Sam was fairly certain that the next time he opened his eyes he was going to find himself in a cage in some deranged hillbilly family’s barn. That was one of the reasons that he avoided opening his eyes for several moments after the first teasing hints of consciousness. Another reason was that his head was throbbing mercilessly and he was afraid that he was going to throw up at any moment…which would be a very bad thing considering that it seemed that something had been jammed into his mouth to keep him from calling out for help. The main reason he kept them closed, though, was that he didn’t want to alert anyone else that he was awake; not until he could collect his thoughts, gain his bearings, and develop a plan of escape.
As he became more conscious, Sam realized that he was somehow being held upright. His body weight was being supported entirely by his wrists, which were aching both from the strain of his weight and from the excruciatingly tight wire binding them to some sort of metal bar that extended over his head. Instinct was to try and get his feet solidly on the ground to take over the weight, but to do so would reveal his conscious state, so he forced himself to remain still.
Taking a mental inventory of his body, he was disappointed to discover that his morning hadn’t just been some sort of weird hallucination. He hadn’t miraculously transformed back to his natural body. He took only minimal comfort in the fact that aside from the knot on the back of his head, he was basically unharmed. And at least his clothing, scant as it was, was still intact.
Sam listened carefully, relaxing only slightly as he established that wherever he was, he was most likely alone. There were no sounds of movement, no sounds of breathing. No sounds at all, really, except for the soft dripping of a leaky pipe. It was cold, and he could feel no tell-tale signature of heat from the sun shining upon him, so he figured it was either night time, or he was being held in an area with no windows. He inhaled slowly, concentrating on not showing disgust on his face as he was nearly overwhelmed by the stench lingering in the room. There was a very unpleasant human odor, though Sam was fairly sure that it was the residual scent of someone that had, for the time being anyway, backed off since it was nearly overpowered by the repulsive aromas of mold, rotting food, and general filth.
Satisfied that he was not being observed, Sam cautiously opened his eyes, carefully shifted his legs under him, and planted his feet firmly on the floor, transferring the weight off his overstraining arms. He couldn’t lower them, but at least it helped alleviate the pressure. He tested the strength of the bar his wrists were bound to and was disappointed, but not surprised, to find that it was pretty solid. He’d need to loosen the wire to get his wrists free. He winced as he tried to adjust their position and felt the wire biting into his already raw skin. There was absolutely no give in the tension. Damn.
He took a few moments to take stock of his situation. He wasn’t, as he’d feared, in a cage. Nor was he in a barn. He realized quickly, however, that he was being held in some deranged hillbilly family’s basement. With only a small amount of light trickling in from a nearly covered window near the ceiling, Sam could see that rusty tools, soggy piles of old newspapers, and mounds of garbage filled most of the available space in the dank cellar. He wondered briefly if his captors had to shovel out a spot for him.
If he could get to them, there were three potential exits to his filthy prison, he assessed. The window, he decided, was probably too small. He might be able to get through, but he’d risk getting stuck, and if he only got one chance at escape, he’d need to be able to move fast. That left the staircase leading up presumably into the rest of the hillbilly house; certainly an option, but not the most desirable one. The third exit was the most promising means of escape: an old storm cellar door, likely leading directly outside. It could be jammed shut from the outside, he knew, but he was banking on the fact that they probably weren’t too concerned that he’d be able to even get to the door, bound as he was.
That was a problem he was going to have to remedy fast. He looked up at the pipe, seeking weak spots, or possibly a way to dismantle it. He could see where it was screwed into a u-bend spacer and smirked as glancing in the other direction revealed the same thing. Perfect. He couldn’t risk getting caught, so he hesitated for a few moments, listening carefully for any sign that someone was coming. Hearing nothing, he set to work. He gripped the bar as best he could with the awkward angle his bound wrists allowed, and tried to twist it, hoping to be able to unscrew the bar from the u-bends. Once he got it unscrewed, he’d be able to slide the wire right off the end, and as soon as he was able to lower his arms, he figured, he’d be able to get to the blade the morons had thankfully not bothered to remove from his boot. Unfortunately, the bar didn’t want to budge. “Damn it,” he cursed around the gag in his mouth as he tried again, unsuccessfully.
