Stubborn Survival: Gleason's Revenge

By: Coffeemaniac

Set between 2006-2007. John Winchester has been dead a few months. It's been eight weeks since Sam was kidnapped by Mark Foster and Richard Gleason

Rated M for violence, torture, mentions of child abuse, and mentions of child sexual abuse. The violence and torture are fairly graphic, the other things are not.

Reviews are welcome and encouraged. Looking forward to hearing what you think.

This is another longer chapter. I am posting about twelve hours early because the weekend is going to be busy.

Part 9

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Saturday-Day Five

When Sam woke again he gasped out a curse. Every part of him hurt. Every part of him pulsed with fear. He couldn't think straight. He couldn't get past the terror.

He berated himself.

"Man up," Dean's voice berated him too.

Sam felt wild with panic. He wanted to rage against it and he wanted to hide under the bed. His skin crawled with goose bumps and cold chills. His stomach stayed clenched but rolling with long winged bats too.

"Stop, stop," he said. He needed to get himself under control. He needed to escape.

With a moment to think he realized things had changed. He remained on his back but was no long secured to the bed. Black and red mottled skin lay over the swollen bulge of his broken arm. No one had done anything to treat it. But, he was free, allowing him to test the idea of sitting up.

He swallowed back his fear of the inevitable pain and levered his body upward. The moment his left arm shifted, he gasped, squeezing his eyes closed. He slowed down, feeling the pull while he tried to get his legs around to the floor. He usedhis good arm to pull the other one close to his body, protecting it, trying not to jar the bones and set off another agonizing flood. He feared he might pass out again and he didn't want to. He needed to get to the door.

As he carefully scooted up enough to put his feet down, he breathed slow and deep. His stomach roiled threateningly, his mouth filling with hot water. He swallowed convulsively forcing the bile back. He was sure if he vomited, he'd lose consciousness. Gradually, taking too long and knowing Foster or AJ could return at any moment, Sam managed to get his nausea under control.

He tucked the swollen limb in tighter to his body and took the next step. He stood up, grimacing at the feel of damp jeans against his skin. He had fought a short battle against urinating where he lay but ultimately there hadn't been any choice. After the first time, he had given up. Now, he tried not to let the smell and the sensation make him sick again.

He was trembling like a child and his breath stuttered over his lips. He just couldn't quite shake the dread that hung over him. But he steadied and took a step away from the bed. The room tilted to one side making him stop again while he worked towards keeping his balance.

As he looked towards the door, the only road to freedom, he found the hated photos taped there. Mocking him with new images, Sam rode a wave of despair.

An image of Charles Gleason staring down him; towering over a kid who hadn't hit his growth spurt yet. Sam's back was to the camera but he recognized himself, remembered how confident he'd been that his father and Dean would find him. Another photo showed Richard Gleason hovering over him as he knelt, beaten and bound, in the house's mud room. A third photo seemed to separate from the others, suddenly standing out and depicting a harsh close-up of fourteen year old Sam with his eyes squeezed shut and his face wet with tears.

Sam closed his eyes. He couldn't look at the anguish in that face.

When the room door opened, a frightened gasp burst out of him before he could stop it. AJ stood at the threshold for several seconds before she finally wore a patchwork skirt that hung to her ankles and a plain yellow t-shirt. Sam shifted, trying to pull himself up and present a strong front but the pull on his broken arm made him hiss, destroying any illusion he might have created.

"You're looking worse forwear," she said. Her disinterest in his upright condition was obvious.

Sam didn't have the desire or the strength to spar with her. He stayed quiet.

"Bentley will be here in a while with some water. Can't have you dying of thirst. A lingering death would suit me fine after what you did to my family but I need you alive."

Sam stared at her, curious and worried. "Need me alive? For what?"

AJ smiled. She looked like a vampire about to eat a new victim.

"Do you have any idea how many spells require human blood?"

She paused, apparently letting that information sink in.

"Anyway," she said. "If you behave I'll keep Mark away from you for a while. Not forever, obviously, I have to feed my pets but a little break."

"What do you want?" Sam pushed the words over his dry throat then wished he hadn't as the thought of retribution crossed his mind.

AJ gave a thin smile as response. She glanced at the door with the photos taped there.

"Do you like them? The pictures?"

Sam said nothing.

AJ tapped her finger against her front tooth.

"You don't want to leave this room," she said. "You're relatively safe in here."

"Really?" Sam said. Considering his broken bone and the rest of the abuse his body had taken, not believing her.

"Yes. There's a monster in the hall. You remember those Big Foot sightings? He's mine. A little creation I put together. He's guarding the hall. If you leave this room, he'll tear you to shreds."

"I kill monsters for a living," Sam said. The brave words sounded hollow in his head.

"Be afraid."

