Trigger Warning for Abuse* This chapter contains physical, and emotional abuse towards a minor, including torture and emotional manipulation. There is no sexual/non-con content, but still involves physical assault and injury to a child. Due to this, please skip or skim this chapter if it makes you uncomfortable, and there will be a short summary next chapter for any major plot points.
Chapter Text
This is all Sam's fault. He had noticed the lack of dust almost immediately once he and Dean had entered the mansion, and had thought it was strange, but he didn't bring it up until they were already in the basement. And it distracted Dean, so when the lights had flicked on, and revealed that they weren't actually alone he was already thrown off. And then, the surprise of seeing so many people, in weird, cult-y robes, had caught Sam off guard, and he hadn't noticed the person sneaking up on them until it was too late, and silver blade was against his throat, a large, solid presence behind him, blocking any escape even if Sam hadn't frozen, every ounce of his training flying out the window as fear and confusion paralyzed him. And because, like an idiot, Sam had lost focus, Dean had acted on instinct, and lost his focus to turn towards Sam. Now, seeing the same kind of tranquilizing dart sticking out of his neck that they themselves keep in the trunk of the Impala, Sam can only watch in guilt and horror as Dean pulls it clumsily out of his neck, staring at it with eyes that are already clouding over both with confusion and the effects of whatever cocktail was in that tranquilizer.
"Son of a bitch…" Dean slurs, before his eyes roll back into his head, and he collapses towards the ground, the sedative swiftly pulling him into unconsciousness. He hits the ground, slumping over into a heap.
"Dean!" Sam cries out, starting to reach for his brother, to move to his side and help him however he can, but the feel of the razor sharp edge against the skin of his throat has him stopping, as a rough, strong hand grips his arm tightly, twisting it painfully behind Sam's back.
"Stay still, or I spill your filthy blood, Abomination." The voice of whoever is holding the knife to his throat, and keeping his arm pinned, whispers in his ear, cold and harsh, and male. Sam freezes again, his eyes flickering from his big brother's form, to the robed people standing across from him, Mr. Mikail striding towards Dean's slumped form.
"Don't hurt him." Sam pleads. "Please, don't hurt him."
"We have no intention of hurting a hair on Mr. Winchester's head." Mr. Mikail says calmly, not tossing even the slightest of glances towards Sam. "The sedative will do no damage. It will just allow him to rest for a bit. Rodney and Blake, bring Dean to his chambers. He deserves to be made comfortable while he sleeps this off." Two of the robed men lower their hoods, Sam blanching as he recognizes Dean's boss, and the guy from the grocery store. They separate from the crowd, moving over towards Dean and Sam fidgets, clenching his fists tightly as the blade against his throat presses just the tiniest bit more against his skin, reminding him forcefully of its presence. With one arm trapped, and the knife promising bloodshed if he tries anything, Sam's captor's voice enough to guarantee that with how venomous it was, Sam has no choice but to watch as the two men stoop and pull Dean up between them. But to Sam's surprise, they aren't rough, or cruel with Dean like he expected. In fact, they are exceedingly gentle as they lift Dean's arms and slide under them, lifting Dean between the two of them. A third person, another male, rushes forward to help, picking up Dean's feet to keep them from dragging along the ground. Whoever is holding Sam jerks him backwards, his treatment of Sam in complete contrast to Dean's captors, keeping the knife in place as he pulls Sam out of the way to allow more room for Rodney and Blake to navigate past them with his brother.
"Where are you taking him?" Sam asks desperately. Nobody answers him, as Mr. Mikail turns to yet another robed figure.
"Michaela. He is going to be… disoriented, when he wakes. Are you ready for this?" Mr. Mikail asks. Sam watches, eyes wide, as the waitress from the diner the other night lowers her hood. Sam watches her, terrified by the fervent, adoring, gleeful look in her face, her eyes shining with a brightness that Sam has seen in a few hunters over the years. Hunters who have gotten too lost in the job. Who have gotten so lost in the mission that the shades of grey they live in blur into solid lines of black and white. It's fanaticism, Sam realizes, and his heart starts racing even more as panic sets in. Out of all the monsters he has hunted, all the evil he has seen in the world, there were few things that scared him as much as a fanatic. And now he and Dean were trapped with a whole house full of them.
