Then
While Dean has been knocked out by the Children of Michael, or C.O.M, Sam is imprisoned. Seen as a monster, he is caged, the Children viewing Sam as a corrupting influence on his brother. In an attempt to tame Sam, they explain their origins, having moved to Moses Lake to await Dean's arrival, on the orders of a Yellow-Eyed Angel. Lured to the house under the pretense of a haunt, Sam is shocked to learn that Colton Davidson did in fact murder his family, in order to set in motion the trap sixteen years previously. However he did not kill himself, as was assumed, but is alive, happy and healthy and a Child himself, helping to keep his family's house ready for Dean. But when the Children discover a key to the Impala in Sam's things, Colton takes the charge in attempting to discover the origin of it, unable to believe that Dean would impart such a precious gift on someone like Sam, and willing to use force to get to the bottom of the mystery.
Now
Notes:
Language Advisory* Some swearing and curse words ahead. Let's be honest, Dean would swear a lot if the show wasn't on the CW lol
Mention of physical abuse to a minor* A very brief section at the tail end of the chapter mentions torture of a minor. Not overly descriptive, and nothing more than a few lines. Easy to skim.
Chapter Text
The first thing Dean is conscious of is the fact that he is in Heaven, and is never, ever leaving. In his twenty long years of existence, he has never, ever been as warm, and as comfortable as he is right now. He is laying on a cloud of utter perfection. Soft, and firm, and wrapping around his body in all the right ways, carrying his weight , and wrapping him in a sense of utter peace and relaxation. Which probably explains the best sleep of his life that he is now, unfortunately, waking up from. But Dean is in no hurry to escape this feeling, so he lingers in that half-awake, half-dream like state where nothing matters, and everything is quiet, and still, and he lets his senses slowly turn themselves back on. First, he soaks in the feelings around him. The weight of a soft, light, but warm blanket wrapped around his body, comforting and protecting. Clothes that are equally soft and light, different than anything in his wardrobe, somehow more… luxurious. They feel like a higher quality than anything Dean has, or probably ever has had. Which is odd, but Dean is still too relaxed, too at ease, to care all that much at the moment. Especially with the pillow under his head, cradling it like a mother would cradle her baby. The perfect combination of firm, but gentle, molded almost perfectly to Dean's head, as if this pillow was made specifically for him. And then there is the warmth, that Dean recognizes all to well. Sunlight, morning light, washing over his skin. Warm, but not overly hot, and welcoming. He has woken up to the warm rays of the morning sun enough time to recognize its gentle beckoning now. Dean sighs contentedly, and slowly lets his other senses come back online as well. First comes sound. The soft ruffling of fabric from his clothes, his blankets, the sheets under him. A nearby gentle crackling, that he only places a moment later when the scent of a fire reaches his nose. Not a terrible fire, but a small one, like a campfire. Woodsy and comforting. He also smells the fresh scents off of the fabrics around him, and… is that bacon? Dean sniffs, a small, happy smile crossing his face. There is no better way to wake up, than with bacon. Maybe this is Sammy's way of thanking him for being such a great big brother. Vaguely, Dean wonders where Sammy even is, and why he hasn't heard him. Usually Sam is obnoxiously loud in the morning. Always up before Dean, like the geeky early bird that he is, Sam is almost always either getting ready or returning from a run, gathering his things for school, or preparing for a marathon research session at the library, especially if they are on a hunt. Maybe he is just off pouting that Dean got such a wonderful bed, even though the ancient, universal law of you snooze you lose is very clear on the matter. Still… the kid has been fairly splitting his time on the couch for the last few weeks, without complaint. Dean probably should give him a turn on this piece of paradise, if only so that his brother has one small taste of luxury for once. Dean sighs softly, decision made. As soon as his brother makes himself known, which, judging by the smell of bacon, should be any moment now, Dean will swap places with him. Sighing again, he braces for the need to move, to get up and actually start his day, as he strains to hear any of the tell-tale signs of Sammy. But a minute passes, with nothing. And then another. And then another. And confusion washes through Dean, because Sammy is never this quiet in the morning. Except after a hunt, when Sam tries to let Dean get as much sleep as possible, but they weren't on a hunt. And just like that, Dean snaps back to full awareness, any sense of drifting peace evaporating, as if a bucket of water has been dumped on him. They were on a hunt. The probably-not-a-ghost