requests – I had to side with Anna. I couldn't do her (or him) the disservice of undermining her work, particularly when she's taken the time and effort to help smarten him up. The shagginess in his hair is no more, thankfully. A true Man of Letters (and member of my household) must look the part.
I feel like we're making the first few steps to success!
His family?! Dean ran his palm over his face, forcing himself to put the book down as he closed his eyes against the waves of nausea that flooded through him.
He needed me!
The words echoed in his head; he knew exactly the kind of look Sam would have given. He was all too familiar with it himself and knew what it was like to be needed by his brother. For someone like that bastard to experience it, to have forced Sam into the kind of situation where he needed to use it…
Dean swallowed hard.
It was one thing to see that look when it was a supernatural monster after him, but totally different when he was begging with the same people that were doing it to him. How was Sam supposed to deal with that? That entry had been marked weeks ago…
He flipped forwards a few pages, knowing he would go back and read the others anyway. He needed some confirmation that Sam hadn't given in. That he was still fighting with everything he had. He found the entry dated the day after the tornado. He read the first few words, feeling his heart plummet into his stomach.
We're getting there! I'm so proud of Sam and how far he's come in the last few weeks. There's a real, genuine trust building between us and it's the most wonderful feeling. I know there have been small moments of doubts where I didn't know if I'd be able to break Dean's hold on him, but we're finally there. I've been so worried about him; he has been so melancholic lately but I think we'll soon be over this final hurdle.
Last night, I experienced my first tornado (an occurrence that I do not want a repeat performance of any time soon!). Awful as it was, it meant that Anna and I had to spend the night in the cellar with Sam.
Oh god…the thought of Sammy having both of those psychopaths staying with him through that tornado was more than Dean could bear. It was worse than the nightmares he'd had about it following that night, having now begun to understand what Thomas was really like.
After a few…setbacks and hard truths, Sam has come to realise that I'm everything he needs. We had to have The Conversation, which had the reaction I was expecting. Of course he was distraught; I expected nothing else. But he willingly accepted the comfort I offered him. He's finally ready for my final few steps that are just going to help solidify our connection, removing any and all trace of allegiance to his previous guardians (I shan't call them 'family' – Sam will soon see them for what they really were: foster care at best now that he has me). We're so incredibly close…
"Dean? Are you alright?" Jody's voice pierced through the silence, her hand, warm and comforting, resting on his shoulder. He looked up at her. Her face was blurry and swimming until he blinked, clearing the tears from his vision. "What's wrong?" she asked quietly, cupping his cheek with her palm and wiping a tear away with her thumb. He simply shook his head, unable to speak, his arm slipping around her waist as he buried his face in her shirt and cried.
oOo
Lakewood Balmoral, Chicago
"Good morning, Sam! You're just in time for breakfast," Thomas greeted brightly, waltzing into the room after knocking.
"Morning," Sam greeted, his voice still croaky with sleep. He'd slept like the dead having finally scrubbed the grime from his skin and shaved off the beard that had been prickling at his face. It had made more of a difference than he'd expected: to bathe and change into clean clothes. He was grateful that Thomas had let him after his behaviour in the car. A brief frown marred his forehead when he saw Thomas' hands were empty; he was starving. Thomas walked up to him, kneeling and unlocking the long chain he'd secured the night before.
"I thought it might be nice if you joined Anna and I for breakfast this morning," Thomas stated, giving him a reassuring smile as he straightened up and pocketed his keys.
"Are you sure?" Sam hesitated, clearly taken aback.
"Of course – it's safe. The house is warded," Thomas lied smoothly, pleased by Sam's uncertainty. His expectations from the previous night were cemented absolutely. He couldn't help testing it though. "Unless you can think of a reason why you shouldn't eat with us?"
Sam shook his head and followed when Thomas beckoned him, trailing obediently behind the Englishman. Thomas smiled to himself, thoroughly pleased. Everything was falling neatly into place. In a few days, he would go out and get Sam some proper attire – tailored suits as befitted a proper Man of Letters; he couldn't spend the rest of his stay in white pyjamas. His other plans were probably working out quite nicely by now. The journal he'd started at the beginning of the month held none of his true purpose in it; he'd written in it purely with the intention of having Dean find it at some point. He was glad he'd had that stroke of genius; the thought of Dean's anguish was…delicious. Having taken such special care with writing the details of Sam's rehabilitation and showing just how far they'd come (with a few embellishments, of course), Thomas knew that Dean would see just how dedicated he was. And just how unfit a brother he had been for Sam.
Anna had been dubious about him leaving it, what with Ketch's unexpected appearance, but he had assured her that there were no compromising details that could lead him to them. They were safe.
He led Sam downstairs, through the light and airy hall and into the dining room. A large, oak table dominated the room with enough seating for ten around its edges. The walls were a simple, clean white, a large mirror mounted high on one wall, adding light and the perception of size. Anna was walking in from the kitchen, a teapot and toast rack in her hands.
"Good morning, Samuel," she greeted as she put the items down on the table.