"I am." Michaela says breathlessly, bowing her head. "I am delighted to serve." Mr. Mikail nods.
"Then go to him. Be his comfort and guide when he wakes. Do whatever he requires of you. Any task. And remember, your place is to obey, but be wary. He may still be under the beast's control. Until he is cleansed of it, the most loyal service you can provide is to keep him in our care." Sam's skin crawls as he listens to his teacher's orders to this young woman. The kind of submissiveness he is ordering her to submit to has an implied misogynistic tone that makes Sam sick to his stomach, and if his brother had been anyone else, he would be terrified for her, and what was being asked of her. And that isn't even factoring in the fact that these people seem to be under the delusion that by keeping Dean a prisoner here, they are actually helping him. Sam swallows anxiously, wondering, not for the first time, just what the hell is going on in this town, and what kind of mess they have found themselves in.
"Yes, Elder." Michaela says, still sounding over-the-moon, as if she won the lottery by being asked to serve Sam's brother in probably the creepiest way Sam can imagine. She bows low, before hurrying out of the basement, and disappearing up the stairs after Dean. Sam watches her go, before shifting his eyes back to Mr. Mikail, and flinching back when he sees that, not only is his teacher now staring at him, but so are all the remaining cultists. And Sam now knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that, whatever their cause is, cultist is the only apt description for them. Angry, evil cultists who are looking at Sam like… like the way Dean and his dad look at monsters. Like he is something evil, and violent, and deadly. Sam opens his mouth, which has gone as dry as a desert under such intense, loathing gazes, but Mr. Mikail holds up a hand, and between that and his glare, it effectively shuts Sam up before he can even say a word.
"The only reason you are still breathing, Samuel, is because hurting you, at the moment, would hurt Dean." Mr. Mikail says coldly. Sam blinks, confused, and terrified by what his teacher is saying. "We don't know how deeply you have your claws dug into the poor man, but until we figure that out, we will not jeopardize him by inflicting unnecessary emotional damage. But, that does not mean we will allow you to continue your reign of terror." The words drift around Sam, but he can't understand them, can't process what the man is saying to him. Reign of terror? Claws? Sam can't seem to comprehend any of it, at a functional level, although he can feel the adrenaline coursing through his blood as his body responds to the implicit threat to the man, who moves a few steps closer to stand right in front of Sam. "From here on, you will follow our rules, if you wish to remain unharmed. You will not speak unless spoken to. You will do as you are told, without question. You will answer every question asked of you, and you will show respect to your betters. If you break any of these rules, you will be punished. If you try to escape, you will be punished. If you try to corrupt Dean Winchester any further, you will be punished. Do you understand me?" Sam blinks, stunned, and still unable to process what is happening, what he is being told. He tries to, tries to let the words sink in, and become even remotely comprehensible to him, but he must be taking too long, because suddenly Mr. Mikail is striking out, backhanding Sam hard across the cheek. His head snaps to the side, pain flashing across his face, shocking Sam back into the reality of his situation. He blinks, his breathing spiking a little as fear rushes through him and he quickly gathers his wits about him. He might not understand everything about what is happening to him, but he doesn't need to, not at this moment. Right now, he needs to do what he is told, and keep himself from getting hurt too much. Retreat, regroup and replan, so that when Dean comes to get him, he is ready to go. Sam swallows nervously, glancing up at the man who was supposed to be a teacher to him. "I asked, if you understood, Samuel."
"Y… Yes. Sir." Sam stammers. Mr. Mikail's hand flashes again, backhanding Sam again. This time, Sam feels his lip split from the force, tasting blood as his head snaps to the side again. The knife at his neck nicks the skin a little at Sam's sudden movement from the blow, and Sam freezes, terrified as he feels a tiny drop of blood slide down his throat.
"It is Elder." Mr. Mikail says coolly. He taps a golden pin of a flaming sword that is resting against his chest. "Whoever you see wearing this kind of pin, you address as Elder. Always. Do you understand?"