Not being able to remove the bar complicated matters, but he refused to give up. He tried pulling at the wire again, hoping to loosen it enough to slip his hands free, but it was much too tight with absolutely no give. Pulling harder resulted only in the wire digging further into his skin.
Well crap.
He let out a frustrated hiss and stopped pulling, afraid he would cause irreparable damage.
Still, he was determined to get free before his captors returned. He didn’t even want to think about who had brought him there or why. He had a fairly good idea about the answers to both of those questions, though he hoped he was wrong on at least the “why” factor. If he could get his hands free, he’d no doubt be able to handle the “who”. The problem was he didn’t seem to be making progress on his escape.
He thought for a moment, his eyes darting toward the stairwell first to make sure he was still being unobserved, and then scouting the room for anything that might be of help. Nothing that he’d be able to get to, he silently fumed.
Then again, he considered for a moment, it wasn’t like his legs were chained in any way. Maybe…he closed his eyes and centered his focus. He could do this. He took a deep breath and mentally prepared himself for the added pain he was probably about to inflict on his wrists. He gripped the bar again and began to swing his body, at first only enough to gather momentum, then with greater purpose. He grit his teeth and with a fierce determination he swung his legs up until at last he was able to capture the bar, grinning ferally as he managed to hook his ankles around it to keep hold. For a moment he hung there, regaining his breath and listening again to make sure he hadn’t aroused any suspicion.
That was half the battle; now, the hard part.
He slowly slid his feet closer to his bound hands, cursing the way the dress Dean had stuck him with hung obscenely high on his body. He was alone, so he knew it shouldn’t matter, but it made him ever more conscious of the direness of his situation. Though he had to reluctantly admit that his new body seemed more flexible and agile, muscles he wasn’t used to working began to argue with him. He pressed on until his ankles nearly met his wrists and the knife’s handle was within reach.
And then the worst happened.
He realized his error just a moment too late.
Time seemed to freeze as the blade slipped from its sheath. He scrambled, trying to grab onto it, but the wire had no give and he couldn’t quite reach. He almost involuntarily let out a small cry of defeat as the knife clattered to the ground.
No! He stared at it, his jaw drooping as he watched it skitter across the cement floor and come to rest what may as well have been miles away. The horror of the moment sank in as he heard the unmistakable sound of a door closing in the distance, followed by the creaking of someone walking the floor above him. He’d blown what might have been his only chance at escape. No no no. He began pulling at his wrists in desperation, clenching his teeth and fighting through the pain as his skin tore and blood began trickling down his arms.
He heard the door slamming again and then heard the muffled sound of voices. And laughter. He froze as after a few moments he heard the screech of the un-oiled door hinges at the top of the stairs open. His heart began to pound as he heard footsteps on the stairs. He let his legs drop to the ground and tensed his body, ready to fight with everything he had, limited as it was. He felt the hair on the back of his neck raise as his captors approached. He twisted his neck around to glare at them as they neared. Let them know he wasn’t scared of them, even if he was just a little bit.
“Not feeling quite so smart now, are you, Girlie?” one of them asked; Sam still didn’t know which one was Brady and which was Kyle, not that it really mattered. He steeled himself, refusing to even flinch as the creep reached toward him.
“Touch me and I will kill you,” he ground out through the gag. Though he knew his words were unintelligible, the fury in his eyes spoke volumes. He was satisfied to note the thug’s hesitation and hasty withdraw, but unfortunately the reprieve did not last long. The jackals were circling and Sam found he couldn’t keep his eyes on both of them at once. He grit his teeth and held his ground defiantly, waiting for his chance to strike. He didn’t like the odds. Two against one, he could handle, but not while his hands were tied to the damn bar, and not when one mistake could cost him dearly.
