Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural.
Warnings: None really in this chapter.
Liu had to bring a task master in to carry Sam out to the truck on his back. As if it wasn't bad enough that he was Liu's now. As if it wasn't bad enough that he couldn't walk on his own with the number of injuries he sustained during his time as Davies'.
As if none of that was bad enough, he was being carried piggy-back by a strange man because Liu didn't want the lashing wounds on his back reopened. It wasn't as painful as trying to walk, but he was still jostled on the man's back, which sent tiny waves of pain through his injuries.
Sam couldn't fool himself into believing that this new way of treating him was done out of concern for his well-being. No, Liu's concern was only that he could perform when asked to (and Sam still didn't want to let himself think too much about what that entailed). It wasn't going to be like life at the factory.
It was going to be much worse, but Liu needed to keep him healthier than Davies had needed. Liu needed him in better shape. Clean. Rested. Spirited.
Sam felt none of those at the moment.
The task master wrapped him in a blanket earlier. While being carried on his back, he looked like any child (or drunk), half-asleep and being carried because they were minutes away from passing out.
Anything that said otherwise had been hidden within folds of cloth, and Sam hated to admit that this was the warmest he'd felt in a long time (not including during the fire).
How many time had Dean had to carry him like this, and never once complained about it? When was the last time he'd been that close to his brother?
He supposed that as he grew older, the rift between him and Dean grew as well. Dean still proved time and again that he wanted what he thought was the best for Sam, but he never proved that he truly understood him.
Not that it matter much anymore, Sam thought. It'd been so long, Dean probably wasn't coming anymore. He might have tried, but Sam knew it was over when he was put on a plane headed across the world. Knew it was especially over earlier that very day, when Liu bought full ownership of him.
He wasn't sure he wanted Dean to find him anymore. Not if it meant he'd see him in one of Liu's clubs. Not like that.
There was a car parked nearby, the paint job dark and shiny. It reminded him of the black of the Impala, but it would never be a match for the car that was more of a home than anything else Sam ever set foot in.
Liu disappeared on the other side of the car, and the task master laid Sam across the backseat.
He almost didn't notice that his head was pillowed by Liu's leg, not until Liu's hand fell onto the top of his head and ran over the semi-longer hair just starting to grow back.
Had the hands belonged to someone else, the gesture might have been comforting. Loving. As it were, Liu's touch made his skin crawl and left him nauseated.
If he had anything in his stomach, he might have thrown up. The only good part would have been throwing up on Liu's lap and staining the suit that he clearly took great care of.
The car set into motion and the driver spoke, but Sam didn't understand the words.
"No," Liu said. "Go to the one in Chengdu instead. No need to keep him in Hong Kong if I don't have to worry about getting him back to Davies every week."
Sam realized that Liu responded in English for a reason. He wanted Sam to hear his words.
He wanted Sam to know where he was headed, and he might have called it "Chengdu", but Sam only had one word for where Liu was taking him.
Hell.
Dean fell asleep in their rental car on the way to Davies' North Factory (he didn't know how his dad managed to get a rental car and convince the employee that he knew how to drive on the opposite side of the road and would be fine. No way he was letting something like driving on the left side of the road stop him from getting to his son). No matter how hard he tried, or how much adrenaline his body flooded into his veins, he couldn't seem to keep from nodding off anymore.
His dad called it 'jet lag'. The result of flying across the freaking world messing with him.
John and Caleb felt it, too. Which resulted in the only miracle to ever happen to the Winchester family: not getting in a car accident in Hong Kong.
Which also meant that John decided that after they go to the North Factory, no matter what they found or didn't find there, they had to find a motel and get some sleep. None of them would be able to make it much longer, and they all knew they were on the verge of being liabilities to each other.
But that didn't mean Dean had to like the plan. If Sam wasn't there, then they kept looking until they found Sam. It should be that simple, but nothing ever was. Not for them.
Falling asleep might have been a small blessing, however, as Dean realized that they were a matter of minutes away from the factory according to the directions they were given.
A matter of minutes away from Sam.