"Ye… yes, Elder." Sam whispers, licking his lip to try to get some of the blood off of it, trying to ignore how his stomach twists nauseously at the coppery taste.
"Excellent." Mr. Mikail says. "For everyone else, you address as Sir, or Ma'am. No exceptions. You do not look them in the eye, unless they allow it. Understand?"
"Yes Elder." Sam repeats, immediately lowering his eyes. If his father, or his brother were here, he would never give in this easily. He would be fighting tooth and nail, the way they would expect him to. But they aren't here. He is alone, Dad is God knows where, and Dean is upstairs, trapped himself, and drugged into unconsciousness. The only thing Sam can do to help his situation right now, as humiliating as it is, is to give his captors what they want. Stay alive, stay capable. That's what Dean and Dad would want him to do, in the absence of any other options.
"You are a fast learner." Mr. Mikail says, sounding pleased. "I told Dean Winchester you were a clever boy. As long as you follow our rules, you will minimize your suffering." Sam nods, keeping his eyes lowered as much as he can with the blade at his throat. "Colton, bring him." Mr. Mikail turns, striding across the basement, and the man holding Sam, Colton apparently, shoves at Sam, nudging him forward, and Sam stumbles in the direction they clearly want him to go. His mind starts racing as he realizes the man holding him is probably Colton Davidson, the boy they were lured here with in the first place. The name is just too much of a coincidence. But that thought flies straight out of the window as Sam sees that he is being steered towards the metal cage. Bars running from floor to ceiling, it is about as long and wide as a queen-sized bed. Sam starts to tremble as it gets closer, and he stumbles, but Colton keeps pushing him forward, as one of the remaining cultists pulls a key from their robe, unlocking the cell door.
"If you fight, I will peel the skin from your bones, Freak." Colton whispers in Sam's ear, sending shivers through his entire body, and Sam simply nods mutely. The knife disappears from his throat as Sam is steered into the cage.
"Stand still." Mr. Mikail orders. Despite every instinct, every desire Sam has, he holds himself as still as he can, as Mr. Mikail and Colton move around Sam, pulling his shotgun from his hand, ripping his backpack off of his shoulders, pulling off his jacket, and his flannel overshirt. His hip holster and knife belts are removed as well, his jean pockets searched and the paper clips, and small butterfly knife he always carries on him, plus his matches are also taken away, followed by his boots and socks. When they are done roughly stripping and searching him for any weapons or tools, Sam is left standing barefoot, in only his jeans and thin t-shirt. He doesn't fight back, doesn't do anything that might be considered resistant, not entirely sure that Colton's threat is an empty one. Once they seem satisfied that they have taken everything from Sam, two of the cultists gather up Sam's belongs, while Mr. Mikail and Colton start moving around him again, this time attaching the heavy looking manacles to Sam's wrists and ankles, binding them tightly enough to bruise, Sam's wrists pulled forcefully behind his back. Sam struggles to keep his breathing under control, even as his heart pounds with anxiety, anxiety that spikes as he sees Mr. Mikail grabbing one more chain. Sam's eyes widen as he sees what is attached to it, and his former history teacher smiles viciously at the look of dread on Sam's face. "All beasts should be properly leashed, don't you think?" He taunts. Not daring to say a word, Sam squeezes his eyes shut, but he still feels the cold smoothness of the leather collar as it is wrapped tightly around his neck. Not enough to cut off his airway, but enough to chaff his skin uncomfortably. A heavy weight at the back of his neck, and the feeling of something cold and hard against the back of his shirt tells him that, like the cuffs, the collar is chained to the wall. Once they deem Sam secure enough, Colton and Mr. Mikail walk out of the small cage, and the door slams shut, locked tight before Sam can so much as blink. Sam shifts uncomfortably, automatically trying to flex his wrists, but the metal is unyielding, cutting brutally into Sam's skin at the slightest pressure. Already, his shoulders are starting to ache from the position they have been forced into, and Sam can feel the slight trickle of blood rolling across his wrists and ankles, but pushes past the discomfort, trying to ground himself in the present as he watches the cultists move away from the cage. They gather around the alter, and Sam watches as they start going through his supplies. A flash of rage goes through him but Sam bites his tongue. They were very clear on the whole not speaking unless spoken to bit, and he is not in any way eager to see what happens if he breaks their insane rules. Not with Dean somewhere else in the house, with God only knows who doing God only knows what to him. That thought causes Sam's panic to spike though, so he clenches his fists, grinding his teeth together, and turns his eyes to his stuff being spilled out all over the alter. He watches, noting how they don't act at all surprised to see the salt, or iron, although there are unhappy mutters and nasty glares shot his way when they find the holy water. They put everything in a pile, everything except the silver key that they pull from his jacket pocket. Mr. Mikail frowns at it, and Sam steps back warily, unease flowing through him at the sight, even more so when he speaks. "Bring the rest of this stuff to Dean, I am sure he will want it. Colton?" Sam watches at the rest of the cultists leave, taking his belongings back up the basement stairs, Mr. Mikail walking towards the cage, as Colton grabs something that was hidden behind the alter. Sam's eyes widen as he sees the cattle prod, recognizing it since he had once had to use one against a Rawhead, two summers ago.
