Language Advisory* Swearing ahead. Like, a lot. Dean becomes a full on sailor in this one. Or truck driver, depending on your preference for "person who swears a lot" analogies.
Chapter Text
Overpowering rage courses through Dean as he meets his brother's gaze, washing away his terror and his confusion. All he can see is his little brother, hurt. His kid brother, shivering, burned, bruised and dead exhausted, kneeling on the ground, staring back at him with wide, terrified and yet utterly relieved eyes, apologizing. Freaking apologizing, for his own birthday gift. It doesn't matter that he is giving Dean a code. That he is warning Dean, in as subtle a way as he can in front of their captors, the brilliant little nerd that he is. It doesn't matter, because there are a million ways Sammy could have worked the word precious into a sentence. A million. But apologizing? For supposedly stealing from Dean? Something both Dean and Sammy know very well wasn't theft? No, that has these assholes' motivation written all over it. They wanted Sam to apologize. They saw him as a thief, and, if Sammy's appearance is anything to go by, they hurt him, tortured him, to get him to say what they wanted him to. Was that the role Sammy was playing then? Giving them the version of himself they wanted to see? It's a dangerous role to play, and tricky, walking the line between letting them hurt you enough for it to be believable when you 'break', and keeping yourself together enough to remember what you are actually trying to do, a line even Dean and his father can sometimes struggle with, the few times they have chosen to play it. And for Sammy to have to do it? The very idea of Sammy having to assume that role, of having to submit himself to a little torture now, to save himself from even more down the road, makes Dean sick to his stomach. The kid is sixteen. These bastards tortured a sixteen year old, for what? A stupid freaking key? That was given to him in the first place? Dean clenches his hands into fists, tapping his right fist against his leg twice to signal to Sammy that he got his message, Dean turns his most vicious glare on Baron and the other Dead Men Walking, a glare he reserves only for those stupid enough to mess with his brother.
"What the hell happened to him?! Who did this?" Dean demands.
"Your Children." Baron answers smoothly. That pulls Dean up short. His what? He blinks once, trying to figure out if he had heard the asshole correctly, before Baron is walking over and taking a stand behind Sammy. "We wanted to prove our loyalty to you, and only you, Dean. We have the greatest respect for you, and we will not allow anyone, least of all this… thing, to act against you. Even such petty theft is a crime that will not be tolerated." His slimy, sales-pitchy, fervent words are rage-inducing enough, his calling Sammy a thing, even more so, but what finally causes Dean to snap, Sam's plan whatever it is be damned, is when the fucker puts his hand on Sammy's head and the kid flinches. Fucking flinches, as if expecting to be hurt. Again. Whipping out his pistol, he quickly fires off two shots before any of the Children, or even Sammy can react. He can't take out Baron, not with him standing behind Sammy, a hand still on his head. He won't risk Sammy getting caught in the crossfire, no matter how good of a marksman Dean is, since he doesn't doubt the asshat has several tricks up his sleeve that could backfire on both of the Winchesters if he makes the wrong move. Instead, he aims for each of the sycophants standing on either side of Sammy, taking out one's left leg, and the other's right. Or, he aimed for their legs, anyways. To his horror, the bullets disappear a split second before they find their mark, only for two spots of red to start blossoming through Sammy's jeans.
"Gah!" Sammy screams, throwing his head back as agony rips across his face, his eyes squeezing shut as his hands automatically move to cover his thighs, deep red staining the skin of his palms almost instantly.
"Sammy!" Dean yells, his eyes widening in guilt and terror as he realizes that his baby brother just took the bullets intended for the two douchbags. Dropping his gun without thought, he rushes to his brother's side, kneeling next to him, his hands grabbing Sammy's face. "I'm so sorry! Sammy, I'm sorry. I'm sorry." Sam is panting now, trying desperately to catch his breath as tears pour down the kid's cheeks.