at Michael Manor. They had been sweeping the first floor, last night, and then found the basement. Sammy had pointed out the lack of dust, and then the lights had come on, and… there were people. But what happened after that? Dean's memory goes blank as he tries to sort through what happened. They had gone into the basement… figured out that the house isn't as empty, or as abandoned as they expected it to be… more than that, it seemed like it was actually inhabited. He thinks he remembers silver robes… lots of them. And… maybe Sammy gasping? Dean tries to concentrate, to remember anything else, but it all goes dark after that. A spike of panic, wiping out whatever morning bliss might be remaining, flashes through Dean, and it takes every ounce of training his father has ever given him to stay still, to keep the emotions buried, to keep himself in check as his situation finally filters through the haziness of sleep, and what Dean is beginning to suspect is the last bit of some kind of drug. It would at least explain the abrupt nothingness in his memories. But Dean can't fall apart right now. He can't let the panic win, the fear win. Because, for one thing… whatever happened last night, he and Sammy didn't get away. He is sure of that. Otherwise Sammy would be in here mother-henning over him, and spouting off every fact known to man-kind on every kind of drug they might have dosed him up with. No, Sammy isn't here because he can't be here. The people in the silver robes, they caught them off guard. It's all Dean's fault, he should have been faster, quicker. If Sam is hurt… No. He can't go down that road. Not yet. First, he needs to take stock of his situation. Dad had trained them for situations exactly like this. Unfortunately it isn't the first time Dean has been drugged, or knocked unconscious and has woken up in a strange place. He doubts it will be the last. But Dad told him, and Sammy, what to do. Never let the assholes know you are awake, before you are ready for them to know. Use your other senses to get a feel of the situation. Get as much knowledge as possible, before you make any moves. And never let your emotions overrule your judgement. This last one had been drilled more specifically into Dean, than into Sam, because Dad had known that there was every chance if Dean was ever taken, Sam would be to. And getting emotional might not just get Dean hurt, or killed, it could get Sammy hurt or killed. Especially if, or when, Sam was kept separate from Dean, and he couldn't see what was happening, which seems to be the case right now. So, forcing himself to remain levelheaded, Dean gets to work. The first thing he needs to know is how he is restrained. Ropes, or cuffs, or zip ties are the most popular options. Ever so slightly, Dean shifts his legs, to test his ankles. But to his surprise, nothing catches. No metal, no coarseness, no plastic. He tries his wrists next, flexing and twisting them as subtly as he can, to find they also are completely free. Odd, and all the more unsettling. A lack of restraints means whoever took him are either idiotic, incompetent or arrogant. They either forgot to restrain him, or think they don't need to. Dean needs to figure out which. He strains his ears, trying to listen for any sign of any guards, or another presence in the room, but there doesn't seem to be. Once he establishes that, Dean finally opens his eyes. And sits up immediately, shocked by what he sees. He is in a bedroom. A massive, massive bedroom, bigger than any bedroom had a right to be. He is laying on a bed that, honestly, is bigger than some motel rooms he has stayed in, wrapped in silk sheets and expensive looking blankets, the headboard looking almost antique like. Floor to ceiling windows cover an entire wall to Dean's left, with thick, massive red curtains framing them, currently tied open with golden thread. Black and white marble floor covers the room, occasionally covered by luxurious looking rugs. A massive hearth sits opposite Dean's bed, filled with the crackling fire he had heard earlier. Thick, comfortable leather chairs sit across from it, with a glass coffee table between them. On Dean's right, a massive television hangs on the wall, in front of another set of leather chairs, framed by two beautifully carved wooden doors. Another set of doors, double doors that are also beautifully carved from wood, can be seen through a short hallway near the hearth. Dean guesses that those doors lead to what he is guessing is the rest of Michael Manor. Because no where else in Moses Lake would have a room like this. Slowly, Dean climbs out of the massive bed, stretching, and looking down at himself. Someone changed his clothes from his hunting gear to soft track pants and a t-shirt, though Dean can immediately tell that this is no Walmart set. The fabric just feels like high-end quality, even without any tags for Dean to confirm. Dean frowns, glancing around again, his nose catching the scent of bacon once more and he follows it to a tray set on the coffee table. There is an honest to goodness silver dome over the plate of the food, the kind Dean has only ever seen in movies. Dean lifts it curiously, seeing a fancy crystal plate stacked with a mountain of eggs, bacon, sausages, and a cinnamon roll. There is also a cup filled with coffee, a sugar bowl and a milk saucer. It smells divine, but Dean's stomach curdles with distrust. He knows better than to trust anything from an enemy. Searching the room, Dean spots the two doors he noticed earlier, striding towards the one, and pushing it open to see an ungodly sized bathroom. With an inground bathtub- seriously, what kind of douchebag puts a tub in the ground?