“What the…what’s this?” Sam turned his head toward the speaker and scowled as he realized what the man had spotted. His knife. He silently cursed himself as the man stooped to pick it up. His eyes flickered warily over to the other man, keeping his expression icy enough to keep the man at bay. “This yours, Sweetheart?”
Sam’s lip twitched as he bit back a retort that would likely only get him into deeper trouble. Right now he just had to concentrate on keeping his wits and finding the right moment to make his move. Problem was he wasn’t sure he could really do anything more than buy himself some time. He hated to admit it, but what he really needed here was a last minute rescue from Dean. So much for proving that he could handle himself. Damn he’d been so stupid to let them get the drop on him.
“Were you going to cut me, bitch?” the man hissed, turning the blade over in his hand. Sam sensed the change in the atmosphere and tensed, ready for the assault. He watched the man’s eyes and waited, hoping that his other attacker wasn’t smart enough to take a shot while he was clearly occupied. He could afford a fist to the gut, but the knife? It was his favorite one, and he knew it could cut through skin and muscle as though it were paper.
The man lunged and Sam struck, simultaneously dodging the blade and swinging his leg out hard to sweep the man’s legs out from under him. When the man fell, he immediately gripped the bar and swung his legs back, catching the second thug in the gut. The man went down hard, but Sam knew he wouldn’t be down long. Now what? He tried once again to twist the bar out of the u-bend sockets, biting back a yelp as the wire further sliced his skin. Ignoring the pain, he continued his effort. At this point, mangling his wrists might just be the better option.
He almost laughed with relief as he felt the bar move just a hair, the adrenaline pumping through his body granting him a little extra strength. With a little more time, he’d be able to get loose. But the man with the knife was already getting up. “Damn it, Kyle, hold her…” he growled as he started toward Sam again.
Swallowing his fear, Sam waited for the man, Brady he now determined, to get within range then kicked out again, this time catching the man’s wrist and sending the knife flying from his grip. He followed up with another kick, this time to the underside of the man’s jaw. He sensed rather than saw Kyle coming at him and quickly swung his hips, dodging a blow, then swung back, once again knocking the man off his feet.
“Come on!” Sam chided himself as he once again set to trying to loosen the bar. He could feel sweat trickling down his brow, and his arms were beginning to tremble slightly from the strain, and he had to admit, more than a little bit of fear. He felt the bar move a little bit more and adjusted his grip. Just a little bit more, he pleaded silently, trying not to panic as he struggled to free himself before his assailants could ready for another attack. He wasn’t sure how long he’d be able to fend them off before he made a mistake and it would be all over. But there was no time for being pessimistic. He’d win. He had to! The bar began twisting more easily, but Sam was becoming painfully more aware of just how much damage he was doing to his wrists. If he got free, it would be worth it, he reminded himself. “Come on…” His heart leapt as one end of the bar slipped free. He looked up to gauge how much further he had to go. Just a tiny bit more and--
Sam cried out involuntarily as his legs were pulled out from under him. His hands slipped on the bar, once again leaving his wrists to bear his entire weight. The enormity of his mistake hit home as he felt the tip of the knife poke against his throat, breaking the skin just enough for blood to bead at the blade’s edge. He winced as his attacker grabbed a fistful of his hair and jerked his head back further, throwing him even more off balance. He could feel the man’s hot breath against his cheek and turned away, his eyes closing in revulsion as the creep moved closer still, his body flush against Sam’s. Sam’s body tensed as his mind raced frantically, seeking escape. He couldn’t fight, not while there was a knife at his throat. He could only wait for Bumpkin to make one false move. He let his body go slack, hoping that it would cause his attacker’s guard to go down.
“That’s it, girlie,” the vile man whispered in his ear. Sam bit down harder on his gag, but otherwise didn’t respond. He was aware that Kyle was moving in close behind him, and let out a guttural sound of fury as Brady viciously kicked his legs apart.