"It's… it's okay." Sammy whispers breathlessly, glancing up at Dean with pain-filled eyes, wide with fear and forgiveness. And damn if that doesn't break Dean's heart entirely. Ripping off his flannel shirt, Dean rips shreds of it, gently pushing his brother's hands away as he takes a look at the two new bullet wounds in Sammy's legs. Swallowing back bile, Dean sees they are the exact hits he had intended to put in the cultists. Muscle hits, avoiding any major arteries, intending to incapacitate without killing. Thank fucking God Dean hadn't gone for a headshot. Still, the bullets had gone straight through Sammy, and Dean catches a glimpse of them dully reflecting the light of the basement, gleaming red with Sam's blood. Looking up at Baron and the others, who are watching Dean silently, eyes gleaming with curiosity and, in Baron's case, a hint of malicious satisfaction, Dean feels a wave of rage try to wash over him again, but he struggles to contain it. Sammy needs him more than he needs to clock the assholes. Not that Dean would dare try to hurt them again, until he figures out what the hell just happened. Still, as Dean quickly wraps the strips of fabric from his shirt tightly around Sam's wounds, trying to staunch the flow of blood as his brother grows steadily more pale and his breathing steadily more labored, he can't help the bite of venom in his voice as he snaps at their captors.
"Are you just going to fucking stand there?" Dean demands. "I need a first aid kit. Now!" Immediately, one of the robed dicks starts to leave, striding almost obediently from the basement, climbing the steps two at a time. Dean turns a half-hearted smile to his brother. "It's okay Sammy, you are going to be just fine. I promise." Sam tries to give a small smile back, though it is more like a grimace than anything, enhanced by the small whimper of pain that escapes through his clenched teeth.
"Don't worry, Dean. He won't bleed out. You are an excellent shot." Baron says calmly, as if there isn't a broken and bleeding teenager kneeling in front of him, and he isn't creepily resting a hand on said teenager's head. Dean glares daggers at the bastard.
"What the hell was that?" He demands. His eyes catch on the weird looking symbols around the room, and he suddenly wonders just how human these people actually are. Are they dealing with witches? Demons, maybe? Whatever they are, that was some seriously powerful mojo, to redirect a wound like that. Baron sighs, as if his life plan has had some mild inconvenience crop up suddenly. Hatred for him surges in Dean.
"I was really hoping we wouldn't have to deal with this now. I was hoping we could be a little more civil, but it seems you are as trigger happy as the stories say." Baron says, smiling in a paternal way as if to lighten the criticism with fondness. Instead, it just makes Dean's skin crawl. "Samuel, be a good boy and explain the rules." Dean's eyes immediately flash to Sammy's, which are half-closed at this point, a mixture of pain, fear and exhaustion glazing them over.
"It's a… transference spell…" Sam mumbles, Dean having to strain to understand him. "Enochian, I think." The blood loss must really be effecting Sam, that or the sheer exhaustion. Or maybe the previous torture he clearly endured. Dealer's choice, Dean supposes, watching as his normally quick, confident, clever brother fights for every inch of consciousness he can get, blinking hard to try and stay focused on the conversation.
"Enochian?" Dean asks, confused. The phrase is somewhat familiar. Maybe Bobby mentioned it once? Or Pastor Jim? Sam answers though, before Dean can place the familiarity himself.
"Angel… language." Sam answers, coughing weakly and groaning. Dean grabs his hand, squeezing it comfortingly, and encouragingly, as he continues to monitor the blood seeping into Sammy's jeans, and wondering where the hell his first aid kit is. "Protects… protects the Children." He glances up at Dean there, a bit of anger sparking in the kid's expression. "Sigils, they… transfer… pain. From… the protected, to a… a target." Dean squeezes his brother's hand once more before glaring at the two men towering over them.
"You fucking cowards turned my brother into a human shield? You are using a teenager to hide behind and protect yourselves?" Dean whispers, his voice slipping into a low, deadly calm tone that usually signals a brutal death, or a severe fucking beatdown at a minimum. Right now, though, Dean is leaning towards a vicious murder or three. Once he figured out how to break this transference spell, that is. Dean might not have a 4.0 GPA like Sammy, or a high school degree, but he knows enough to realize what Sammy is saying. These psychopaths have blocked themselves. Any harm that comes to them, gets redirected to Sammy. A bullet to the leg, a few dozen well-earned punches to the face… or, God forbid, something more fatal. Dean had heard about magic that strong before, but it didn't come from angels. This was witchcraft, plain and simple. Powerful witchcraft, but not any divine bullshit. More than likely, it is demon powered. Either some asshat here has made a deal, sold their soul for a bit of a juice up, or they are dabbling in the black arts with the help of one of the black-eyed bitches.