"Morning," Sam repeated, finding the word strange on his tongue. It all felt…odd. Like he was out of place. Maybe he was. Thomas gestured to the seat at his right while he took the head of the table. Sam slid into the highbacked chair, running a hand back through his hair, brushing it out of his eyes. Thomas and Anna sat down as well, setting about dishing out the breakfast items. Sam found himself on edge, homesickness washing through him as he stared down at the table. This wasn't right; he shouldn't be here.
"Tea, Sam?" Thomas asked, Sam's gaze swooping up to meet his. The unease settled instantly and he found himself grounded, a sense of calm breezing through him. He nodded gratefully as Thomas poured his drink. For the first time in a long time, Sam found himself eating civilly at a table, satiating his hunger off his own accord.
Some of the tension began to ebb from his shoulders as he slowly began to eat, listening as Thomas and Anna made idle conversation. It would all be okay; he had faith in Thomas.
oOo
Outskirts of Geneva, Kansas
Dean's back cracked and popped as he straightened up, the scent of strong coffee wafting under his nose. He groaned as he sat up, the rigid armchair having proved uncomfortable to fall asleep in. The hunter hadn't meant to, but with no alcohol to drown his misery in and nothing electronic to research on, he'd fallen asleep by accident for the first time in years.
"Mornin', sunshine," Jody said gently, offering him a mug.
"Thanks," he replied, sitting up properly and taking it, feeling the scalding heat stretch through his fingers. Taking a large gulp, he ignored the burning on his tongue. "Where's Ketch?" The Englishman had disappeared before Dean had come down the previous night which he was almost entirely sure was planned. While he was beginning to trust Ketch, Dean was never going to show him the depth of emotion he'd let loose with Jody the night before. Ketch had graciously ducked out, knowing that Dean wouldn't want to be seen that way. For that, he was grateful.
"In the kitchen; he was up early," Jody replied, taking a seat on the sofa opposite. She curled her feet beneath her and rested her head on one hand. She levelled her gaze on him. "How you doin'?"
Dean shrugged. "I feel like shit. We need to get out; we can't. Just gonna have to wait for Cas – however long that takes. I'd feel a whole lot better if he could call and say where he is and how long he's gonna be. I'm gonna snap that bastard's neck when we find him. He's pissed me off too many times."
Jody's lip quirked humourlessly around her coffee mug as she sipped at the steaming liquid. Her heart had broken seeing one of her boys so vulnerable the night before – she knew how much Dean had been riding on finding Sam at the house – but at least he was still saying 'when' not 'if'. Despite everything that was thrown at him, no matter how many setbacks they faced, he was still pushing forwards. He was never going to give up and that was the Dean she knew and loved. She just hoped that he could hold onto that. They had no clue when Castiel would get back.
For all their sakes, Jody hoped it was soon.
oOo
Lakewood Balmoral, Chicago
A thin sheen of sweat coated his skin, soaking through his shirt and beading down his forehead. His breath came out in huge gasps as he drew in lungful after lungful of air. Pressing a button, Sam slowed the treadmill to a walking pace, his hand grasping his side where a stitch had set in. Looking down at the stats the machine recorded, he was appalled. He was completely out of shape.
It's not like you've had much chance to exercise properly for months.
It was true, but he didn't like making excuses. They didn't help and he was sick of being defenceless. Thomas seemed to have sensed it in him and offered him the use of the small, windowless gym in the basement of the house. It had caught Sam by surprise; he hadn't expected Thomas to trust him as much as he did. Granted, the gym was free of weights – the racks standing empty – and anything else that could be picked up and used offensively and the door was locked, but it was more than Sam had anticipated. The Englishman had been full of surprises; Sam wasn't even sure he deserved them, but he was grateful nonetheless. Taking a long drink from the water bottle Thomas had given him earlier, he wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his other hand.
Short though his run had been, it had finally given him an outlet for his fear, frustration and his grief. It cleared his mind, helping him to begin thinking logically for the first time in what felt like months. The one thought that kept popping back to the forefront of his mind was escaping. Not Thomas: his mind. He needed to get out, needed to get back to reality but he had no idea how. Thomas had been working on it that much Sam knew.
The door lock clicked and he turned, stopping the machine completely as Thomas entered the room, his shoulders lined with tension, an unusual downward curve to his mouth. The look instantly rippled through Sam's nerves, unease spreading instantaneously.
"Everything okay?" he asked, almost hesitantly as he stepped off the treadmill. Thomas looked him in the eye, handing him a towel, but his expression stayed the same.
"We need to talk, but it can wait until after you've showered," Thomas replied, holding the door open. Sam stepped past him, wiping the sweat from his face with the towel. He knew better than to press the Englishman so they walked upstairs in a tense silence, Thomas trailing behind him. "I'll leave you to it – I'll be back in ten minutes," Thomas explained, shutting the door behind his ward.
The Englishman turned away, relaxing as he walked back downstairs again. His little performance was yet other test – he was thoroughly enjoying the results he was getting – one of many he'd performed throughout the day. Sam had passed every single one unwittingly, firmly cementing Thomas' faith in their bond. Of course, the spell helped – that's what it was designed to do – but it was deeper than that; they had a true connection; he was certain of it. The feeling…it was everything he wanted.