- and a massive glass shower where the water seems to fall from the ceiling, like rain, Dean is blown away. He gaps at the sheer lavishness of it, at the marble counter with the gold plated sink. Every kind of amenity he could need is arranged neatly on the counter. Body washes, soaps, deodorants, a shaving kit, cologne. Towels, freshly laundered and hanging neatly. Even a robe, with matching slippers, hanging off a golden hook. A massive mirror, twice the size and width of Dean himself, hangs above the counter. Overwhelmed, Dean staggers back out of the bathroom, finding the other door. A little more hesitantly, but overwhelmed by curiosity, Dean pushes it open, his jaw dropping. A walk in closet the size of a normal person's bedroom greets him. There are low dressers, and long bars filled with clothing. Suits, work-out clothes, pajamas, regular but extremely high end versions of hunting gear. A long mirror stands in the corner, next to rows and rows of shoes. Dress shoes, sneakers, boots. And, sitting on a bench, Dean spots the clothes he had been wearing last night, folded and pressed, next to his backpack and leather jacket. And, beside that, he finds Sam's gear as well. His new lock pick, his new jacket, his new bag. All their weapons, including Sam's new knife, rest on another bench, because apparently closets need two benches now. Dean frowns, going through their things, their bags. Everything is here. Salt, holy water, iron. Their shotguns, both of them, are still loaded. Dean frowns, confused. Being left unrestrained is one thing. But having access to weapons… Dean doesn't know what to make of any of it. And why is Sammy's stuff here, with him? A pit starts to grow in Dean's stomach, and he suddenly needs to lay eyes on his brother. He has no reason to think that Sam isn't getting the same, weirdly welcoming treatment he is… except, that isn't entirely true. Sammy's feelings of being disliked… the odd way people in town have looked at him… Dean swallows, suddenly very nervous that Sammy might be having a very different morning. The need to get to him, now, rises quickly, overtaking everything else in his body, and Dean stands up quickly. Deciding he has learned all he is going from inside this room, and ready to find out exactly where these dicks fall on the scale from idiots to arrogant, Dean takes off the fancy pajamas, pulling his own cheap and well-worn clothes back on, strapping the guns and Sammy's knife to his belt. He leaves the bags for now, and the shotguns, since there isn't a ghost to fight, and he doesn't want be weighed down. He will come back for it after he gets Sammy, if there is time. He does, however, stop to pick up Sam's lockpicking kit. He has a feeling one or both of them might need it. Once he is armed and dressed, Dean heads back to the main room, looking towards the doors to the rest of the house, and taking a deep breath. Time to find out just how much of a prisoner he is. He moves to the door, reaching for the solid gold handles, because of freaking course it's solid gold, and gently tests his luck, turning the handle. It twists under his hand, and with a soft click, the door swings open. Now Dean is seriously uneasy. What kind of idiots let a hostage run around, armed, and unrestrained? Or, as Dean is leaning more towards, what exactly makes them so confident that they aren't scared of what he might do with these freedoms? Nothing good. Taking a deep breath, and letting it out again, Dean steels himself, and pushes the door open. And then immediately steps back. The hall outside his room is made of the same white and black marble flooring, with pure white marble walls rising up, and dark wooden trims. Artwork, all biblical and all angelic, hangs evenly spaced along the wall, and directly opposite his doors is a bench. Dark wood, with vivid red cushions. And sitting on the bench is an annoyingly familiar young woman, in a sleeveless white dress. With her dark brown hair curled the way it is, falling around her pale skin, and the gold bands on her arms, she looks like she could have leapt right out of Sam's book on ancient Greek goddesses. Her eyes, a shining, bright blue, light up as she takes in Dean, and she leaps to her feet excitedly.
"Dean." She greets, sounding inordinately pleased, especially for so early in the morning. At least, Dean thinks its early, he doesn't actually know what time it is. As soon as she speaks, though, Dean realizes why she is familiar.