"We are simply taking precautions, Dean." Baron says calmly, as if in any possible way his actions are justified. "We want to keep everyone safe, while you adjust. We know it can be… upsetting, to transition to a new home, a new way of life… this is just a way to help you remember to keep your temper in check." Dean pulls his hand away from Sam's, scared of breaking his brother's hand from the force of gripping it any tighter, as fury courses through him. Screw this guy. Screw his new life and new home bullshit. Screw his fancy packaging, and trick words. Dean sees right through it all. This isn't about protecting anyone at all, not really. This is about controlling Dean, keeping him in check, by putting his brother on the front line. And the worst part, the annoying, frustrating, infuriating truth is that it is going to work. Because Dean can't fight back, can't take a swing at these fuckers, when it is Sammy who will be taking the hits. Dean glares, angry but impotently, up at the history teacher, as footsteps echo behind them, and then someone starts descending the staircase. "Ah, Colton." Dean's head snaps to the side as the name hits his ears. Colton? As in, Davidson? The one who is supposed to be dead? Dean takes in the approaching figure, the robed man who had left when Dean asked for a first aid kit, and who, from the looks of the white and red case he is carrying, actually did bring him one. Dean glances back at Sam, meeting the kid's weary gaze and subtly raising his eyebrow. And Sam, knowing exactly what Dean is wordlessly asking, nods once, confirming Dean's theory. Fantastic. So the murders were… staged? Faked? Which would mean this whole thing, this weird, creepy scheme to capture Dean and Sam was, what, sixteen years in the making? The idea is absurd. And yet, Dean's hunter gut is telling him he is right on the money. Whatever is happening here, it is a whole lot bigger than roughing up Sam, and for some reason, treating Dean like some kind of VIP. But Dean will have to look into what exactly might be happening later. Right now he has to get Sammy stitched up. The guy, Colton, kneels beside Dean, offering the first aid kit like a sacrifice to some pagan god, and God, did Dean wish he didn't have actual memories of seeing that exact thing play out once or twice before. Shooting a look of utter disgust at the man, Dean snatches the kit quickly, and rips it open, looking for the suture kit. "Malcolm, Colton, come. Let us let Dean attend to what he needs to… Dean, we will be back in about half an hour, with more… suitable arrangements for Samuel. Something more to your approval."
"Good." Dean spits out, although he isn't at all reassured by the man's words. If anything, he feels more anxious, at the idea that these men would leave him alone with Sammy. They must be pretty damn confident that they aren't going to try to escape, even considering Sam's current condition. Once again, Dean can't help but wonder just what exactly happened to Sam last night. Last night, while he had been sleeping safe and sound in a massive, comfortable bed, he thinks to himself, awash in fresh guilt. Finding some disinfectant wipes, some antibiotics, a cloth, the needle and thread, and a small mountain of gauze and tape, Dean watches the three robed men disappear up the stairs. And then, Sam whimpers in distress again, and Dean refocuses all his attention on his baby brother. Pulling his knife out, Dean cuts through the blood-drenched denim and the temporary bandage on one of Sam's legs, flinching as he sees what he did to his brother. "Sam…" He begins. Sam shakes his head.
"Don't." He mutters. "Not… not your fault." Dean scowls, disagreeing, but not wanting Sam to waste his energy on arguing. Once Sam's wound is exposed, Dean sets about cleaning it, flinching every time Sam whimpers, or groans, or cringes under Dean's careful ministrations. Once the wound is cleaned enough to hopefully avoid infection, Sam carefully, but quickly sets about stitching up both the entrance and exit wounds from the bullet, skilled, practiced fingers working the needle and thread with the experience of someone who has stitched his brother together a thousand times before. He cleans both sides of the wound once more, before wrapping and bandaging it carefully. Once the one leg is done, Dean efficiently moves onto the next, repeating the same procedure. Thanks to his hunting experience, Dean has Sam as patched up as he can possibly make him with such a small amount of supplies with ten minutes. Ideally, with wounds like this, Dean would have taken Sam directly to the hospital, but that isn't an option right now, so Dean just focuses on what he can do. "You're getting better." Sam teases weakly. Dean glances at him, and he looks a little better. Still shaking, still tired and pale from blood loss, still terrified and hurting, since the first aid kit doesn't have any painkillers, but he doesn't look on the verge of passing out anymore. Small miracles.
