A lot had happened in the 23 years of Sam's life. He'd endured grief, despair, anger, hopelessness, and pain. Nothing, however, could have possibly prepared him for what Jimmy had in store.
The dark-haired man reentered Sam's cell with what resembled a thick briefcase tucked under one arm. "So, thought about my proposal?" the more experienced psychic asked, setting his bag down on the cement floor.
"I'll never join you freaks," Sam hissed fiercely, "no matter what you do to me."
Jimmy smirked, his eyes glinting maliciously in the dim dungeon lighting, "we'll see about that."
He bent down and clicked back on the case's locks, pulling it open. Inside, Sam could see an assortment of knives, a small box of salt, a hammer and nails, a large iron rod, and a thick leather whip. Basically, it was everything John Winchester had started hunting with.
Jimmy rummaged through the equipment, finally pulling out a long, serrated blade and the box of salt. He smiled as he approached the prisoner, turning the knife over slowly in his hands and relishing the calm, understanding fear in his victim's soft green eyes.
"I'll ask you one more time, precog. Will you join us?"
Sam gulped, catching his reflection in the knife's glinting blade. "My brother's gonna come looking for me," he said softly, "and when he finds you, you'll wish you'd never even heard of this demon."
The evil psychic's grin never faltered. "Have it your way." He slashed out with the knife, cutting a thin, shallow line across Sam's left cheek. The hunter bit down on his tongue, refusing his captor the pleasure of his pain-filled scream.
Jimmy dropped the knife, screwing the cap off his box of salt even before the blade had come to a clattering stop. "You will scream for me, Sammy," he hissed, "and you will join us."
He poured a generous amount of salt into his cupped hand and slapped it against Sam's wounded cheek. The compound entered the cut, burning, and stuck to the crimson streaks of blood running down the young man's face. Sam just bit his lip and pushed back his tears, staring at Jimmy through the dense darkness of intense pain.
"No?" Jimmy asked, taking a step back, "well, I have other ways to make you talk, or, yell, or beg for mercy. Really, I'll take anything I can get." He dropped the salt to the floor beside the knife, watching as the white powder cascaded onto the grimy cement. "You know," he muttered, walking back to his 'bag of tricks,' "your brother's never going to find you, so you might as well just give up now."
"You don't know my brother," Sam gasped. His face was on fire, and talking just made the pain spread. He watched his captor, wondering what exactly the psychopath had in store for him.
"You ever see 'Passion of the Christ?'" Jimmy asked, his back to Sam.
"No."
"You should. Great movie. Shame the director's such an ass, but what're you gonna do?"
"Is there a point to this?" Sam inquired, trying to discretely wipe some of the salt off his face and onto his shirt.
"Of course. It was an emotional movie. I cried. I'll admit it. I was fine up until the torture began. Do you know what really started the waterworks for me, Sam?"
"No, but I have a feeling you're going to tell me."
"They whipped Him, Sammy. The screams, the pained expressions, it was too much for me back then. But that was a long time ago, wasn't it? I've changed, found other people like me, come into my powers, and I realized something."
"What's that?"
"Special effects. Make-up. It was a real tear-jerker until the credits came rolling across the screen. Just an actor, just a prop. None of it was real."
Sam sighed, smearing more salt and blood across his sleeve. "Still missing the point."
Jimmy grinned, half-turning to face Sam. "It was just a movie!" he exclaimed, as if that explained everything, "Sammy, I want to see what that kind of torture actually does to a person. Today's my lucky day. Father finally granted me my one wish." He stood and turned, beaming as Sam's eyes widened. "Father said I was to break you by any means necessary. I intend to do just that."
He stepped forward, kicking at the spilled salt and twisting the thick rope over and over in his thin hands. Jimmy whistled, and two hooded figures stepped from the shadows outside of the cell. "I'll need access to his back," he announced as the other cult members slid fluidly into the room.
They took the shackles from Sam's wrists, and, never loosening their grip on him, turning him to face the wall. They clamped the manacles down hard on his wrists, drawing a thin trickle of blood and ensuring that he wouldn't escape.
Jimmy ordered them to remove Sam's shirt to expose his bare, sensitive skin. His clothing was ripped off and thrown unceremoniously to the floor as a cold finger traced its way down his spine.
"Last chance," a feminine voice whispered softly in his ear.