"You're the waitress, from that diner." Dean frowns at her. Delight floods her expression.
"You remember." She says breathlessly, her eyes widening. She steps forward, and Dean automatically steps back. Normally, seeing a girl who is excited to see Dean would make him just as excited to see her. But normally he hasn't been drugged first and dropped off in a way too fancy room, while his brother has been carted off to places unknown. And normally, the excitement Dean sees in girls is genuine. Warm. Light as air, as sunlight itself, and indefinable. But as Dean looks at the young woman in front of him, he doesn't see warmth. Or lightness. The excitement in her is hard, and dark. Heavy. Dean has seen the look before. The brightness in her eyes, too bright, too shiny. The extreme manifestation of passion, when devotion crosses into obsession. She's obsessed. And a sense of fear crawls its way across Dean's skin. He's seen obsession. He has seen it in his father. In other hunters. And, in every single case he has ever seen it, there is one universal truth that Dean has yet to see not come true. Fanaticism always, always brings out the worst in people. And, right now, Dean has the uncomfortable feeling that he and his brother are the targets of whatever obsession this woman and the silver-robed asshats have going on. His realization passes through his head in a moment, as, heedless of his obvious retreat, the waitress steps closer. "I knew you would remember."
"Who are you? Besides, uh… a waitress. What's your name?" Dean asks carefully, refusing to retreat anymore. Maybe, if he is reading this girl right, he can use her. Fanaticism is advantageous, that way. If you can discover the cause, the driving force, then fanatics are easy to manipulate. The waitress smiles.
"My name is Michaela." She answers, smiling.
"Okay, uh, Michaela… what is this place? Where am I?" Dean asks, making his voice calmer, more gentle then he really wants it to be. He wants to shake her. To demand she take him to Sammy. To fight his way out, guns blazing. But he knows that this is too delicate a situation to handle the way he, and even his dad normally handle a hunt. With blunt force, a kill-first mentality. Take out the monster, whatever it takes. He can't do that here, not with Sammy somewhere, elsewhere, with God knows who, and the towns ire on him for some unknown reason. He needs to take a beat, be smart about this. Use words, and wit, like a certain little geek, until that geek is safe and sound. Then Dean can handle things his way. If Michaela senses any of Dean's underlying violent tendencies, she doesn't say anything about it. She simply smiles wider.
"This is your home, Dean. Your true home." Michaela says. Dean frowns, raising his eyebrows in confusion. "You must have a lot of questions. I have been sent to answer them. To help you, however you need." Her eyebrows lift slightly on the word help, and Dean can easily read the innuendo there. But he has no interest in pursuing it, not with much more important things on his mind.
"Great. That's great. Uh, do you think you could take me to my brother?" Dean asks. "Short kid, about yay-high, total bookworm, too long hair?" Dean raises his hand to his brother's height, watching his… host, carefully. And there it is. At the mention of Sammy, instant and white hot dislike flashes across her expression, all but confirming his suspicions. Sammy, wherever he is, isn't waking up to eggs and bacon and Heavenly beds. Not if those other people felt the same way towards the kid that she obviously does. Michaela works hard to quickly compose herself, but Dean can still see the underlying coolness to her expression.
"He is being taken care of." She says simply. Dean frowns, and his own tone reflects the same coolness.
"Great. I want to see him." He says. She frowns.
"That would be… inadvisable." Michaela says delicately. "At least, at the moment."
"Why?" Dean demands, rapidly losing the calm, gentle tone he had tried to use. Michaela studies him for a moment, before smiling that creepy, too happy smile again.
"Did you eat breakfast, Dean? We tried to make all your favorites." She says instead. Dean puts that aside for later, trying not to think about how they figured out what his favorite foods are. He is really not enjoying how pivotal he seems to be to this cult.
"Did Sam eat anything?" Dean asks instead. The dislike, mingled with frustration, crosses her face again, and he feels his own dislike rising more and more as he watches her.
"I'm sure he will be given something." She says reluctantly. "As I understand it, the Elders are with him this morning. Perhaps afterwards." Dean furrows his brow at the new information.
"Elders?" He asks. Michaela smiles that creepy, too familial smile of hers, and gestures back towards the room.
"Come. Sit, and eat. I will be happy to explain everything." Michaela offers.