And it meant Sam was finally ready.
"Have you told him yet?" Anna asked, looking up from her novel. She was sat in the living room, her feet planted primly on the floor, the hardback balanced lightly in her lap. Her eyes followed him as he sat down on the cream sofa opposite her. He leaned forwards, elbows on his knees, his hands clasped together.
"Not yet – I've told him to shower first. I can imagine that the news is going to hit him hard."
"Are you expecting trouble?"
"No," he shook his head, "he's been excellent today – you've seen it yourself. I will obviously be cautious, but I think, once he's got used to the idea, he'll be fine."
"I just hope he lives up to your expectations. It would be a shame for us to have come this far and lose it all," Anna commented, her fingers idly playing with the pages of her novel.
"We won't – he will. I have every faith. I'll just need to guide him through it properly and make sure he had time to adjust and train," he reassured her. She gave him a reassuring smile and turned back to her book.
oOo
Sam showered quickly, trying to squash his rising panic over Thomas' demeanour and his fear of the water. Whenever the water splashed his face, he flinched hard until he couldn't bear it anymore and got out, slamming the water off and climbing out. Drying himself, he yanked on a fresh set of clothes, all the while trying to halt the storm inside his head. He didn't want to admit how Thomas' body language put him on edge, how his tone of voice had sparked fear down his spine. A tiny, quiet corner of his mind shouted that it wasn't right, that it wasn't okay, but it was lost beneath the avalanche of thoughts and speculations.
Emerging from the bathroom, he paced the bedroom, unable to sit, but knowing he should wait rather than venture out. Again, the voice screamed at him, but, again, it was drowned out by the roar of his anxieties.
"It's open!" he called when a soft knock sounded at the door. Thomas stepped in, his expression still grave. Sam's stomach dropped and his heart picked up. The Englishman motioned to the bed with one hand as he closed the door quietly.
"Sit down, Sam," Thomas instructed softly. He felt his body doing as he was told; his mind almost disconnecting as though he was watching from above. Thomas sat beside him, the bed depressing down under his weight. He turned towards Sam, his hands clasped on his thigh, his knee touching Sam's leg. "I've got news for you. As you know, Anna and I, along with the rest of the British Men of Letters, have been working, trying to find out how to get you out of here. It has been an…arduous task. Lucifer has covered his tracks well and a lot of the lore we've been referencing contains too much hearsay so we've had to cross-reference everything which, of course, takes time so I apologise for not telling you sooner."
"Why do I feel like you're about to tell me there's no way out?" Sam murmured, his mouth dry. Thomas' eyes widened and he reached out a hand, placing it on Sam's arm, giving it a squeeze.
"Not at all, Sam! On the contrary: we found the way out!" he reassured, his voice rising. The panic in Sam rescinded minutely. He frowned in confusion.
"I don't understand…"
"I need you to keep an open mind with this, Sam," Thomas interrupted. Sam nodded slowly, keeping eyes fixed on Thomas. "Lucifer's hold on you is strong – stronger than any other form of possession, but that we already knew. It means that expelling him cannot follow ordinary conventions. We've concluded that Lucifer – at least a part of him – is constantly present here, with you, watching."
"It's the kind of thing he'd get off on," Sam muttered, disgusted.
"Exactly," Thomas nodded, keeping his hand on Sam's arm. "Now's the…tricky part. To get you out, we need to kill Lucifer using a particular spell we've uncovered. It will expel him from you completely, but I can't do it – only you can."
Sam swallowed, his fear and hatred of the Devil warring inside him. "I can do it. That's not gonna be a problem; point me in the right direction and I'll do it," he growled softly, his teeth clenching. Thomas' look turned pitying. Sam's frown returned and his confidence faded. "What aren't you telling me?"
Thomas was silent for a few moments.
"Open mind, Sam," he repeated and Sam nodded, feeling the warmth spread beneath Thomas' fingertips. "As you said, watching would be the kind of thing he 'gets off on'. It would seem that that wasn't enough for him; he needed to play a part, be a role. Influence you."
Dread spread through Sam and he moved backwards, knowing where Thomas was going with this but not wanting to. He could feel his head beginning to shake from side to side.
"He knows that if you found him – the real him – you'd know something was wrong; he was meant to be gone from your life. He needed a disguise: to be hidden in plain sight but someone who you'd never suspect. Someone you'd always trust. Someone you'd never hurt."
Sam stood up, backing away slowly, still shaking his head.
"No."
"I'm sorry, Sam."
"Your information's wrong. Has to be," Sam choked out, eyes wide. Thomas shook his head.
"It's not, Sam. We've checked over and over. You knew something was wrong: you knew."
"I can't–I won't–he's my–"
"No, Sam, he's not," Thomas murmured, eyes fixed on Sam. "He's not your brother, not Dean. He's Lucifer. And he has to die for you to be free."
Sam turned and ran into the bathroom, the sound of retching coming instantly as a small smile played on Thomas' lips.
oOo
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