Fic: Lockbox
Title: Lockbox
Summary: You've been here before. Incarcaration is no stranger to you.
Word Count: 900-ish
Author's Notes: Coda to 12x08. Written in the second person.
Cue rant: The idea for this popped into my head earlier today and I scribbled it all down in less than an hour. Honestly, I'm not loving season twelve so far, I'm feeling mostly 'meh' about it. I was especially disappointed with the mid-season finale, but I admit the idea of seeing the Winchesters in prison again is a little exciting, I'm hoping for an epic prison break and emotional reunions (it's only fair since we got no brother moment in 12x02). I think it makes sense that Sam would struggle with being imprisoned after over a century in The Cage, forced detoxes etc. But I doubt the show will go there, since they've ignored this aspect of Sam's story where convenient in the past. Are you sensing my inner bitter Sam girl rising to the surface? This is basically an early fix-it fic for the next episode which hasn't aired yet.
You've been here before. Incarceration is no stranger to you. Your wrists have been chafed by handcuffs too many times to count. Even in the Cage, even those endless years of agony and fear and sickly smell of it trickling down your skin, even that ended.
There is always a way out.
This concrete cell with its windowless walls and its lockless door. Your fingers scrape over the crack of the hinges, the cold, flat steel, and find no purchase. It can only be opened from the outside, and isn't that just too familiar?
You look up to check for a devil's trap and find nothing. You raise your arms and find the skin pale and untainted. There's nothing to purge from your body, nothing rotting and hollowing you out from the inside. Not this time.
Still, you feel so much more alone than you ever did in Bobby's panic room.
Hello? Hello? Hello?
The sound of your voice is locked tight in the box.
Dean? Dean? Dean!
There's no answer. No footsteps on the other side of the door. Nothing but you and the four walls around you. You begin to wonder: is this real?
It's an itch that needs to be scratched, the nail of your right thumb digs into the flesh of your left palm. The scar is still there, faint and barely noticeable, just a thin stretch of knotted white settled between your life, head and heart lines.
You sit on the cot and stare at the door, thumb nail still digging.
Time has little meaning here. Sometimes the lights go out and you're trapped in blackness, other times you're pinned under the fluorescents. You stare and sit and dig at your skin.
The door opens.
"On your feet," a voice comes from behind the barricade of guns pointed in your direction. Your wrists are cuffed behind your back and they lead you down the hallway you came in through. There are more doors like yours lining the walls, any of which might have your brother hidden behind.
"Dean?" you call softly, then again but louder, "Dean?!"
That earns you the butt of a gun smacked against the side of your head, not hard enough to send you to the floor but certainly enough to daze you for a second.
You're uncuffed and re-cuffed to a table, guns on you from every angle, a man in a black suit sits opposite. He asks a lot of questions, demands answers you don't have. You can't give the truth and there's no lie you can tell that might make this easier on you.
You've been perfectly hand-crafting lies since you were eight, but this, this is bigger than you.
You've defeated the devil more than once in your life and it's the law that finally trips you up. And isn't that just hilarious?
When they pull you up to go back to your cell, you've left the bloody print of your palm on the surface of the table. The re-opened wound drips freely step-by-step.
You hear every click of the lock on the door. The heavy thud of it as it closes is final and silencing.
In the strangled solitude of your cell, you pray. You pray over and over and over. You don't know if Cas heard you. Then you yell for your brother until your voice gives out. There's no answer. You're in a lockbox without airholes, the lid is stapled shut.
You fiddle with your stinging left palm until you can't feel it anymore.
Before lights out, a tray of food slides under the door. You don't eat any of it.
You spend a lot of time sleeping, since there isn't much else to do. Or you do push-ups until your arms can't hold your weight anymore. Sometimes, you count, numbers going up and up in your head until you lose track.
Trays of uneaten food pile up by your door, your palm doesn't stop bleeding. You think, I've been here before.
Maybe it's been only three days, and maybe it's been three years.
You wake one morning or afternoon or evening, there's a woman tending to your hand and there's a gun to your head. Once the wound is clean and bandaged, they leave and you almost miss the comfort of the gun barrel to your skin.
You lie down and let your fingernails dig into the stitches.
On the infinite day, the door opens. There are no guns, no black suits. There's a trench coat and firm hands on your shoulders and Sammy, oh thank God.
You say, "Don't thank God. He isn't here."
He had never answered your prayers before anyway.
You don't remember coming home, nor do you remember the wound on your palm being re-stitched, or getting into your own bed. The scruff on your face itches, your hair hangs into your eyes. Beside you, Dean pats your arm and hands over a plate of half-cold grilled cheese.
"You doing okay?" he asks, a worried glint in his carefully schooled expression.
"I don't - How long?"
"Two and half months," Dean says. "That's what Cas says. I lost count near the end."
"But how - "
"We've got the King of Hell, an angel, a powerful witch and Mom on our team, Sammy."
You tear away a chunk of bread, cheese oozes and stretches. You put it back, no longer feeling hungry.
"So," Dean says, "how are you doing?"