"First tell me what the elders want with Sam." Dean practically growls at her. He doesn't like how it sounds, the way she said that the elders were with Sam this morning. He has a bad feeling, and it is almost enough to break his resolve, on handling this screwed up situation the Sammy way. But he tells himself he means it. If she answers his question, if she tells him that Sammy is okay, then he can go with her, and put on a smile, and charm the answers he needs out of her. She is already infatuated with him, he can see that, so it shouldn't be too hard. But he needs to know that Sammy is okay first. Swallowing his pride, his anger, and his worry, he works to soften his tone. "Please." He asks gently, and her face, cool and detached, melts into something close to sympathetic.
"You are worried about him?" Michaela asks gently. With there being no reason to lie, Dean nods. If they know his favorite foods, and his clothing size, they know how he feels about his brother. She reaches out, gripping his arm sympathetically. "Well… we are your devoted servants, Dean. It is not our place to deny you anything. If you truly need to see the boy, I can take you. Put your mind at ease." Dean blinks, shocked at how easily swayed she was. A powerful rush of gratitude floods through Dean, and while he doesn't completely disregard the rest of her words, he just files it away for later. All he needs to know right now is that she said she would take him to Sammy. That's all that matters.
"Please. I just need to see him." Dean asks. She nods thoughtfully.
"Of course. This may even be a blessing." She smiles, and Dean's unease grows, as she turns and starts heading down the hall. "The sooner you see the work we are doing here, the sooner you can join us."
"Join you?" Dean asks, following after her.
"Of course." Michaela looks back at him, grinning. "Servants without a master are like cars without drivers. Stationary. Useless. Directionless. We need you to begin your work, so that we can all be fulfilled." The words are terrifying, and empty. Saying everything and absolutely nothing all at once. Clearly, these people want him for something, but nobody seems to be in any rush to tell him exactly what. Still, maybe Dean can get her to be a little more chatty.
"You keep saying we… who is we?" Dean asks.
"The Children of Michael, of course." Michaela says happily.
"C.O.M…" Dean murmurs.
"Exactly." Michaela beams. "I knew you were smart. I knew you would put it all together. How could you not?"
"So is this… uh…" He hesitates, unsure of exactly what to call it without offending her.
"Family." Michaela supplies. Dean rolls his eyes behind her back.
"This family… what, are you Michael Adam's descendants, or something?" Dean asks.
"No, silly. Well, not most of us. Colton is. The last descendant, actually." Michaela answers. "No, our name comes from a much more important Michael. The first Michael. God's chosen." Dean raises his eyebrows, glancing around at the artwork they are passing as they make their way through the labyrinth of a house. His eyes linger on one portrait, of a kneeling angel, head held high, a crown of stars on his head as three sets of wings extend from his back.
"The Archangel." Dean murmurs.
"The one and only." Michaela hesitates as Dean stops, tilting her head towards the painting. Great, Dean thinks spitefully. It would be just the Winchester's luck, to run afoul of a religious cult. Well, afoul for Sammy. Dean seems to have earned their respect, their reverence. He isn't sure which is worse.
"And uh… what do you want with me?" Dean asks. She looks at him, eyes wide, and soulful. It creeps him out.
"You are our everything." She answers. Well, that isn't ominous. "Come along. Unless, of course, you changed your mind? I would be more than happy to give you a tour of your home, or, find you some different food if you are hungry. You don't to worry about the boy, if that is still your concern. I can assure you that our elders have him well in hand." The way she says the words the boy, again, sends a rush of fury through Dean and before he can help himself, he grabs her, pushing her against the wall. She gasps, her eyes widening in pain and fear as her back slams into the marble. Dean has Sam's knife drawn, and held to her neck before she can blink.
"His name is Sam." Dean snarls. "Not him. Not the boy. Sam fucking Winchester, do you understand me?" Michaela gasps, and Dean presses his knife closer to her neck. "Do you understand me?"
"Now, now, Dean. That isn't necessary." A male voice echoes down the hall, and Dean looks over, pulling out one of his guns in a single smooth motion, aiming it at the newcomer while keeping his knife exactly where it is. Sam's teacher, Baron Mikail. And damn it if Dean isn't getting irritated by all of the fucking Michael's surrounding him by now. Or their variants. Dean studies him warily. He is wearing a long white dress, or robe or whatever, with a golden belt. Like Michaela, he has a golden band around his arm, but unlike her he has a pin on the front of his robe. Dean steadies his aim, flicking off the safety.