"Do you know what this is, Freak?" Colton asks. Sam nods, remembering the rule about answering every question, and all too easily guessing the punishment that might follow if he breaks it. He swallows nervously, unable to take his eyes off the weapon, even as he desperately tries to channel his big brother, and his father, to hide his fear behind the same kind of brave, stoic look his family has mastered.
"Good. Then I am sure a smart boy like you can figure out what happens if you make us mad, right?" Sam nods again, quickly. A look of sadistic delight fills Colton's expression, although Sam is careful to avoid looking in his eyes. Stay alive, stay capable. Mr Mikail stands next to him, and Sam feels his assessing gaze burning into him.
"I am sure you are confused, Samuel, about what exactly is going on here. I think it would be productive if we were all on the same page, don't you agree?" He asks, after a few tense moments of silence. For a third time, Sam nods. "You may speak, Samuel. I want to hear you acknowledge me."
"Ye… yes, Elder." Sam says slowly. Hatred curls in his gut as he sees the flash of a smirk on the history teacher's face.
"Good. Now, you must have a lot of questions. Just this once, to clear up any confusion, I will allow you to ask anything you wish." Mr. Mikail smiles as if he has just given Sam some kind of treat. Sam licks his lips nervously, his fingers curling and curling behind his back.
"The… the haunting." Sam says slowly. "You faked it, didn't you? To lure hunters in?"
"Not hunters, per say. You. Your family." Mr. Mikail answers, confirming Sam and Dean's theory. "We figured the tragic deaths of three innocent people, because of one monster in the family would resonate with your father and brother, and bring them here. Especially given the shared importance of May Second between our two families." Sam furrows his brow, even more confused than before.
"You are C.O.M, aren't you?" Sam asks. "This… group." He chooses his words carefully, figuring they wouldn't like being described as a psycho cult.
"This family." Mr. Mikail corrects him. "And yes. We are the Children of Michael. His most devoted followers. We came to Moses Lake at the direction of our then Father, Michael Adam, as Moses and his followers went to the Promised Land." Sam can practically feel the crazy radiating off of the man in front of him, as his expression takes on the same bright, devoted fanaticism that Michaela's face had shown. "We were told to settle here, and wait, at the direction of the Yellow-Eyed Angel." Chills run down Sam's back, and he automatically takes a step back, every instinct in his body wanting him to run, on a deeper level than the fight-or-flight response the nutjobs in front of him are making him feel. He has no idea why, but he knows the cause is the mention of this angel. Something about… it, is dark, and dangerous and Sam is confident that whatever Kool-Aid these lunatics have drunk, it is getting them in something way out of their control.
"Whose Michael?" Sam asks cautiously. "Whose this… Yellow-Eyed Angel?" Even just saying the name makes Sam shiver, as if the temperature in the basement has dropped ten degrees.