"Yeah well, with a klutz like you for a little brother, I get lots of practice." Dean teases Sam, who snorts, shaking his head slightly as if in mild annoyance. With Sam, at least for the moment, no longer in danger of bleeding out, Dean turns his attention to the rest of his body, studying and cataloguing all of the injuries on his brother, adding each one to the list of things these bastards are going to pay for, once Dean gets Sam safely away. The bruises on his wrists and ankles that seem to match the cuffs he can see resting in the cage, the hand shaped marks that speak of too-tight grips on his arms and shoulders, the collar shaped bruising around the kid's neck, the burns across his body and, causing him to swear in at least three different languages including Latin, a horrible looking mark, not all that dissimilar to the etchings on the wall, that seems to have been carved into his little brother's flesh. Dean sees red as he gently traces his fingers over the design, keeping his touch feather-light as he examines the brutal cuts. "Jesus Sammy… what the hell happened last night?" Dean demands. Sam trembles under his fingers.
"They… they call themselves Children of Michael… they think they serve the archangel." Sam whispers. "They… think an angel… an angel with yellow eyes… told Michael Adam to come here, to wait. The… the generations have been… guarding here since… until… the angel told Colton to murder… murder his family. To set a trap for… for us. And he did." Sam's tired, scared eyes find Dean. "He killed them, Dean. Without… without question. For you. All of this is for you… the murders, the… the hunt, luring… luring us here, the house, the people. It's… it's all for you. They want to serve you."
"How do you know all this?" Dean asks gently.
"They… they told me. Last night." Sam answers. Dean reaches over to the kit, getting some more of the wipes as he studies the cuts, trying to judge how best to clean the wound, while minimizing how much it is going to suck for Sammy. But, realizing that no matter which way Dean does it, it is going to feel like pouring salt into the open wound, Dean decides to go with a tried and tested fallback.
"Hey Sammy." He says softly.
"Hm?" Sam mumbles.
"What kind of test would a vampire give as a teacher?" Dean asks. Sam tilts his head, looking back over at Dean who is hovering behind him, hiding the disinfectant wipe as he meets Sammy's confused gaze as he tries to process Dean's question.
"I don't know, what?"
"A blood test." Dean grins. Sam blinks for half a second, before snorting, a small smile tugging at his lips.
"That's awful." Sam accuses. Dean shrugs, forcing himself not to shift, to give away his plan. He almost always uses two jokes for this. The first joke, to disarm Sam, throw him off balance, and then the second as a distraction.
"Fine, judgy." Dean teases lightly. "Try this one then. Knock-knock." Sam turns his head away, no doubt to roll his eyes, and Dean moves quickly, before Sammy can tense back up again.
"Whose- gah!" Sam starts to speak, before crying out as Dean presses the wipe to the design cut into his flesh. Dean smiles grimly, pleased that he still has it, when it comes to taking care of his brother, but hating the necessity for it, hating these circumstances. "You suck." Sam shoots a half-hearted glare over his shoulder, and Dean chuckles.