Dean found himself becoming more nervous the closer they got, because he never felt this close to Sam since his disappearance. He didn't know what he would say to Sam. He didn't know what he could say to Sam. There weren't any words sufficient enough to convey how sorry he was that Sam got put in this situation to begin with. He could never say how much he wished it was him in Sam's place. How much he wished that he stayed at the motel with Sam that night.
How much he wished he could've gotten to Sam sooner and ended the pain.
It was too late for all of those wishes, and all Dean had left to offer Sam were promises. Promises that he would do his best to give Sam anything he needed to be better. Promises that he would take care of Sam like he said he would so many times, but never seemed able to follow through on.
John's muttered, "Shit."
Dean was pulled back to reality, and it didn't take long for him to see what made his exhausted father break into a string of cursing under his breath.
The factory was in ruins. Crumpled to the ground like an aluminum soda can crushed underfoot.
"What the hell happened?" Dean asked. He knew that neither his father nor Caleb could answer him, but the question blurted out of his mouth unbidden anyway.
"We're too late," John said. "If Sam was here, he definitely isn't anymore."
"So, what do we do now?" Dean asked.
John sighed. "We get some sleep, then go back to the original plan. Start checking nearby factories. See if we can find anything out about Sam or Davies," he said. He turned to look at Caleb. "Think you could do a little snooping to see if you can find out anything about what happened here? Looks like the place has been burnt to the ground, so there has to be some sort of report on it."
Caleb nodded. "I'll do what I can," he promised.
The car was back in motion and headed towards the neon signs in search of a motel. Dean wanted to protest that they couldn't stop and take a break without any leads left on Sam, but he couldn't find the words over the all-encompassing disappointment weighing him down.
This was supposed to have been it. Sam was supposed to be there. He was supposed to be right there. It was supposed to have been the end of this nightmare, but it wasn't.
Dean knew from the beginning of their trip to the factory that he shouldn't get his hopes up, but he did. Now, he was paying for that with the sting of tears behind his eyes and the nagging voice in the back of his head reciting to him how much of a failure he was.
They pulled into a motel parking lot and John got a couple of rooms. Caleb got his own, but Dean never had the privilege anymore. Not since Sam was taken. He was kept in John's sight like a toddler, unless they were actively chasing a lead.
Despite the fact that all of them were having difficulty keeping their eyes open, Dean felt like stopping for even a short rest was a betrayal to Sam. When they were this close—when Sam was this close—they should be out scouring the city every single second until they found him.
"We aren't giving up on him, Dean," John said, sinking into his bed. He looked ten years older than he had when Sam disappeared, and Dean realized he was no longer quite sure how long it'd been.
"I know," Dean said, distracted by a calendar he found in the room. English words written under the traditional characters.
It was November.
Sam went missing the first week in October. Dean remembered feeling guilty that they wouldn't be enrolling him in school for awhile yet since the hunt with Caleb wasn't going to take long enough. He felt guilty that Sam wouldn't have anything to occupy his time other than crappy daytime TV.
He remembered the chill in the air, the first signs of autumn's approach. Had it really been about a month?
But it took them almost a week to get close enough with the traffickers to gain enough trust to be invited to an auction. Then, they went back and forth between Massachusetts and Pennsylvania. Then, to Nebraska.
Dean knew that all of those trips back and forth, all of the time they spent seeking and interrogating, meant wasting precious minutes, but had they really wasted that many minutes?
"Dean, what are you doing?"
Dean turned around to look at his dad. "It's November?"
John looked as confused as he did. He got up and looked at the calendar in Dean's hands. "But it was just the beginning of October," he said with a desperation, like it would change the date.
He looked as lost and as pained as Dean felt. He ran a hand through his hair.
"How is that possible?" he asked.
Dean wanted the answer to that as well, but he had a feeling that they would never find it.
"I don't know," was the only answer he came up with.
Dean watched his dad fight his own internal battle, probably the same one Dean faced. They were both exhausted, and that wouldn't help Sam. But Sam had been gone for so long, and every extra minute they wasted wouldn't help Sam either.
It was a lose-lose situation, but they both knew in the end that they needed to be rested in preparation for another long day of searching the hard way. Leads gone, crumbled like the North Factory.