"Michael is only the highest ranking angel in the Host of Heaven." Colton sneers derisively, and yet, still managing to sound reverent. "The first of the Archangels, God's chosen warrior. The flaming sword, the favorite of the angels." Sam can't help the small snort of disbelief. So these people aren't just crazy, they are religiously crazy. Fantastic. He realizes his mistake, though, a second too late as he glances up to see Colton's face twist into rage at his reaction, and then the cattle prod is sliding between the bars of Sam's cage, pressing into his ribs before Sam can get out of the way, and then he is screaming, as pain, white-hot and all-encompassing, is coursing through his body. His entire body cramps up as his muscles tighten and lock into place, like the world's worst Charlie-horse. And heat, horrible, terrible heat, burns into his wrists, his ankles, as the metal and the electric current of the prod decide to hash out their differences on Sam's skin. Worse than the pain, though, is the faint smell of burnt skin that reaches Sam's nose and, in between screams of agony, he gags, his stomach twisting itself inside out. A new kind of pain, sharp, and blunt, hits Sam's knees and he realizes he has fallen to the ground. Finally, the horrible electric agony disappears, leaving Sam breathless and terrified, his muscles aching and twitching even in the absence of the prod. Sam lowers his head, his hair falling across his face, sweat pouring off of his skin as his heart races and he tries desperately to catch his breath.
"You would do well to speak, and act with more respect, regarding His Radiance, Michael." Mr. Mikail says casually, as if he didn't just watch Sam being tased. "And, to answer your question, the Yellow-Eyed Angel is his devoted servant. Another angel, who was tasked with creating our family, here on Earth. Establishing an order of servants devoted to Michael, to prepare his way for his arrival on Earth, and tend to his needs once he does arrive." Sam tries to pay attention, to soak in what could be critical information, but it is hard when all he wants to do is pass out. Or throw up. Or both, in no particular order. Still panting heavily, Sam slowly lifts his head, pushing past the bone-deep ache, the exhaustion pulling at his consciousness, the lingering feeling, and smell, of the metal cuffs and the electrical burns they left on his skin, and looks back up at his captors.
"Why…" Sam pauses, swallowing hard again, before pushing himself to keep speaking. "Why did you… need me… and… and…"
"And Dean?" Mr. Mikail finishes Sam's question, and he nods, grateful as speaking even another word at the moment is almost too much work. "Dean Winchester is the reason we settled in Moses Lake, Samuel. The reason we built this house. The reason we have waited so long. The reason Colton here sacrificed the other Davidsons sixteen years ago." Sam glances towards the man with the cattle prod, shocked. Here he had been thinking the murders were staged at this point, but no… so this isn't just a cult then. It's a deadly one. His eyes flicker back to Mr. Mikail as he crouches, coming down to Sam's level, who is still on his knees. The ground is hard, and uncomfortable, but Sam is pretty sure that if he tries to stand, he is going to die. Or at least, pass out. "It all began that day, Samuel. The day of your birth, as the Yellow-Eyed Angel foretold. We knew that, as you came into the world, the beginning of Michael's return to Earth began. His purpose on this Earth, began."
"Why… did Colton…" Sam asks slowly, trying to think past the haze of pain clouding his thoughts. Luckily, his captors seem to understand his question.
"Why did Colton sacrifice his family?" Mr. Mikail asks. Sam nods. "The Yellow-Eyed Angel demanded it. Although the name of Adam has died out, the Davidsons are still the direct descendants. They are integral to the Children of Michael, and have kept our home here ready for your brother's arrival. When you were born, the Yellow-Eyed Angel came to us, and explained that we would need a reason to call you here. That Dean would be raised a hero, a hunter, who would come if the town is in danger. The Children met, and decided that, in order to summon your brother, but protect as many citizens as we can, we would need a haunting. The Yellow-Eyed Angel had explained all about monsters, you see, and explained to us that ghosts were the easiest to control. They are bound to the place they died, and follow strict rules. It was ideal. A hunt, to lure your brother in, with no body count that the poor man would undoubtedly blame on himself, as righteous as he is. Unfortunately, to create a ghost, we needed a vengeful spirit. Fortunately, the Davidsons volunteered." Sam blinks, overwhelmed at the revelation.