"Fine. I'm fine."
Summary: You've been here before. Incarcaration is no stranger to you.
Word Count: 900-ish
Author's Notes: Coda to 12x08. Written in the second person.
Cue rant: The idea for this popped into my head earlier today and I scribbled it all down in less than an hour. Honestly, I'm not loving season twelve so far, I'm feeling mostly 'meh' about it. I was especially disappointed with the mid-season finale, but I admit the idea of seeing the Winchesters in prison again is a little exciting, I'm hoping for an epic prison break and emotional reunions (it's only fair since we got no brother moment in 12x02). I think it makes sense that Sam would struggle with being imprisoned after over a century in The Cage, forced detoxes etc. But I doubt the show will go there, since they've ignored this aspect of Sam's story where convenient in the past. Are you sensing my inner bitter Sam girl rising to the surface? This is basically an early fix-it fic for the next episode which hasn't aired yet.
You've been here before. Incarceration is no stranger to you. Your wrists have been chafed by handcuffs too many times to count. Even in the Cage, even those endless years of agony and fear and sickly smell of it trickling down your skin, even that ended.
There is always a way out.
This concrete cell with its windowless walls and its lockless door. Your fingers scrape over the crack of the hinges, the cold, flat steel, and find no purchase. It can only be opened from the outside, and isn't that just too familiar?
You look up to check for a devil's trap and find nothing. You raise your arms and find the skin pale and untainted. There's nothing to purge from your body, nothing rotting and hollowing you out from the inside. Not this time.
Still, you feel so much more alone than you ever did in Bobby's panic room.
Hello? Hello? Hello?
The sound of your voice is locked tight in the box.
Dean? Dean? Dean!
There's no answer. No footsteps on the other side of the door. Nothing but you and the four walls around you. You begin to wonder: is this real?
It's an itch that needs to be scratched, the nail of your right thumb digs into the flesh of your left palm. The scar is still there, faint and barely noticeable, just a thin stretch of knotted white settled between your life, head and heart lines.
You sit on the cot and stare at the door, thumb nail still digging.
Time has little meaning here. Sometimes the lights go out and you're trapped in blackness, other times you're pinned under the fluorescents. You stare and sit and dig at your skin.
The door opens.
"On your feet," a voice comes from behind the barricade of guns pointed in your direction. Your wrists are cuffed behind your back and they lead you down the hallway you came in through. There are more doors like yours lining the walls, any of which might have your brother hidden behind.
"Dean?" you call softly, then again but louder, "Dean?!"
That earns you the butt of a gun smacked against the side of your head, not hard enough to send you to the floor but certainly enough to daze you for a second.
You're uncuffed and re-cuffed to a table, guns on you from every angle, a man in a black suit sits opposite. He asks a lot of questions, demands answers you don't have. You can't give the truth and there's no lie you can tell that might make this easier on you.
You've been perfectly hand-crafting lies since you were eight, but this, this is bigger than you.
You've defeated the devil more than once in your life and it's the law that finally trips you up. And isn't that just hilarious?
When they pull you up to go back to your cell, you've left the bloody print of your palm on the surface of the table. The re-opened wound drips freely step-by-step.
You hear every click of the lock on the door. The heavy thud of it as it closes is final and silencing.
In the strangled solitude of your cell, you pray. You pray over and over and over. You don't know if Cas heard you. Then you yell for your brother until your voice gives out. There's no answer. You're in a lockbox without airholes, the lid is stapled shut.
You fiddle with your stinging left palm until you can't feel it anymore.
Before lights out, a tray of food slides under the door. You don't eat any of it.
You spend a lot of time sleeping, since there isn't much else to do. Or you do push-ups until your arms can't hold your weight anymore. Sometimes, you count, numbers going up and up in your head until you lose track.
Trays of uneaten food pile up by your door, your palm doesn't stop bleeding. You think, I've been here before.
Maybe it's been only three days, and maybe it's been three years.
You wake one morning or afternoon or evening, there's a woman tending to your hand and there's a gun to your head. Once the wound is clean and bandaged, they leave and you almost miss the comfort of the gun barrel to your skin.
You lie down and let your fingernails dig into the stitches.
On the infinite day, the door opens. There are no guns, no black suits. There's a trench coat and firm hands on your shoulders and Sammy, oh thank God.
You say, "Don't thank God. He isn't here."
He had never answered your prayers before anyway.
You don't remember coming home, nor do you remember the wound on your palm being re-stitched, or getting into your own bed. The scruff on your face itches, your hair hangs into your eyes. Beside you, Dean pats your arm and hands over a plate of half-cold grilled cheese.
"You doing okay?" he asks, a worried glint in his carefully schooled expression.
"I don't - How long?"
"Two and half months," Dean says. "That's what Cas says. I lost count near the end."
"But how - "
"We've got the King of Hell, an angel, a powerful witch and Mom on our team, Sammy."
You tear away a chunk of bread, cheese oozes and stretches. You put it back, no longer feeling hungry.
"So," Dean says, "how are you doing?"
"Fine. I'm fine."