Dean thought that he would face a restless night, unable to sleep no matter how much his body protested for a break because his brain was working in overtime.
Instead, he fell sleep within minutes of his head meeting the pillow.
They stopped a few times on the way to Chengdu, and Liu left the car at each stop. The task master kept on eye on Sam during those times, but he wouldn't have been able to make a run for it anyway.
The wounds on his back left him stiff and aching. The cut on his leg burned, and he wondered if it would get infected from being cut by a piece from a rusted machine and then being left untreated.
Every time Liu came back, he went back to running his hand over Sam's head.
Whatever kind of cologne he used slowly suffocated Sam and gave him a splitting headache.
Some times he would rearrange the blanket around Sam. Like he was trying to keep Sam warm. Like he was doing Sam a favor.
This was the one time that he wished he was unconscious through it all. Locked away in a deep sleep.
And, of course, this was the one time that his body decided it would like to cling onto consciousness.
It took over a day to get to Chengdu. Sam figured it out by watching the sky grow light and then dark again.
When they finally stopped, Sam had to be carried again (Liu made a quiet comment to his task master about Sam's leg and back, but he couldn't quite hear what about them). He felt like he was headed to the gallows as they passed under the neon signs hung overhead the club's door.
And in a way, he might have been. This could be the shitty end to his shitty life. He always imagined that it would be a hunt that took him out. He always imagined that Dean would be hovering over him when he bit it (because he never allowed himself to imagine the possibility of Dean dying before him), whispering words of comfort and empty promises that he'd be okay.
He never imagined that it would be in China. Hidden in the backroom of a club after his humanity had been thoroughly stripped from him by strangers until he no longer remember what it felt like. Dark and alone with only the thrum of electric music breaking the silence.
A solitary end to it all.
Dean woke up when it was still dark out and wondered how long passed. He felt surprisingly rested for it to still be night.
He stretched his arms over his head and sat up, ready to rouse his dad and start the search for Sam again. But when he looked over, he could see John's bed was empty with the city lights that made it through the thin motel curtains.
He turned on the lamp between the beds.
"Dad?" he called.
The bathroom door was open and it was dark and empty.
His dad wasn't in the room at all.
He was about to start making calls, when the door opened and John walked in with two cups of coffee. If he was surprised that Dean was up, he didn't show it.
"Coffee in the middle of the night?" Dean asked.
John shrugged. "Yeah. I guess the jet lag hit us all harder than we expected. I just got Caleb up, too. He's getting ready and then we'll hit the road."
"What do you mean 'hit us harder than we expected'?" Dean asked, taking one of the coffees and pulling the lid off. "It's only been a couple of hours."
"Dean, it's been an entire day," John said.
Dean almost dropped his drink. "Excuse me?"
"It's been more than a couple of hours," John reiterated. "More like twenty-four hours."
"Why didn't you wake me earlier? That's an entire day lost and we still don't know which hellhole Sam is in!"
"I know that my youngest son needs me—has needed me—Dean, but I was sleeping, too," he snapped back. "If I hadn't absolutely needed the sleep, you know I would have skipped it."
Dean knew that. He witnessed it before. School teachers might have thought of John as an absent parent every time Dean showed up in his place for Sam. Sam might have thought the same at times, with the added knowledge that some nights he drank too much and left them to fend for themselves (and they were used to it).
But Dean saw that he tried his best to be a good father. He was there when they really needed him. And Dean wished that Sam saw it, too.
He hoped that John would prove that to Sam by helping him once they found him. By going through with his words that they'd let him rest at Pastor Jim's. That he would stick to the plan of finding out what's best for Sam and following through on it.
That he would simply be there for Sam.
He hated that it took Sam being trafficked to make them both realize what they needed to do to keep the fragile connections of their family from snapping.
If Sam wanted to doubt anyone, if Sam wanted to lose his faith in anyone, Dean supposed it should have been him all along. Not their father.
"Where do we start?"
"Another factory isn't too far from here," John said. "If they transferred the workers temporarily, I doubt they'd go far. Besides, it might be easier to catch one of the task masters out at this time of night."
There weren't any non-employees in the club. Sam guessed that it might still be too early for it to be open. It was dark out, sure, but he didn't know the hours (he didn't know the current hour it was either).
