"Hey, wake up. We're stopping here for the night."
Sam jolted awake, his arm flailing uselessly as he attempted to regain control of his body. Ow. His entire body ached, no doubt because he spent his nap sandwiched on the floor of an old sports car, and his ear was throbbing. I must've slept on it. His crotch hurt, too. Screw you, Kelly. He couldn't, for obvious reasons, but in general.
"Not getting any younger out here, snowflake."
Sam took a moment to process the new voice, to process that it had already spoken once, and then he sprang into action, heart jumping into his throat. I have a new owner. He had a new owner, and his new owner knew what he was going to become and all but promised torture if he didn't talk.
Sam clambered out of the vehicle and hung his head, hoping he wouldn't be in trouble. He was in more than enough pain already. "Sorry, sir."
"Don't apologize, just get your butt in gear." Dean—if he recalled correctly—gave him a shove and slung a duffel bag over his shoulder. "We've still got nine hours of driving ahead of us."
Sam nodded and got out of the way, waiting for Dean to take the lead and falling in step behind him. I can't believe I made such a massive mistake.
He had just been so shocked.
Sam had been traded between several different hunters, and none of them knew much of anything about Heaven or Hell or angels. They knew about demons, but only the grunts; they didn't know about anyone or anything important. Azazel. Alastair. Irzameg. Crowley.
Hearing Dean and his strange friend talk about Lucifer so casually… it threw Sam off. Getting holes punched in his ear jarred him, but only enough for him to stupidly utter a half-coherent sentence that tipped his hand much farther than he meant to.
That's a nice excuse, Sam, but it doesn't negate the consequences.
Sam felt a chill run up his spine, Azazel's voice ringing in his ears.
"I only missed one time, and it was because I got dirt in my eyes, Azazel, please!"
"That's a nice excuse, Sam, but it doesn't negate the consequences."
"I tried to stay above water, I swear, but my arms gave out!"
"That's a nice excuse, Sam, but it doesn't negate the consequences."
"I wasn't daydreaming, it was a vision! I—I can't control them, you know I can't!"
"That's a nice excuse, Sam, but Earth to Sam, come in Sam. This is Captain Dean Winchester of the SS Snap-Out-Of-It speaking. You look like a junkie."
Sam shook himself and blinked rapidly. "Sorry, sir." It fell from his lips automatically.
"Geeze." Dean snorted and walked into the motel room, waiting for Sam to follow. "Maybe some sleep will get your head screwed on straight."
"Yes, sir." Sam stepped inside the room and got out of the way so Dean could close the door. Right. Sleep.
Sleep would have been wonderful, but Sam knew he wouldn't be so fortunate. Between the headaches and vivid nightmares, he would be up every hour, on the hour, without a doubt.
"I don't want the window bed. Don't ask." Dean slung his duffel onto the bed closest to him and disappeared into the bathroom. "Do I need to handcuff you?"
Sam almost laughed. He couldn't remember the last time he had been restrained by an owner. He had learned long ago that running away never worked. It only caused pain. Taking a beating like a man hurt less in the long run than trying to run from the consequences like a coward.
"That's up to you, sir," was all Sam said.
Because he had also learned long ago that hunters loved to test people and trusted no one, least of all psychics. There was no point in answering honestly; nobody believed him and everyone tended to do the exact opposite of what he said. Better to push the decision back on them and hope for the best.
"Good answer."
Sam heard the toilet flushing and then the hiss of running water, and a few seconds later, Dean walked back out, wiping his hands on his pants.
"Better hit the head before I cuff you, or you're screwed 'til morning."
Sam gave a slight nod and entered the bathroom, keeping a fair amount of space between him and Dean. So far, Dean had been alright, like the hunters Sam once considered to be the standard; not too friendly, not too cruel, sometimes cold in temperament and often possessing a hot temper, but just and fair and doing their best to better the world around them.
Sam rebuttoned the slit in his sweatpants and turned on the sink, waiting for the water to warm up. Dean seems like a good hunter.
But that didn't mean Dean was safe.
Once upon a time, in a faraway land Sam liked to call Blissful Ignorance, he had believed good hunters were the only hunters. He figured if someone was attacked by a supernatural creature and decided to grow bitter and angry about it, they wouldn't dedicate their lives to saving other people. Cruel people became serial killers and gang members and human traffickers, not hunters.
Then Sam became the property of one Gordon Walker.
Seventy-two days after Sam was purchased, Gordon Walker changed without explanation and shattered any sense of stability Sam had ever had. None of the rules Sam knew applied; most of the time, it didn't seem there were any rules at all. Nothing had purpose or plan, and thus, nothing was predictable. There was only pain and fear and waiting for the other shoe to drop.
It took seventy-two days for that to happen, and honestly? That damaged Sam more than Gordon's fists ever had.
Had any of his owners been genuine, or had he simply not pushed them to their limit before being sold to someone else? Did every hunter have a different rulebook? Had he been breaking rules without realizing it, slowly testing their patience a little bit at a time? Did rulebooks even exist, or had Sam just applied survival skills to a bad situation and called it a guideline? Either way, if Sam screwed up enough, would all hunters beat him senseless and make him sleep in the cold? Last but definitely not least, was there any way Sam could find the line without crossing it and proceed to avoid it like the plague?
Sam still didn't know the answer. He only knew things changed after that.