"My family has always known we have a part to play, for Michael, and his host." Colton says smugly. "My parents and brother were honored to sacrifice their lives for Michael. And I was honored to do my part." Sam glances at Colton, and beyond the devotion, Sam sees something darker in the man's eyes. Something… evil. Sam has a feeling that this guy would have happily taken out his family, even without a cause, and the thought has him flinching back, curling in on himself protectively.
"Unfortunately, it didn't take the way we expected." Mr. Mikail sighs, as if the murder of three innocent people was an annoyance. "We never did get a spirit. However, their deaths weren't in vain. The credibility of the deaths still gave us enough to work with, and for the last sixteen years we have been able to cultivate the rumors, and establish the patterns that we were assured would be enough to catch the attention of the famed Winchesters. And it worked… exactly as our angel said it would." The fanatic gleam is back in his eyes, and Sam flinches back yet again.
"But why? Why me and Dean?" Sam asks, still unclear on that, although their obsession with Dean, the gentle way they treated him, after knocking him out cold, the worship in their voices when they talk about him, is making him more and more terrified with every word they speak.
"You would like to know that, wouldn't you?" Mr. Mikail smirks. "But, I think we have answered enough of your questions." Sam furrows his brows, frustrated and scared and feeling like absolutely none of his questions have been answered.
"But-" He starts to ask, but before he can finish, the cattle prod is jabbing through the cage again, this time touching his arm, and he screams again, the jolt of electricity somehow even worse than the first time. This time, Sam ends up on his back, whimpering, when the prod is pulled away, shaking violently, the chains rattling around him as he simply tries to breathe.
"You are making this harder on yourself than it has to be." Colton sneers. "Our Elder has told you he has answered enough of your questions. Be grateful he even let you ask any in the first place."
"Now, now." Mr. Mikail says, but the tone of his voice doesn't give Sam any hope that he has suddenly come to his senses, that he has suddenly realized maybe chaining up someone and putting them in a cage and hitting them with a freaking cattle prod is maybe not quite the right thing to do. Instead, Sam recognizes the sanctimonious, patronizing tone of a man who thinks he is being reasonable, but has lost all sense of the plot all together. He has seen it in cops, in monsters, even in his father once or twice. "Samuel is new here. He is just getting adjusted to his new situation, I think we can forgive him his growing pains. But understand this, Samuel. Things are different now. We know what you are. You can't trick us, or charm us, or compel us the way you have done to countless others all your life. We know you are a monster, a freak. And we will break your hold on Dean, and save him from your grasp." Sam blinks, tears filling his eyes as the pain, and the confusion, and the fear he is feeling starts to overpower everything else. "This is Dean's home, it has always been, and he will be safe here. Our job is to make him comfortable, and support him, and we take our job seriously. You will never poison that young man's thoughts again." Sam bites back his tongue, fighting back the angry, harsh retorts he desperately wants to make, his eyes flicking automatically to the cattle prod as he even thinks about saying something. These people are deranged, if they think Sam has poisoned his brother. If they think Sam is somehow a threat to Dean. Sam can't even beat Dean in a sparring match, let alone actual combat. And why on Earth do they think Sam is some kind of monster? Sam supposes it doesn't matter. These lunatics think they serve an Archangel, so rational thought has long since abandoned them. "Do we have an understanding Samuel?" Sam nods quickly, sliding backwards across the cage as he squirms his way back to his knees, blinking black spots out of his vision and struggling to keep himself from passing out. Almost reflexively, Sam just gives the asshole what he wants, anything to keep that horrible prod away from him as he curls up against the back wall, pulling his knees up and against his chest protectively, although with every second his eyelids are getting heavier and heavier, and he can feel himself losing ground in the battle to stay awake.
"Yes Elder." Sam murmurs, his voice slurring slightly from the pain. Or the tiredness. Or something like that.
"Good. And, now that I have answered your questions, I have some for you. And I expect honesty." Mr. Mikail says.
"Yes Elder." Sam says tiredly, fighting to keep his eyes open. He just wants to sleep now.