"Back off." Dean warns. "Or I shoot. Or slice. I don't really care which." Baron stops, raising his hands in a sign of surrender.
"There is no need to harm anyone Dean." Baron says calmly. "Michaela, apologize to Dean."
"I'm… I'm sorry Dean." Michaela says immediately, meekly, and Dean imagines that she actually would have bowed her head, had there not been a knife against her throat. Dean frowns, the subservience of it making him deeply uncomfortable, uncomfortable enough that it snaps him out of his anger. He steps away from Michaela, lowering the blade, and she sighs, relaxing but keeping a healthy distance from Dean. Good.
"There." Baron smiles slightly, and Dean focuses his attention back on him. "You will have to forgive some of us. Preparation for your arrival can only go so far, the actuality is often quite different from our expectations. Some of us." His eyes linger on Michaela. "Still need to learn that our… perceptions, do not matter."
"Pardon me?" Dean asks in disbelief, his dislike of the man intensifying. While Michaela is definitely… off, definitely too deep into whatever this Children of Michael nonsense is, it is becoming abundantly clear she is a follower. Sammy had explained the psychology of cults to him once. He found them interesting, and so had Dean, despite the endless teasing he had given Sam. But he is grateful, now, that he had actually listened to the kid. According to Sam, there were three types of people in the cult. Followers, like Michaela. The biggest part of a cult, but also the most vulnerable. The ones who were born into a cult, or tricked into one. They were usually the first to leave, the easiest to convince, although that doesn't mean they are any less dangerous. Then there are the devotees. Sort of like… generals. Admirals, maybe. True believers, devoted to the cause entirely. The most dangerous. Dean supposes Michaela could also be one of them, but there is something in the way Baron is treating her, speaking to her, that says differently. And, if Dean's gut is right, Baron himself is the third type. The leader. The one running the entire show. Part of Dean is tempted to pull the trigger right now on him. But his father's teachings stop him. They don't kill humans. Not unless they have to. Still, maybe he could at least deck him, wipe that patronizing smile off his face.
"Our likes and dislikes are of little significance." Baron explains, stepping forward half a step. "Especially in regards to what is important to you, of all people." Dean snorts, scornfully.
"Me again. Because I am your… everything, was it?" Dean glances at Michaela, who nods quickly.
"Exactly." Baron smiles. "Dean, we have been waiting a very, very long time for you. And I am sorry if your welcome hasn't been what you deserve. I hope we can change that. Make things better."
"If you want to make things better, take me to my brother." Dean demands. Baron nods.
"Of course. I will need you to put the gun down, however… we don't want any stray bullets hitting him, now would we?" Baron says carefully. Dean scowls, hearing the unspoken threat. Dean isn't the only one with a gun, then. Figures. Reluctantly, Dean puts the gun back into its holster and sets off towards the man. He smiles brightly, the same sort of reverent, sycophantic smile as Michaela, except deeper, darker. Crueler. Whatever Baron wants from Dean, sees in him, thinks he can get, he isn't doing it for the cause of the Children of Michael. He isn't doing it out of some misguided, or deeply embedded believe system. He is doing it for himself, because he thinks he is going to get something out of it. Some kind of reward, some kind of benefit. Dean follows the man down the hall, down the stairs, past way too many rooms, and he studies him carefully. "I ask that you not judge us too harshly, by what Michaela may or may not have done."
"Should I judge you by the tranquilizer you shot into me, instead?" Dean asks coolly. "I am assuming that's what you used."
"In our defense, you did break into our home." Baron replies.
"Because you wanted us to." Dean counters. Baron smirks.
"Fair enough. We did invite you, in a way. But I assure you, we didn't mean to harm you." Baron says.
"Yeah, I'm getting that." Dean says scornfully. "And Sammy? What did you shoot him up with?"
"We didn't give your brother any drugs." Baron says. Dean glances at him sharply. There is a note of honesty in his voice, but it just makes Dean all the more nervous.
"Then how did you subdue him?" Dean demands. "Sam wouldn't have gone quietly, especially if he saw me get dosed up." Baron glances over at Dean. "Tell me the truth. If I am as important as you seem to think I am, I deserve that much."