Gordon often loaned him out to a hunter called Kubrick, who was convinced everything that came out of Sam's mouth was a lie; why Kubrick ever rented him at all, Sam still didn't know. Then Gordon made a mistake in Las Vegas, and if he wanted to stay alive, he had to go underground for a while, so he sold Sam to another hunter. Sam was grateful it wasn't Kubrick, but it was a far cry from the standard he had misguidedly developed. Travis was brutal, though not necessarily with Sam. For Travis, the hunt trumped all. Sam would never forget the screams he heard as he watched a warehouse go up in flames, all for a couple ghouls that hadn't done anything but eat people who were already dead.
Sam shook his head and tried to pull himself out of his past, a dull throb forming behind his eyes. None of that is important. Focus. But it was important—it's importance was how he wound up staggering down memory lane in the first place—because he needed to remember the way things had shifted.
Because Sam didn't know where Dean's line was.
Could Dean make it seventy-two days? More? Less?
How cruel was Dean when he was angry? How easy was it to make him angry?
Sam didn't know. And Dean had a laid-back, easygoing air about him that made Sam feel less keyed up. It felt safe, which was more terrifying than any amount of rage. It felt non-malicious—kind, almost.
But where was the line?
"Dude, I don't wanna make this awkward, but… you okay in there?"
Sam startled and stuck his hands under the scalding flow he had forgotten about, letting the pain ground him in the present. "Uh, y-yeah. Yes, sir. I'm okay."
Sam finished washing his hands, turned off the water, and grabbed the other towel. He dried his hands and stepped into the room, making his way over to the window bed, where Dean was waiting with a pair of handcuffs. "Sorry, sir."
"Dude, it's fine, and stop it with the 'sir' stuff. It's weird. I'm, like, thirty."
Sam bit his lip and a nodded twice. Don't look him in the eye.
"So, I gotta cuff you to the leg of the bed." Dean knocked on the solid headboard to indicate the problem. "You can lay on your stomach, right?"
Sam offered a quick nod and crawled onto the mattress, laying facedown and extending his hand for Dean to handle as he pleased. He gave me a bed.
Gordon, after his change, kept Sam in a dog kennel, which he kicked to make Sam shut up during nightmares and painful visions.
Azazel let Sam sleep in a bed fit for a prince… unless he was mad; then Sam slept anywhere from the cold, hard ground in the dead of winter to a bed of glass and nails.
Dean gave him a simple motel bed. Dean was nice.
But where was the line?
"So, gonna go ahead and make things awkward again."
Sam turned his head to look, staring at Dean's chin.
Dean scratched at his brow and shifted awkwardly. "How's your, uh… I don't know anything about… how that works… but it sounded like it happened pretty recently, and…" He ran a hand through his hair and looked at the wall in the opposite direction, exhaling loudly. "How's your junk? That's what I'm asking. I'm asking you to give me an update on your unmentionables. It's a thing I do. Buy guys and take'em to a cheap motel, handcuff them to a bed, and ask them questions about the family jewels. It's my favorite pastime."
Sam tensed slightly, considering the question for a few moments. He was sore—if he had been given a proper recovery, he would have been fine, but Sam didn't get to have nice things—but he was afraid of what Dean would do. Even if Dean didn't intend to hurt him… what if Dean tried to fix the problem himself, regardless of whether or not he could? Hunters always handled their own first aid, and they had always handled Sam's, when he needed it.
"Um…" Sam squirmed slightly, wishing he was under the blanket. "It's sore, but it's okay, sir." He flinched almost as soon as he finished the phrase. "Not sir. Sorry, s—Dean. Sorry, Dean."
Dean let out a sigh, but it didn't sound angry, just sort of… confused. Sad, maybe, and a little bit lost. "How about I give you some ibuprofen?"
"You don't have to." But it would have been really nice, because Sam had been sore for a week, and he knew that was too long, and relief was a tantalizing notion.
"I know I don't." Dean walked over to his bag and dug through it for a moment before pulling out a bottle. He twisted off the cap and shook two pills into his hand, putting the rest away and disappearing into the bathroom for a moment. He returned to the side of the bed and put the pills in Sam's free hand, holding out a cup of water. "Here."
Sam took them and put them in his mouth, cautiously reaching out and taking the offered drink. He used as much of the water as he could to down the pills, not knowing when he would get a drink again, and then he handed the cup back.
Dean gave him a frown. "Go ahead and finish it. It's fine."
Sam slowly pulled the cup closer, watching Dean with cautious eyes, and then he quickly drank the rest. "Thank you," he said softly, licking his lips.
Dean took the empty cup with a hum and set it on the nightstand. "You good?"
Sam nodded and turned his head so he could put his eyes on the window. Don't look at him. He might think you're doing some psychic thing. He steadied his breathing as Dean turned out the light. If they find out about the camp… if I tell them I was bred and raised and trained to be Lucifer's Vessel…
They couldn't kill him, and they couldn't maim him, and they knew that.
They could, however, retrain him. They could tear apart everything Azazel had pounded into Sam's head from the time he was born and fix him up however they wanted. They could fracture his mind into a million pieces and stick it back together with rubber cement.
Sam's eyes burned at the mere thought.
I can't do that again. I can't. I just can't.
But it wasn't up to him, and if they decided he would, then he would. That was the most terrifying part; the utter helplessness, the staring into the fire and hoping against hope you wouldn't have to walk through it, the getting no clear answer one way or the other.
Dear God… I don't know if You listen when… when someone like me prays, but… Sam repressed the sobs threatening to shake his shoulders; he couldn't afford to attract Dean's attention. God, please help me… I don't care how… and it doesn't have to be right now… I can wait, I just… I just need to know someone, somewhere is gonna help me. Please. Please, please, please… I can't do this anymore… I just can't… please…
Sam prayed until he passed out.