He flinched as he felt Kyle’s hands on his hips and cringed inwardly at the hot breath on the back of his neck. Bile rose in his throat as the tip of the knife slowly traced a line down his neck until it reached the top of his dress. He couldn’t breathe as he felt the knife blade slide down further, under his dress, the flat edge of the knife pressing against his breast. He flinched again as he heard Brady’s low chuckle at his distress. The man was clearly enjoying the terror he was no longer completely able to hide. Kyle’s hands slid first down his hip, then slowly around, creeping ever so slowly up his inner thigh. The slow movement was maximizing Sam’s terror. He let out a startled cry as Kyle’s fingers suddenly dug brutally into his leg, piercing his stocking and easily ripping the flimsy material away from his flesh and swallowed a miserable sob as he felt his dress being raised. He squeezed his eyes shut as he felt the knife jerk, ripping open the bodice of his dress. The blade slid slowly down again, drawing a thin line between his breasts just barely breaking the skin before it jerked again, cutting open his bra and exposing his breasts to their lecherous desires. He swallowed his humiliation, all too aware of the knife poised back at his throat. He wanted to kick, to fight, but he was in far too precarious a position so long as Brady had the knife.
Please, Dean, help me, he silently begged for the big brother who was always there to protect him. But Dean probably didn’t even know he was gone. He was probably still down in that office flirting with the attendant. Even if he’d come outside, he’d probably seen what was done to his beloved Impala and thought Sam had done it out of anger. He probably didn’t even realize Sam was missing.
He was going to have to get himself out of this. Which meant he was going to have to stay calm. He’d handled far worse than this before, he tried to tell himself. All they were doing was touching him, really, and it wasn’t like it was even his body. Still, no matter how much he wanted to think of it that way, it didn’t change the horror of what was happening. He’d far rather take a beating. Those he understood; those he could wrap his head around. This, though…this sort of thing was never supposed to happen to him, and it was totally messing up his emotions. He was filling with rage, confusion, and shame all at once. Part of him longed for Dean to burst in and save him, but part of him prayed that Dean never ever knew what he was allowing to happen to him.
He should be fighting, Sam argued with himself. So he’d have a few more scars. What did he care about that? His survival instinct, however, told him that he needed to bide his time or it wasn’t just scars he’d be worrying about. He needed to stay calm and use his wits to get him out of there.
The only good thing about the situation, he realized, was that the bumpkins were quite distracted as they toyed with his body. He began very slowly turning the pipe, praying that the two men wouldn’t notice what he was up to. He did his best to ignore their groping hands, ignore the sick feeling swirling within him as their vile fingers touched places they had no right to touch. Pinching. Squeezing. If he let himself feel it, he knew he’d panic and he wouldn’t be ready to make his move the second an opportunity presented itself. So he opted instead to concentrate on the mental image of him slamming the bar against their skulls the moment he could get it free. He wasn't a killer, but by God if these two wouldn’t deserve it.
He couldn’t contain the small whimper as he felt Brady’s mouth on his exposed breast. Or the sob when he felt Kyle violently tearing his underwear from his body. He screamed in earnest as Brady once again forced his legs apart and moved between them. The man’s hand reached down between them, fumbling with the zipper to his pants. NO!
Sam didn’t care about the knife anymore. He couldn’t let this happen! Panic set in and he tried in vain to pull free. There was no escape. He barely felt the knife blade slicing through his skin as he thrashed his body, but he did feel it as for a moment his attacker pulled it away to prevent it from cutting too deep. It was now or never.