"Bite me," Sam snapped.
The woman chuckled. "Don't tempt me."
Jimmy waved his hand, signaling the hooded figures to leave. They slid back through the open cell door and left the dungeon, whispering in excitement about the advantages of having a true visionary like Sam on their side.
"Brace yourself," jimmy hissed coolly, and Sam heard the soft snap of the whip falling against the cold ground. He clenched his teeth, balling his fists in anticipation until his hands were full of warm blood drawn by his own nails.
The whip sailed through the air, connecting with Sam's back with a sickening crack and pushing the hunter suddenly against the cinderblock wall. Finally, Sammy cried out.
A thin line of fire seemed to burn down his back, the pain spreading slowly out as thick, red blood cut a track from the wound, creating a crimson flower as it hit the waistband of his jeans. Warm tears flowed from his eyes and ran down his cheeks, bitter salt water filling his wound, causing his face to ache.
"This really does hurt me more than it hurts you, Sam," Jimmy cooed, flicking his wrist backwards so that the limp whip slithered back across the floor to rest at his feet.
"You're wasting your time," Sam gasped, the words barely making their way through the pain and out of his mouth.
"You're wasting your energy," Jimmy pointed out as he again lashed out with the whip, cutting a new line across Sammy's bare back. This time, however, the hunter bit his tongue, effectively silencing a scream as the metallic taste of blood filled his mouth.
Sam spit the red liquid onto the cool cement floor as Jimmy drew the whip back again. The sharp leather met Sam's skin, cutting a clean line down his spine, and he began to wonder just how much more he could take. Torture had never been much of an issue before, not with Dean consistently there to save him.
For the first time since waking up in his cell, Sam was starting to doubt the fact that his brother would come at all. Even though Dean had to have figured out he was gone, would he actually be able to find his little brother before torture turned to murder?
The whip sailed through the air again, snapping hard against Sam's back and drawing more blood. The waistband of the hunter's jeans was completely soaked through.
"Come on, man," Sam whispered through the thick blood pooling in his mouth, "time to save the day." He waited for his brother, spitting out another mouthful of blood, but Dean didn't come.
"Please, God," Sammy attempted as the whip snaked back across the floor, "please, just let him come."
Five more lines were drawn across Sam's back before his prayer was answered and the door leading into the dank basement flew open.
"What are you fools doing?" Jimmy demanded, coiling the whip and turning to the sudden flood of light from above. "What the hell?" he muttered as his eyes caught sight of the shadow that fell across the dungeon's floor.
Sam turned as far as the restraints would allow and gasped loudly. Silhouetted in the blinding light that filtered through the open door was a well-built man… with wings.
Perfect, Sammy thought as the winged figure descended the stairs into the basement, I'm dead, and this is my escort into the afterlife. That, or I've gone crazy.
As the angel grew closer, though, the hunter noticed something oddly familiar in its swaggering gait, the way it held itself. Finally, as the creature came fully into view outside his cell door, Sam understood, or, at least, recognized. "Dean?" he whispered.
The angel, who bore a striking resemblance to Dean Winchester indeed, looked through the bars of the cage. "You messed with the wrong psychic," he hissed, grabbing the cell door and pulling it off its hinges. A look of brief surprise crossed his face, but quickly disappeared as he threw the door aside and stalked into the cell, glowering.
"You can't-" Jimmy began, but was quickly shoved aside by the angel, who threw him effortlessly against the cinderblock wall.
The evil psychic hit the wall hard, and slid down into a slumped sitting position, leaving a thin trail of blood behind him.
Sam stared at the injured man as his savior approached, worry written all over the familiar face. "Man, Sammy," the angel hissed, looking him over and assessing the damage, "what'd they do to you?"
"You ever see 'Passion of the Christ?'" Sam asked.
"No," Dean said, taking the chains that bound his brother to the wall and snapping them in his bare hands before assessing the manacles cutting deep lines into the younger man's wrists, "why?"
"No reason," Sam smiled weakly as the angel fiddled with the restraints, finally succeeding in pulling them off, "just a question."
Dean nodded, gently grabbing Sam's wrist and pulling him past Jimmy's limp form and out of the cell. The brothers ran up a flight of stone steps that led into the light of the mansion proper.
"No way," Sam muttered as his eyes adjusted to the light and finally saw the house in which he'd been tortured, "you've gotta be kidding me."