"You'll thank me when you don't die of sepsis." Dean retorts, taking the small bottle of antibiotics and reaching around Sam to press them into his hands. "Take two of those." Sam obeys, moving carefully as he lifts the pills to his mouth to swallow them, and trying, Dean notices, to not show how much pain he is actually feeling. Dean frowns as he tends to Sammy's shoulder, finishing cleaning the wound before bandaging it. The bastard who carved it, and Dean has a shrewd idea that it was Baron himself, was careful in how he did it, not deep enough for the cuts to need stitches, but deep enough that it wouldn't heal for a while. The thought is enraging, but also confusing. What exactly do these people have against Sammy? It can't just be that the kid is a hunter. Sure, he can fight, and handle himself in combat. He can shoot, throw knives and axes, and take down guys double his size, when the bastards don't gang up on him with tasers and chains and knives. But the same thing could be said about Dean. In fact, with Dean being bigger, taller, and having more experience, he was an even bigger threat than Sammy. So what do all of these people- Michaela, Baron, Colton- have against the kid? Once Sam's shoulder is taken care of, Dean fixes his shirt, though it is nearly as badly ruined as the kid's pants, and helps shift Sam into a slightly more comfortable position, pulling him in tight against his side. Screw the no chick-flick rules, his brother needs him. Clearly, because the usually proudly independent teenager doesn't pull away, or make a snide comment. He snuggles, literally snuggles, deeper against Dean, wrapping his good arm tightly around Dean and burying himself against Dean's chest and neck, the way he used to as a toddler. And Dean lets him, no mocking, no teasing, no big brother jests. He just pulls his kid a little closer. Because Sam is hurt, and scared, and clearly more informed on what is going on than Dean is, which means Dean has to ask an uncomfortable question, and the least he can do is offer his brother some kind of comfort in return. "Hey Sammy…"
"Yeah?" Sam asks softly.
"Why are they hurting you like this?" Dean asks. The kid tenses in Dean's arm, and Dean looks down to see hesitation and terror in the kid's expression. He bites his lips, as if weighing his answer, and that right there tells Dean enough. These bastards have gotten under Sam's skin somehow, gotten into his head. Otherwise, Dean never would have even had to ask, Sam just would have told him.
"They… they think I'm a monster." Sam whispers, each word carefully picked, as his eyes flash towards the stairs. Like he is waiting for something to come hurt him if he says the wrong thing. "They think… that I'm… controlling you. That I hurt you. St…stole from you." Tears fill the kids eyes and he glances back at Sam, scared, but also with a determined look in his expression, that reminds Dean so much of their father. It's the hunter look, the seen-too-much-crap look, the ready-for-battle look. It makes Sam seem so much older, more experienced, than he is, and while it's a look that Dean knows his father is excited that Sam finally has, Dean hates it. He hates seeing the kid look so grown up, but, at the moment, he is willing to overlook it, because it means that Sam is ready to do his part to get them out of here. Hell, the kid has already started doing his part, playing the broken, subservient follower that they clearly want to make him. And, as angry as it makes Dean, the kid is playing it well. He certainly looks broken, and unnaturally submissive, curled up as he is against Dean, beaten and bleeding… and shivering. The kid huddles closer to Dean, his skin icy, and no wonder. He still looks soaked through, and the basement isn't exactly a sauna. Dean takes the silent cue from his brother, and starts rubbing his kid's arms, trying to give him a little bit of the warmth back that those white-robed assholes have robbed him of. Sam smiles gratefully up at Dean, before the smile falters, fading away to a grimace, and he looks down at his hands which are playing with the shreds of his jeans. "They… are teaching me my… my new role." Sam glances down, as a little bit of the fear starts to overwhelm the determination in his expression, and all at once, that incredibly tough, strong, hunter's look fades from his face, and he looks exactly like what he is- a terrified kid, in way over his head, trying to just keep himself together in a situation specifically designed to tear him apart. And Dean feels relieved, even if that makes him a monster and a terrible big brother, because at the very least it's Sam being honest. Not hiding away what he is feeling, for Dean's sake, or someone else's. It's just authentically, Sam. Besides, Sam is a kid. He's supposed to be freaked out in situations like this. He's allowed to be afraid, and he's allowed to be miserable. Hell, if Dean had Sam's injuries, he would either be cursing out the bastards, or drowning in the misery of what has to be pure agony coursing through him. But here Sammy is, still fighting. Still trying. Still clinging to that formidable wealth of inner strength that the kid has always had, the kind of strength that Dean and even their father have never even had. Dean honestly doesn't know where he gets it from, but he has never stopped being in awe of it. Dean gently squeezes his brother's shoulders, meeting his brother's eyes. He tries to pour everything that it is too dangerous to say out loud into his expression, so that Sam knows how proud his brother is of him. And that, however Sam wants to play this, going forward, Dean has his back. Sam smiles, a weak, watery smile of gratitude, and takes a deep breath. Both of them glance towards the stairs as they hear the smallest of creeks. Less paranoid, or maybe the better word would be experienced, people might dismiss it as an odd sound in a way too big house that just happens to be full of lunatics, but both Winchesters know that it means whatever little privacy they may have had, is now gone. But, as experienced as they are, they shift seamlessly into the charade they need to perform, Dean happily allowing Sam to take the lead "Dean, I… I am sorry. For controlling you." Sam whispers, pulling up those hunter walls again, to hide how scared and uncertain he really is, while somehow maintaining that perfect air of innocent meekness. Dean frowns, carefully arranging his features into a mask of confusion.