With a bellow of fury, he lashed out, kicking Brady in the groin as hard as he could. The man tumbled backward, the knife clattering to the ground and skidding out of reach as the man curled in on himself in clear agony. But Sam couldn’t take the time to feel any satisfaction from it. He stomped down on Kyle’s foot. At the same time he gave the bar one big final twist and swung his body around, hitting Kyle hard enough with it to feel at least one rib cracking. He swung again, this time connecting with the man’s head. Kyle went down. Part of him wanted to keep hitting, hurt these men for the way they wanted to hurt him. But again his survival instinct told him it was time for flight rather than fight. He was in no condition to fight them. His wrists were now bleeding profusely and it was starting to make him feel a little dizzy.
He stooped down and picked up the knife, using it to finally cut the wire as he headed for the stairs. He was only part way up the steps when he heard someone getting up behind him. He turned, preparing to kick whoever it was back down, but he miscalculated and Brady grabbed his ankle, twisting hard enough to bring Sam crashing back down. Once again he lost his grip on the knife, and the bar tumbled out of reach leaving him defenseless.
“You bitch!” Brady bellowed as he slammed Sam’s head against the cement floor. He flipped Sam onto his back and pinned him helplessly to the floor.
Sam was too dazed to fight effectively as the man’s hands tightened around his throat. He tried to push the man off of him, but his body was exhausted and soon his arms grew too heavy and flopped uselessly to the floor. He was only dimly aware when the man stopped choking him to follow other pursuits. He heard the unmistakable sound of a zipper being undone and wanted to fight, but couldn’t even move. He closed his eyes and tried to will himself away. This wasn’t happening. He was somewhere else. Anywhere but lying in absolute filth as a human maggot ravaged his body. Shoving his unresisting legs apart and moving between them. Foreign hands pressing heavily on his hips. The cold cement unforgiving, scraping his back as he was pressed against it.
He knew it could only be his imagination when he opened his eyes moments later and saw a figure at the top of the stairs: Dean, there to save him.
“You son of a bitch!” Dean growled, and Sam swore his brother’s feet never touched the ground as he bounded down the stairs. Sam smiled through his haze. Dean always was like a superman; if only he were really here. Unwilling to process what was happening to him, he let his eyes drift closed and he let unconsciousness take him.
Dean grabbed hold of Brady Crocker, yanked him off of Sam and dashed him headfirst into the wall. He didn’t even bother to check if he’d killed the man; he only wanted to get to his brother. He turned to view the damage. “Sam? Sammy? Oh…” he stared at his battered brother in horror, tears springing unabashedly to his eyes. This was his fault. There was no way he’d ever be able to make this one up.
“Get her out of here,” Ben gave him a little push. “I’ll take care of them until the sheriff gets here.” He pulled his cell phone from his belt to make the call.
Dean looked up in shock, having forgotten about everything but his brother. He looked toward the two men who’d hurt Sam, one apparently unconscious by his brother’s hand, the other by his own. He wanted to kill them, but his concern for Sam was even stronger, so he nodded. “Sammy?” he whispered, kneeling down. Sam didn’t respond, and Dean was almost afraid to touch him. What had he done? Part of him wanted to run, didn’t want to face the consequences of his extremely stupid prank. Sam must hate him. And he’d sure as hell never be forgiven. But he could never abandon Sam. Especially not like this. He took off his coat and covered his brother’s exposed chest before gently gathering him in his arms. “I’ve got you, Sammy,” he whispered as he carefully lifted his brother from the ground.
“Take her back to the hotel,” Ben spoke gently, pressing his keys into Dean’s hand. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
Dean barely acknowledged him at all as he adjusted his hold on his precious burden. The weight was familiar and yet not.
Ben watched as Dean carried Sam from the basement, then turned and looked around, taking in the horrifying scene. He picked up Samantha’s blade. She’d want that back. He slid it into his boot. Then he stooped and picked up the bloodied bar, shaking his head in disgust.
He scowled as Brady Crocker began to stir, but waited until the man was fully conscious before moving closer.
“I told you not to fucking touch her,” he growled, raising the bar high above his head. Brady’s eyes widened but he didn’t even have time to raise his arms in defense before the bar caved in his head. “She’s *mine*.”