She flicked her wrist casually and Sam screamed at the sudden pain cutting through his gut. He curled over, sinking to his knees and waiting for his stomach to tumble on to the floor. Then just as quickly it passed. He gasped for air while she walked out of the room. Sam heard the snick of the door and the scrape of the lock turning.

As the pain dissipated the acid churning around his belly threatened to give up whatever was inside. He swallowed convulsively trying not to jar his arm.

His mind tossed up a game that Dean used to play when they were kids. Sam would be complaining about some minor ache or injury from training and Dean would punch him in the arm.

"There," he'd say. "Now, you can stop talking about…"the bruise or the scrape or whatever it was that he'd been whining about.

The broken arm seemed to be serving that same purpose. It dampened the pain in his gut and minimized the other injuries that he'd gathered. It all faded against the constant thumping in his mangled limb.

With a strangled groan, Sam levered himself off the floor and started for the door. He had heard the lock turn but maybe it wasn't latched all the way. He stood in front of it and reached for the handle. His heart picked up its rhythm, feeling a drum beating against his chest. Sweat broke out against his neck and down his arms. A cold chill swept through him. He pulled his hand back and stepped away. The photos glared back at him, mocking him, calling him a coward.

"There's a monster in the hall," AJ had said.

Sam took a breath, swallowing hard. He reached for the handle again. His hand shook like a starved junkie and he couldn't move from where he stood.

Monster…in the hall. Tear you to shreds.

Sam moved backward towards the bed. He kept going until his legs hit the frame. He winced at the minor collision.

The door opened and Sam kept moving, trying to keep distance between himself and the hall.

George Bentley walked in. He closed the door and walked up to Sam. He dropped a small bottle of water on the bed. The sight of it made Sam's throat ache. He hadn't thought much about being thirsty or hungry but seeing the clear liquid splash around inside the bottle ignited a palpable need to drink it.

"Stand still and let me look at you," Bentley said.

Sam towered over Bentley. He knew he could easily disable the older man if he tried. But, then what? A mad dash through a hallway guarded by a monster? And what about his arm? Could he throw his body into a fight when a sharp turn or a deep breath forced him to fight for consciousness? He stood still. Bentley looked into this face and eyes then scowled.

"Drink. You're pasty, skin is dry, eyes sunken. There's nothing in that bottle but water so if you want to get through the next day, you better drink it down."

Sam couldn't answer. He was horrifyingly close to crying so he stared past Bentley and waited for him to leave. Bentley shook his head and walked to the door. Despair joined with the constant anxiety as Sam heard it close and lock once again.

John Winchester raised Dean and Sam with a lot of rules. They made their beds every day even if that meant making military corners on a cot or rolling up a sleeping bag. They kept their personal belongings organized. It didn't matter that most of them were stored in a duffle bag. They were respectful to adults, even the ones who thought children were useless baggage.

But, the rule that John harped on more than any other was courage. John told them that showing courage even when terrified would save their lives. Courage meant not giving in or giving up. It meant faith in their own abilities and would allow them to think when panic tried to override them.

And Sam had failed. Not fighting Bentley, not trying for the door had equaled surrender and defied everything that Sam had learned, everything that he thought he was.

He picked up the water with his good hand then realized he'd need to anchor it in order to open it. He sat down on the bed, put the water between his knees and twisted off the cap. He guzzled it down fast, unable to go slow, desperate for the fluid. He emptied it quickly and tossed the empty plastic container on to the floor.

His throat felt better and his stomach tolerated the water. He gave himself a couple of minutes to make sure.

Sam looked at the photos on the door. He could feel the accusation of the victim, reminding him that he hadn't been able to save himself. He had been rescued by his father and by Dean. He had been the weak one.

As he faced up to that he realized that he'dnever left the scared, little boy behind. That child remained in him. He couldn't blame abuse by Charlie Gleason's ghost or by Richard Gleason either. It didn't matter what happened ten years earlier or how much he'd driven back the memories. Sam had surrendered to fear, given away his courage and become the victim that he had worked so hard to avoid.

"I'm sorry," Sam said. The empty room didn't care.

Overcome with exhaustion, Sam reclined. He drifted between thoughts for a long time, not sleeping, just letting the list of failures wash over him.

The ebb and flow of the excruciating pulse from his arm dictated his movements. If he stayed completely still, it was mostly bearable. If he shifted or even breathed too hard he'd spend the next several minutes fighting not to vomit and or pass out.

With the constant thumping from his arm, Sam's paranoia grew in tandem. He recognized that he was terrified but couldn't seem to escape it. He couldn't suppress it. The fear kept him in an adrenaline fueled nightmare that wouldn't abate. He couldn't think clearly, couldn't push it aside.