He could guess that Liu had been anticipating him. They reached one of the back doors, with a security guard leaning against the wall. He glanced around and with a quick tap on the wall, opened a door hidden there.
The task master carried Sam down the stairs behind Liu. At the bottom was a dimly lit hallway with closed, numbered doors lining either side.
Sam caught the number on the door they took him through.
18166.
The same number that permanently marked his arm.
His heart raced as he was set down on the bed—softer than most he'd been on in motel room after motel room. The numbers on the doors weren't just numbers. They were the numbers of the slaves kept within those rooms.
He couldn't remember how long the hallway had been, but now it stretched on forever in his mind. How many poor souls were locked behind the doors, trapped in a place where they weren't worth more than their body?
The task master laid Sam on his stomach, a small mercy that spared his back more pain. He shuffled off after Liu said something about getting a kit.
He disappeared behind the door. Sam didn't see a lock on it, but he could guess that there was a lock on the outside to keep him in. There was another door, no locks, and he was reminded of the first place he was held. The one that looked like an old, abandoned hospital with adjoining bathrooms.
And it made sense that Liu would want him kept clean. That Liu would furnish the rooms so nicely.
For his clients.
Sam felt his shirt being lifted off, and tried to bat away Liu's hands, but he didn't have the energy. Especially not when Liu pressed his hand down on the lashing wounds that seemed to refuse healing.
The task master came back with a first aid kit and Liu started with the rubbing alcohol to clean his back. It was a familiar burn, one he felt many times after hunts when he ended the night with a few scrapes. But never on this many at one time.
The hardest part was not being able to make a noise throughout the cleaning. He kept his teeth clenched shut so tight, he feared they might break. Though that was a better alternative to being shocked again.
It was over as quickly as it started, and they coated his back in something cool that soothed the fresh burning before bandaging him.
They repeated the treatment on the cut on his leg, but it was even quicker and the rubbing alcohol barely burned. Not after experiencing it sear the entirety of his back.
Liu and the task master were surprisingly gentle while tending to his wounds, and it was just another reminder that he was no longer Davies'. It was another reminder as to what sort of fresh Hell he faced.
He refused to look at the far wall. He refused to pay any mind to the things kept there meant to be used for twisted pleasure.
A cup of tea, warm and steaming, was pressed into his hands. He didn't have the energy to fight it, and if he was honest with himself, he knew he needed to drink something. It'd been too long since he last had a sip of anything.
And maybe it was a mistake that he drank so easily, so trusting, from the cup given to him because he felt its effect within minutes.
They put something in his tea. A sedative, if he had to guess, because his eyelids grew too heavy to keep open and slipped shut, allowing him to fall into a drug-induced, dreamless sleep.
Dean was the one who got to successfully capture one of the task masters at the factory this time, and he took great satisfaction in it. He kept his knife pressed up against the man's neck, ready and waiting to split apart his flesh.
He felt the man shaking in fear through the entire walk to one of the backrooms. They passed room after room of sleeping slaves. Dean took a quick look in each one, trying to find Sam, and swore that if he found Sam among the sleeping, he'd slit the man's throat, grab Sam, and be done with all of it.
But he didn't see Sam, so they made it all the way to a backroom both alive. John tied the man's hands behind his back, and only then did Dean pull away his knife.
"We have questions," John stated. "You answer them. You get to live. Understand?"
The man nodded, trying to back himself into the corner, like it would help him. Like the corner could protect him.
"18166," John said.
He didn't have to ask if the man knew that number, the way he lost all color in his face answered for them.
This man knew something about Sam, and no one would be leaving the room until he told them each and every bit he knew.
"No, no, no, no," he said. "Davies transferred me here. He said I'd never have to deal with that kid again. He promised!"
"Why don't you want to deal with him?"
"My friend was supposed to take him to be punished, but the building went up in flames with the kid at the center. He said the kid is a spirit sent to punish us for our work. It's immoral. I know that. All the task masters know that, but it's not enough to stop most of us. He quit, and I tried to, but Davies threatened to take my little sister if I did. He thinks that I'm going to rat him out the first chance I get," the man blurted out, nearly in tears. "I'm doing it for her."