"Where is John Winchester? Where is Dean's father?" Mr. Mikail answers. "And don't say he is deployed in the military." The question breaks through the fog in Sam's brain, enough for him to know that he can't answer this. His father is the only hope at the moment, to get Dean and Sam out of this, and Sam knows that these guys know it to. They only want to know where his father is, so that they can stop him from coming for them. But, at the same time, if he lies, and they know he lied… Sam's eyes drift to the cattle prod and he can't help the small whimper that escapes him at the sight of it. He doesn't want to feel it again. Doesn't want to ever experience that kind of pain again, and just thinking of it coming anywhere near his flesh is almost enough to make Sam spit out the truth. But this is his father. Whatever issues he sometimes has with the man, he can't sell him out any more than he can sell Dean out, no matter what these psychos do to him. So, swallowing nervously, Sam keeps his head bowed, and answers in as meek, and submissive a voice as he possibly can, as any sixteen year old possibly can.
"I don't know. We left him in Elko, Nevada. He was hunting a Chupacabra, when we came North, to deal with the ghost here." Sam says, every word he speaks strictly the truth. He just happens to not include that his Dad had mentioned taking a detour to Minnesota to meet with Pastor Jim and restock on some needed hunter's supplies, like blessed weapons, ammo and lore books. But as for exactly where he is, right now, Sam genuinely has no idea.
"When is he due in Moses Lake?" Mr. Mikail asks.
"Next… Next week, I think." Sam blinks hard, forcing himself to stay awake, to stay focused, even as the room starts to take on a blurry, fuzzy quality. And he hopes they think he is just exhausted, and not lying about the fact that he is supposed to be here any day now.
"Does he call you, or his son?" Mr. Mikail asks coolly. Sam frowns, confused.
"I am his son." Sam says. This seems to anger the men, who both scowl furiously.
"No. You are a monster. Dean is his son." Colton snaps. Sam looks at him, frowning, not understand the sudden tension in the air. At this point, he can barely understand the question. "Does he get in contact with you, or with Dean?"
"Both… both of us." Sam murmurs, leaning his head back against the wall and letting his eyes slide closed, unable to keep them open even a minute longer.
"That means he has most likely been poisoned as well." Mr. Mikail says softly.
"He failed." Colton says angrily. "As a hunter, he should have taken the freak out years ago, not trained him up, let him get stronger."
"He is a hunter, but he is a father as well. His mistake can be forgiven, especially for Dean's sake. You know as well as I do how close the two are. Dean will want him safe." Mr. Mikail says. Sam frowns, struggling to follow the conversation, to understand what is being said. "Have Trish keep an eye on the motel, and Rodney an eye on their house. When Mr. Winchester arrives in town, we will bring him here and help rid him of the brat's control as well."
"Yes, Elder." Colton says submissively. And then Sam hears footsteps and he pries his eyes open again, to see the men walking around the cage, to the sides where they can be closer to Sam. Every instinct in Sam wants to move, to get as far away from him as possible, but his body is in too much pain, too exhausted to move even an inch. Mr. Mikail holds something up and Sam struggles to make out something small, and silver. The spare key to the impala, he recognizes after a moment.
"Tell us, Samuel. How did you manage to steal this?" He asks coolly. Sam tilts his head.
"Didn't." He answers, his voice soft, and tired, and barely audible. "Was a gift."
"You are lying." Mr. Mikail says coldly. "Dean loves that car. More than anything. He wouldn't hand over a key to anyone. How did you trick him into giving it to you?"
"Didn't." Sam repeats, more insistently this time. "Didn't trick him. It was… a birthday gift." Mr. Mikail sighs, angrily.
"Very well. Perhaps you will be more forthcoming in the morning. Colton?" He stands up, backing away, as Colton leaps forward, prod in hand. Sam barely has time to widen his eyes, before the prod is jammed into his neck, volts of electricity coursing through him once again. He screams, loudly, tearing his throat in the process as every part of him cramps and seizes, until finally, mercifully, he passes out cold, his last sensation being his body hitting the cold, hard cement floor under him, and then, nothing.