"What do you mean, Sammy?" Dean asks softly. Sam looks down at his hands.
"I've been selfish. Keeping… keeping you to myself." Sam whispers, his voice a heartbreaking melody of agony, tiredness, and resignation, and then, under that, something more. Something deeper. "You… you belong here."
"What?" Dean demands sharply, not entirely sure he is pretending anymore. There is something too… real, about the way Sam is acting. Something in the fear radiating off of him that is deeper than some maybe-witches, or maybe-demons. Whatever happened last night went beyond just a beating. Sam is scared, in a way that he never has been before. Not on hunts, not at new schools, not even the time Dad found out that he had skipped training to go to a nerd chick's college prep group. "The hell are you talking about?"
"Dean." Sam looks up then, his eyes boring into Dean's with an intensity that could rival any psycho cult leader, or vicious vampire, or starving wendigo, but instead of malice or sadism or evil, Sam is desperate. Pleading. "This… this is your home now. I… I am sorry I didn't see that sooner, but.. but you have to stay. These… these are your… people." Dean stares into Sam's eyes, his own tightening ever so slightly at his brother's expression. He glances towards the stairs, feeling the lingering presences there, no doubt listening to every word spoken, and he has a feeling that whatever happens next, what happens to Sam next, depends on his answer. Sam grips Dean's shirt, with a pathetic amount of strength in his normally nearly unbreakable hold. It's a sobering reminder of how weak Sam has gotten in just a day. Frowning, not wanting Sam to waste any strength he might be needing for whatever else these bastards have in store for them, Dean gently puts his hand over Sammy's.
"Okay Sammy… okay." He says gently, nodding. Sam keeps that desperate look in his eyes. "You… you might be right. I mean… I think this place has a pool, and a hot tub, so, clearly it can't be all bad." Sam snorts softly, his panic easing ever so slightly. "But, you are my people to, okay? We'll find a place for you… like you said, you have a new role right? If you play yours, I'll play mine." As if that had been the cue they were waiting for, a group of people begin descending down the stairs, swarming into the basement. Sam lets out a small groan of terror, and Dean holds him closer automatically. First down the stairs is Baron, and the crazy chick, Michaela, is right on his heels, followed by Colton, Rodney and a bunch of other people Dean isn't sure he knows the names of.
"How are we doing down here?" Baron asks pleasantly. Dean shoots a frustrated glare at him, but somehow manages to keep the murderous intent out of it this time. A lifetime of professionalism can come in handy, apparently. But, as Dean studies their captors, a bolt of inspiration hits him. He just promised Sam he would play his role, right? Well, if these people want him to play the role of their leader, he might as well spin it to his advantage. Squeezing Sammy's good shoulder one last time, Dean gently extracts himself from the kid, standing up to his full and considerable height, lifting his head proudly.
"How are we doing down here?" Dean snaps. "Is that a joke?" Instantly, wariness crosses Baron's face, while fear enters the eyes of everyone else. "Are Sam's quarters finally ready?" Ignoring Baron intentionally, Dean focuses his attention on Colton. A murderous sociopath he might be, but he has clearly drunk the Kool-Aid, and could be exactly what Dean needs right now. Snapping to attention, with a mix of delight and terror at receiving Dean's focus, Colton steps forward.
"Yes Sir." He says emphatically.
"It's not a fucking cage again, is it?" Dean growls, causing several of the Children of Michael to step back, shifty, anxious looks crossing their expressions. Some look guilty, others confused, as if they never considered that Dean might be upset with their brutalization of his brother.