"We used a knife." Baron admits, and Dean's blood runs cold, as they descend the main staircase into the massive entry hall of Michael Manor. "Or rather, the threat of a knife. He behaved, when it was at his throat, so we didn't need to use it." Dean looks over, meeting Baron's eyes, fury in his expression, in every fiber of his body. Baron clears his throat, shifting uneasily. "Dean, you must understand… we do not want to harm you. We don't want to endanger you. But we were not prepared last night for both you and your brother. We had assumed you would split up, and we would be able to handle things… more diplomatically. You make a formidable pair, together. So we chose to act conservatively. I deeply apologize." Dean snorts, not buying anything the guy is saying for even a second. They cross the entrance way, and Dean's stomach sinks as he recognizes the path they are taking.
"You kept him in the basement?" Dean asks, his anger showing in his voice, his hand drifting back to his gun. "What, only got one bedroom in this hell house?"
"If you object to his lodgings, we can of course adjust it." Baron says diplomatically. Dean wonders how diplomatic he can be without his teeth. Clenching his fists tightly to control himself, Dean forces himself not to act, as every step brings them towards the staircase that he and Sammy had descended last night. Until he sees Sammy, until he knows what threats his brother is facing, he has to stay in control. But, as he and Baron start descending, this time into a lightened space instead of the darkness, flashes of memory come back to Dean. Of an altar. Odd writing on the walls. And a cage. If he hadn't had years of practice, Dean might have dissolved into a rage, or even a flurry of anxiety and panic. But he was a seasoned hunter, and keeping his cool, his head, in dangerous, unpredictable and infuriating circumstances was a needed skill. He is certainly putting it to good use now. After what feels like an eternity, they reach the bottom of the stairs, and, almost reluctantly, Dean turns to face the room. His stomach drops immediately, and he has to fight the urge to throw up. He had expected, those last couple of steps, to find Sam in the cage. Scared, maybe. Upset. Locked up, but unharmed. Baron even said, they didn't use the knife. Why did Dean think that meant they hadn't hurt Sammy? Dean hears Sam's words in his head again. How he felt like something was off with his teacher. Like he disliked him. Over and over again the words play, like poison in his mind, as he takes in his baby brother. The baby brother he promised to protect. To save. The baby brother who, in the course of only one night, has gone from a happy, healthy teenager, smiling and content from a wonderful birthday… to a mess. Pale, and shaking, two of those silver robed assholes, with stupid pins on their cloaks, have him on his knees in the middle of the room, surrounded by water stains, and a couple of metal buckets. Still in last night's clothes, he is soaking wet, shivering, his hands clasped in his lap. Dean about chokes when he sees nasty, fresh looking burns and bruises on his wrists, holes in his shirt and burn marks peaking out from them, and vivid burns on his neck. The latter ones looking as if they are from some kind of taser. Dean glances towards the cage, where the manacles and a goddamn collar are laying, and suddenly Dean has a horrible idea of how Sammy got the burns on his wrist. By the amount of chains, he has a feeling Sammy's ankles have a matching set. "Samuel." Dean flinches at Baron's voice, having completely forgotten his presence in the face of the evidence of how Sammy spent the night, while he was sleeping in a comfortable bed. Sam flinches as well, his eyes, pupils blown, wide with terror and pain, peeking up through his sweaty, soaking hair. "What did we practice this morning?" Sam's eyes, haunted and pleading, flicker towards Dean, before he slowly, carefully, sets something down on the floor. Dean looks down as Sam slides it towards him. A small, silver key. Confused, Dean looks up to see Sam casting terrified glances at the men around him, before looking back at Dean, taking a quick, pained breath.
"I'm… I'm sorry De. For stealing the key to your precious." Sam whispers. "Er. Precious car, I mean." A moment of shock hits Dean, as powerful as his confusion at why on Earth Sam would be apologizing for a gift, before the code hits Dean and he swallows. Precious. Named after the weird, crouching, mumbling creature from those Lord of the Rings books Sam adores, and that Dean reads to him whenever he is sick. It means Sam is playing a role. Like Smeagol changes into Gollum, Sam is changing into someone else. Putting on a role in order to survive. And Dean grows more terrified at the thought. Just what exactly have these bastards been doing to him? What do they want with him? And what do they want with Dean? Besides, of course, him being their everything.