"They may be evil," Dean noted, still pulling Sam through the large entryway and toward a white door with elaborate glass paneling, "but they've got money. Besides, it's the last place anyone would look for a cult."
They burst through the door and into the strong sunlight of Nebraskan spring. The mansion was one of only a few on its street, which housed many well-groomed lawns and a perfectly smooth sidewalk. Directly across from the house was a grassy hill, and beyond that was the rest of the small town the brothers had been privileged enough to call home for the past few days. Dean started up the hill at an awkward run, but Sam dug in his heels and halted any minor progress his brother might have made.
"Wait a minute," Sam urged, pulling his wrist free of his elder sibling's hand.
"What?" Dean asked, turning around and looking past Sam at the mansion, trying to figure out if any kind of alarm had been raised.
"I have to know," Sam began, shaking his head and trying to hide a smile, "who'd you tick off?"
"What?" Dean asked again, finally meeting his brother's eyes.
The younger man sighed. "Come on, Dean, I'm gone for two hours and you sprout wings? You had to have made someone mad!"
"Can we talk about this later?" Dean asked, grabbing Sammy's wrist again and pulling his up the hill, "you know, somewhere far away from the evil psychic cult?" He let go of Sam's hand and bent down, scooping up the jacket he'd left at the top of the hill.
"It's kind of important," Sam pointed out, grinning broadly as he watched his brother struggle into the favored leather jacket.
"Once we get back to the room," Dean sighed, "I promise. Now come on, it's a long walk."
"Where's the car?"
"At the motel."
"Why's the car at the motel?"
"Man, Sammy," Dean groaned, "what is it with you and wanting to play Twenty Questions today?"
"I just want to know how you got here without the car."
Dean turned. "You do know that curiosity killed the cat, right?"
Sam's shoulder's slumped. "I've just been tortured, Dean, now answer the damn questions. How'd you get here? You didn't walk, did you?"
"No."
"Then how… wait, you're not saying that you… can you fly?"
"I was as shocked as you are."
"Well, why are you making me walk? Like I said, I've had a bit of a bad day so far, and-"
"You're not the only one, Sam."
Sammy sighed. "If the walk's as long as you say it is, we might as well get a conversation going. I mean, you're gonna tell me eventually anyway, right? So, what happened, who did it?"
That trademark smirk returned. "Tell me, Sam, have you ever seen 'The Passion of the Christ?'"
The woman's hood flew back as she ran down the stairs, brilliantly red hair flying out behind her. She'd heard him scream, had known that something was wrong. All it had taken was that single, plaintive cry in her head, and she'd gone running back to the mansion.
Finally, the green-eyed beauty found the cell, where other members of her 'family' had gathered, standing over Jimmy's broken body, just waiting for her to arrive.
"What happened?" she demanded, pushing her way through the crowd.
"It was an angel," one of the younger cult members muttered, his voice airy with shock and awe, "and actual angel. We went looking for it after it left, but all we found were these." He held up a trembling hand, revealing three long, white feathers.
"Idiot," the woman hissed, narrowing her eyes, "there's no such thing. And even if angels did exist, they certainly wouldn't go around throwing people into walls. Now, listen to me, all of you. Go up and check the surveillance tapes. Someone go find Claire, tell her we need her."
"What'll you do?" the little boy with the feathers in his hand asked.
"I'm going to stay and look after Jimmy. Now, run along, do your jobs."
The psychics nodded, trudging out of the dungeon as the woman knelt down beside the crumpled form of her fellow cult member. "Don't worry, Jimmy, they'll get Claire, she'll fix you up right."
Jimmy smiled weakly, moving his head slightly to the side so that the large hole that had resulted from his brief meeting with the wall could be clearly seen. "Not gonna happen, Holly. She's not a strong enough healer. She can't resurrect the dead."
"Just hold on, Jim," Holly pleaded.
The dying man closed his eyes. "That man was no angel, Hols, it was the brother. Something happened to him. Wings. He had wings."
"Shh, Jimmy, don't. It was a trick of the light, had to have been."
"Give him hell for me," Jimmy whispered as his head drooped to one side and the shallow movements of his chest ceased.
Standing slowly over Jimmy's body, Holly nodded. Angel or not, Dean Winchester had killed her friend, and she was going to make sure he would burn for it.