John sighed and ran his hand down his face. Dean understood the frustration. How were they supposed to deal with someone who was part of this human trafficking and slavery operation when he was doing it to protect his family? Wouldn't any of them do the same if they had to?
The words left Dean a little confused. The task master's friend (and possibly the task master in front of them) thought Sam was some sort of vengeful spirit, but the place just went up in flames. How could they blame Sam for that? In fact, if the state of the factory they were in now was any indication, the factory Sam was in had been begging for a fire to start with how little upkeep the place saw.
"The reports say that it was an electrical fire," Caleb said.
The man shrugged. The same sort of shrug that Dean saw from witness after witness during hunts. The I'm-going-to-believe-what-I-know-happened shrug.
"Okay, then where is he now?" Dean asked. "If you were transferred here to avoid dealing with him, that means he's somewhere else."
"Taken to Davies. I don't know what Davies did with him. He just promised that I would never see him again, and that was good enough for me."
"Where is Davies now?" John asked.
"A hotel maybe. He might be back in the morning. Dealing with a factory burning down is making him stay in Hong Kong more than normal," he said.
It was Dean's turn to sigh. They get so close, just to feel farther away with every lead they chase.
Caleb stood guard at the door, and pulled out his gun when they heard a soft knock. He nodded to John before opening the door.
The person on the other side was a kid, older than Sam probably, but still a kid. He had on plain clothes and a collar around his neck.
Dean saw a string of numbers on his arm. He wasn't sure how much help a slave could be in helping them find a lead on Sam.
"I heard you walk past the bedrooms," he explained. "So I followed, because, well, someone made me realize that I don't have anything to lose by helping others. Not really. And then I heard you mention 18166."
"What do you know about 18166?" John asked.
The task master looked relieved by the interruption taking the focus off of him, but Dean kept a watchful eye on him.
"I pulled him out of the fire at the other factory," he said. "If you're looking for him, I'd like to do what I can to help. Kid deserves it."
"We'll take all the help we can get," John said.
John Winchester: the man who preferred to hunt on his own or with a select few people. Desperate times called for desperate measures, and if he had to work with strangers to get Sam back, Dean knew he would.
The slave nodded.
Dean looked once more at the numbers on his arm.
14710.
Sam's back felt a lot better in the morning. Whatever they spread on it did wonders. It felt good enough that he managed to sit up and eat some of his breakfast—which had a lot more variety and flavor than what he got at the factory. It wasn't what he would have chosen for himself to eat for breakfast, but it wasn't rice porridge either.
A task master (were they still considered that there, or were they more of slave keepers?) came in and redressed his back after breakfast with more of the soothing ointment. Cream. Whatever it was, he didn't really care about the specifics.
He was left alone most of the day, and it grew difficult to keep his guard up with the much nicer treatment he received there. The biggest problem he encountered was the boredom that was quick to set in. There was even less to do in his current room than in the standard motel room. At least most motel rooms had TVs that worked, with or without static flooding their images. At least in motel rooms, he usually had homework to do or research he could work on for any number of hunts.
And he never thought the day would come when he missed helping with hunts, but he'd gladly choose that life over this. He just hated that it took something this awful to make him appreciate the life he once had.
Despite all of that, he could almost fool himself into thinking that he wasn't there to be used as some sort of toy by strangers. That he wasn't just there to rack in money for Liu.
He could almost fool himself of all of that until a few hours (he thought, there were no clocks for him to keep track with) after his dinner, when the door to his room opened and it wasn't Liu or a task master that walked in.
It was a client.
Author's Note: Sam is receiving kind treatment for all the wrong reasons, while his family + Caleb are desperate to find a new lead. Doesn't seem like they're going to make it on time, but maybe Sam has a trick or two up his sleeve?
Anyway, thank you to everyone who reviews, follows, favorites, and simply reads! I'm glad that you all seem to be enjoying the story so far. Take a minute and leave a review before you go with your thoughts, I'd really appreciate it.
To the Guest reviewer from last chapter: It makes me so happy that you consider my story your favorite! I will always be glad to inflict fresh, soul-destroying terror upon you!