"No, Sir." Colton bows. Actually freaking bows, as if Dean is some kind of king, or god. He feels a small smirk cross his face at the absurdity of it. Dean glances at his brother, the smirk fading as he realizes that Sam should be laughing his ass off at someone bowing to Dean. He should be sending Dean snippy quips about getting a big head, or making people physically nauseas with his face, and the bows are just people throwing up. Typical little brother mocking. But in a testament to how crappy he feels, to how serious this mess is, Sam is silent, keeping his head down, and his eyes to the floor, his hands once again in his lap. The very picture of submission, and the complete antithesis of Sam Winchester, rebellious little shit who never makes things easy, and constantly needs to make his voice heard, and opinion known. The sight of it pisses Dean off, and he channels that anger into his glower towards the Davidson guy. "The room has been set up on the floor below yours, Sir."
"Bring me there." Dean commands, bending down and carefully, gently, lifting his brother into his arms. Sam whimpers, cringing as pain flashes across his face, and Dean fights down the urge to comfort him, to reassure him the way he wants to. Instead, he simply adjusts his hold, carrying Sam bridal style, since he doesn't want to agitate the wounds in his legs, and tucking the memory away to mock Sam with a few years from now.
"Dean, you don't need to do that." Baron says dismissively. "The boy can walk."
"It's Sir." Dean replies coldly, meeting his gaze evenly. "You can call me Sir, Baron. And his name is Sam. Not Samuel, not Boy, not Thing. Sam." Dean shoots a furious look at each Child. "If anyone calls him anything other than Sam, you'll have me to deal with. Understand?"
"Yes, Sir." They all chorus in perfect unison, as if they had been trained for this moment since birth. Even Baron joins in, although Dean sees exactly what he has been looking for. The slightest of hesitations, of pauses. Dean smirks.
"Good. Then lead the way." Dean orders, and he is slightly surprised to find out how much he is enjoying the way they leap to obey. Of course, he knows that it is only to a point. He can't go crazy, or get power-hungry, not yet, but still… he is making headway. Maybe this is what Sam is wanting from him, to Trojan Horse this bitch, and use whatever influence he can get over these people to help them escape. And even if that isn't what Sammy is thinking, it isn't a horrible plan. As Colton hurries towards the stairs, and Dean follows with his brother safely in his arms, Dean thinks about how best he can use his position to bring these sons of bitches down. And then he smirks, pausing, and forcing every Child behind him to pause as well as his eyes find Baron's. Baron, the natural leader of the cult, at least as far as Dean can tell, is the biggest threat, the one that really matters in the grand scheme of things. And sure, once Dean finds a way to break the spell with Sammy, he can and definitely will take out the smug dick in as violent a way as he can, but death isn't enough for the monster who tortured and harassed his baby brother. No, Dean is going to do more than just kill him. He is going to destroy him. Tear down everything the man stands for, his entire life's work, and leave him with absolutely nothing. And only then, when Baron has lost everything, lost his position in this hellish cult, the privileges that go with it, his entire purpose, will Dean finally grant him the mercy of death. And, with that slight hesitation in Baron that Dean has already noticed, he knows that the history teacher is picking up on the fact that things are changing. Now that the purpose of the cult has arrived, in the form of one petty, vindictive and protective big brother named Dean Winchester, Baron is no longer the most important person here. And Dean is going to make sure everyone knows it. Smiling smugly, and holding his now passed out, dead-tired brother close to his chest, safe in his arms, Dean stares Baron down. "Oh, and you. Pick up my gun. Put it back in my room for me, and then clean up this mess. It's filthy down here." Dean drawls out the order, making it as arrogant as he possibly can. Baron's eyes flash with something too quick for Dean to make out, but there is a definite chill, and cautiousness, in the man's smile.
"Yes Sir." Baron says slowly. With one last cocky grin at the asshole, Dean turns and follows Colton upstairs, leaving the dank, bloody torture chamber behind, a new sense of confidence pulsing through Dean's now racing heart. But racing from anticipation of what's to come, or dread, Dean isn't entirely sure.