His fear refused to allow him to move forward with any ideas for escape. He'd get so far and then he'd imagine the capture, the beating, the torture that would follow. His mouth grew dusty and the bats in his belly grew bigger. He'd force himself to stop, to start over and then hope for a good plan to emerge from his pathetic imagination.

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Sunday-Day Six

AJ visited again. Sam jerked upward then grimaced back any reaction to the sudden movement.

Sam hated seeing her almost as much as he hated lingering in the quiet alone.

"Good morning," she said.

Sam tucked the greeting away. It was the first indication he had of time and he relished it.

"Your arm looks terrible. I think you'll be a cripple when this is over. Gangrene will set in. Infection. If you ever leave here, they'll amputate. Maybe I'll ask Doctor Langstrom to do it. He's still practicing, you know."

"What do you want?" The same question he had asked before.

"I have what I want. Seeing you like this. I've heard rumors about hunters and Winchesters. But, you don't impress me, you don't live up to the legacy or the hype. Truthfully, I considered wiping your memory and keeping your brother instead. I'm starting to regret my decision. But, my father wanted you for some reason."

Sam's heart pounded violently when he thought about Dean being here instead of him.

"Nothing to say? Not even a chest thumping demand to stay away from your brother? You disappoint me. Everyone said you were the weaker one. I guess they were right."

Sam couldn't argue the point.

"At least my father was proud of me," she said, clearly intimating that John was never proud of Sam.

AJ left again and Sam carefully stood up. He turned his attention back to the torturous photos. He didn't know when she changed them but now they were a mix between the first set and the second.

He grew tired of not looking at them. He finally decided that he needed to see them. Like a child who wants to watch a scary movie over and over, Sam needed to take the impact away from the pictures by really looking at them.

Sam chose each one carefully knowing that too many memories taken too fast would only overwhelm him. He started with the most recent, the barn photos. He studied the background, seeing the beat up barn walls, the knot holes in the wood, an old bucket sitting in a corner and the metal wheel with a rope wrapped around it. Wood slats covered the floor with only a scant trace of hay. Animals hadn't been stored there in a long time. He followed the rope from the wheel upward until he could see it threaded through the chains that led to the cuffs around his wrists. His hands were clenched tight with white knuckles braced within red fingers.

Sam followed the line from his arms to his shoulders to his face. There was no color in his face other than some traces of bruising. He was staring outward, mouth open just a little bit. His lips were dry and cracked with the slightest trace of blood.

A thump against the door startled him. Sam flinched. Another thump and he took a step back. He could hear the scrape of something against the floor then a low growl. Sam backed up. Another hard thump drove him to crouch beside the bed. He tucked his broken limb close to his body and drew his knees up. He scrunched his body tight, trying to create a smaller target and protect himself too. He held his breath to keep quiet. He was shaking so hard the bed rattled behind him.

There's a monster in the hall.

The door banged open. Sam yelled out even as he pushed himself up and pressed against the wall behind him.

George Bentley strode in, leaving the door open.

Sam darted his attention between watching Bentley and watching the hall.

"Close the door," Sam said, panic making him reckless.

"We're leaving," Bentley said, coming at him, bearing down on him.

"Close the door."

"You don't give the orders."

Bentley stood over him, glaring. "Mark likes that stick. Remember when he used to beat your legs? I'm thinking he had the right idea. Get up or I'll make it necessary to drag you out of here."

Sam didn't know what he'd done wrong. He tried to push back further, his feet scrabbling against the floor but there was no place to go.

Without thinking Sam kicked out as instinct overrode preservation. He caught Bentley hard in the shins and the other man lost his balance. Bentley stumbled forward, catching his hand on the wall above Sam's head while Sam threw his body forward, ramming his shoulder into Foster's legs. Off balance, Bentley spun to one side but didn't fall.

Sam drove forward, hugging his injured arm to his chest, adrenaline and habit forcing the pain back. He made it to the door and hesitated. It was open, escape just across the threshold but his legs wouldn't carry him. He heard Bentley swearing behind him and Sam had to decide.

The terror of what lay beyond the door paralyzed him but Bentley was coming. He had to do something.

Sam took a step towards the hall. Bentley tackled him. Sam slammed into the floor, screaming when he landed on his broken arm. Dazed, air stuttering around in his chest, barely making it in or out of his body, Sam twisted, while Bentley grabbed his head and slammed it into the floor. Blackness swirled around but Sam knew if he passed out, the security chief would kill him. He pushed back against the dark when several gunshots and the sound of Bentley screaming jolted him awake. Suddenly Bentley's body crushed him and he couldn't breathe past the pain and the pressure.

He must have lost consciousness because when Sam became aware again, George Bentley was lying in a bloody heap with sightless eyes staring at him.

"Sam," Dean said. His brother sat crouched beside him looking worried.

Sam looked at Dean. Hope surged up then a whirlpool of fear swallowed it. Terror at being out in the open; of Dean being out in the open raged to the surface.

"We have to go back," Sam said. Too weak to stand, he started scooting backward towards the room intending to go inside and shut the door.

"What's he doing?" Irv Franklin looked over Dean's shoulder.

"There's a monster out here," Sam said. "We have to get inside."

Dean and Irv started searching around for the danger.

"Where?" Irv said.

Sam kept moving until he reached the far wall. With his back against something solid, he drew his legs in. Dean stayed outside the door, glancing between him and the hall.

"Bobby," Dean said. "Sam says there's a monster out here."

"Where?" Bobby said.

Sam pulled his arm in tighter to his body. He knew another jolt to that limb and he'd go down.

"The monster…from the woods…she said it's guarding the hall." Sam put as much urgency into his voice as possible. He needed them to get to safety. "Get in here and shut the door."

"I thought you killed it," Irv said.

"I did," Dean said.

"Hey," Bobby said. "I'm feeling a little queasy."

"You want a Tums," Dean said, his voice laced with sarcasm.

"No, smartass. Don't you feel it?" Bobby said.

Irv frowned. "You know, now that you mention it. I am feeling a little sick."

Sam's head hurt and he thought he might vomit. He needed them to listen.

He shook his head. "Monster…in the hall."

Bobby stepped over Bentley's body and around the other hunters. He went into Sam's room and stopped.

"Christ," he said as he put a hand to his head.

He walked back out and disappeared around the corner. Sam stayed where he was. He knew he should be relieved that Bentley was dead but all he could think about was AJ's reaction. She would do something terrible to him. She might do something to Dean again.

"We got to go," Bobby said. He had only been gone a moment. "It's a fear cage. She has this whole area rigged up with EMF and hex bags. Whatever spell she's working, it'll probably start messing with us too. That nausea, headache you're getting? It's the EMF. I don't know what all else but let's get out of here now."

"No," Sam said. "We have to stay here. Dean, we have to stay here."

"Dean," Bobby said. "There are pictures of Sheriff Carlisle in there. I'm betting she did something to set him off."

"Damn it," Dean said then, "Sammy, we got to go."

"The monster…"

"There's no monster. I killed it. You know it's dead if I tell you, right?"

Dean wouldn't lie about something like that but Sam could feel the monster's presence. He could smell the damp odor of decay.

"It's in the hall."

"There's nothing in the hall," Dean said.

"Come on, man, we got to get," Irv said.

"Give me a minute," Dean said. Sam heard the anger in his voice but he heard the urgency too.

Dean had been hovering in the doorway with Bobby and Irv standing close behind him. Dean glanced at Bobby before walking into the room. He crouched at Sam's side and tapped Sam's leg.

"How are you doing?"

Sam just stared at him. His heart was racing and he didn't know how to answer.

"What happened to your arm?"

Sam knew if he told Dean that it was broken then Dean would make him go into the hall.

"I'm all right," Sam said.

"Looks broken. We should get that fixed up."

Sam drew in a breath. He hated the shaking and trembling that refused to stop shuddering its way through his body.

"Sammy, you're going to have to trust me. Once we get you away from here, you'll feel a lot better."

"Why won't you listen to me?" Sam said. He knew he sounded desperate.

"No, you need to listen to me. The witch is doing this. Let me get you out of here."

"I can't go back to the barn." Sam hated the tears that burned his eyes. He hugged his knees closer to his chest.

Dean nodded slowly. "Okay. Then you have to be brave. Walk out of here with me. Bobby is here. Irv Franklin is here. We'll take care of everything if you just walk out with us."

"Dean, time's wasting," Bobby said from the hall.

Both Bobby and Irv turned, lifting their guns and planting their feet.

"You're putting everyone in danger, Sam. That's what a coward does. Are you going to get us all killed because you're too scared to stand up?"

"Then leave me."

"Shut up. Are you going to let us get killed or not?"

All the fear balled up in Sam's belly. He felt like he'd explode. His brain continued pummeling the inside of his skull and the shaking grew worse. Even if he could stand up, he was sure his legs wouldn't hold him. But, what choice did he have? They wouldn't close the damn door. They wouldn't leave him behind. Dean's stare felt like it was burning through him.

"Help me," Sam said before he realized he'd made a decision.

Dean wrapped his arm around Sam's back while Sam used the wall for leverage. Together they managed to get off the floor. Dean stayed next to him, kept his arm around him and maneuvered them through the hall door. Sam held his breath when they crossed the threshold where Bobby gave him an appraising look before he moved in front of them and started leading the way down the hall. Irv covered them from behind while they took a cautious hike towards the stairs.