Forged by Fire 2/?
Title: Forged by Fire
Author: mlebayre
Genre: General
Characters/Pairings: No Pairings, Dean and Sam, some other folks.
Rating: R
Spoilers: This is an AU. I've taken canon and events from all seasons, but they are more references than spoilers.
Notes: In this verse Sam never dies, so Dean never makes his deal.
Summary: Apparent mistaken identity lands Sam in prison, leaving Dean on the outside struggling to free his brother. Prison isn't a good place for a hunter especially when not all the inmates are human. Locked in a cage, Sam clings to the edge of sanity and discovers Abaddon has a fan. Next in the Two Souls Verse.
Series: Two Souls Verse
Disclaimer: Not ours,just borrowing from Kripke.
Many thanks to sendintheklowns who was my winning bidder at Kazcon 2009. She asked for another fic in the Two Souls Verse and Sam in prison. What a great idea! Thank you to my wonderful betas, Anickamarie, deej1957 . Amazing art by thruterryseyes and the incredible vid is by kumaproogey thank you so much to both of you! Thank you silverruffian for all her help with research.
Sam was doing his damnedest to be small and insignificant and unnoticed. Who was he kidding, it wasn’t working. He was six-foot-four and even when he tried not to, he stood out in a crowd. He really would have preferred to blend in now, but he didn’t have a clue how to do that. Not here, not this time.
At first he’d managed to keep his level of complete freak-out under control and his panic shoved deep down inside. Surely, when they fingerprinted him to book him they’d find out he wasn’t the man they thought. It might not get him turned loose, but it would at least maybe keep him in the local jail or county lock-up which would make it far easier to escape.
He knew Dean would kill himself getting in and to Sam if he had to. That worried him-a lot. What worried him equally was the question of his own fate and safety, as in, both were very much in doubt right now.
The most difficult part was not fighting back, especially during the full body cavity search. That was something Sam never wanted to do again. He wanted to swing at everyone and take down as many of these cops as possible. It was all he could do not to try. He was trapped and wanted out. The trap was only going to close in tighter. Realistically these cops would likely shoot him if he made any move that even remotely looked threatening. There were too many and they were too heavily armed.
None of them cared anything about what he said, or what he tried telling him. So he stopped and sat quietly in a van while he was transported to a prison. There were six inside the van with him and two more driving. Whoever this guy was they’d mistaken Sam for must have been some sort of monster.
Then he’d gotten to the prison and any hope he had of keeping calm, pushing away his fear and panic flew right out the barred windows. The guards hit him for no reason, he never offered any resistance and one purposely tripped him, sending him sprawling to the floor of the intake area. Still in shackles he’d landed face first on hard cement and received a solid kick to his ribs along with the order to get up and get up now.
That had been an hour ago. Then he’d been put in here.
Sam looked around, unsure what to do. This was a prison, but there were no cells, not the section where he was and some deep sense told him this was the worst of all possible situations. There was no order here other than that provided by the prisoners. Prisoners who looked upon those that hurt children as the lowest of the low. Never having done well in large crowds and lacking Dean’s extraordinary skills to blend in, Sam was barely able to contain the shudders threatening to break loose and ripple along his spine.
The only thing Sam could really concentrate on was Dean, how he’d be taking this, how Sam would get back to the safety of the Impala and his brother. He was completely out of his element here and he knew it. This wasn’t a tight, confined space, it was large and open, but he was caged nonetheless. Caged up and alone.
A sharp jab to his back brought Sam’s plight stampeding back. “Hey, white bread, whatchu doin’ here?”
Sam turned and faced a black man a half foot shorter than he was who no doubt could cause a lot of damage to Sam. He was flanked by several others. They all wore symbols tattooed along their arms. One of them pointed to a section across the room. Opening his mouth to say he’d been arrested and thrown in here when Sam realized they meant this part of the pen. That’s what he’d heard the other prisoners call this part of the prison, the pen.
Breaking eye contact-don’t look aggressive in any way, be submissive-Sam mumbled, “Sorry, won’t happen again,” and slipped along the wall to a less crowded section.
The room he was in had once been a gymnasium but was now lined with rows of bunk beds each separated from the next by small tables and there were military style trunks at each end of the bunks. There was a definite division amongst the prisoners with the whites being in the minority. Mostly there were blacks and Hispanics, they seemed to group together. Next was a group of oriental descent. Each of the four groups had different symbols carved or tattooed on their forearms.
Gripping the hygiene kit he’d been issued, Sam tried to be inconspicuous as he headed toward the part of the pen pointed out. Head down he walked quietly along the rows of bunks until he found an empty one. Setting his kit on the table he started to ease onto the lower bunk.
“That one’s mine.” A gruff voice, coming from an even gruffer looking face sneered at him. The man was older, bald, and heavy with a scraggly beard.
Sam stood up and stepped away to another bunk, again mumbling an apology. He found another bunk that looked empty.
“That one’s mine too.” The man was behind him.
Sighing, Sam tried to rub his headache away with his fingers against his forehead. “Which one isn’t yours? Which one can I use?”
“You-” the man growled and stepped into Sam’s space, grabbing his collar in both hands, lifted him and slammed him into a wall, pulled him away, delivered two quick punches to Sam’s middle and slammed him back into the wall. “-don’t get any you kid raping freak.”
Freak maybe Sam was, but child rapist, he was not. No one here was going to listen or care. Oozing down the wall, Sam tucked the hygiene kit under his arm and pushed along with his hands until he was away from the man. Shaking, Sam looked around, carefully not making eye contact with anyone. Several others were standing near the bunks, they didn’t say a word, but the message was clear, Sam tried to claim a bunk and he’d get more of the same.
Normally he’d exert himself, take one or two of them on and end this nonsense. However, this wasn’t a rational situation, these people were different. These weren’t like the men in Del Villar’s compound where winning a fight gave one status. He wasn’t going to scare them or make them leave him alone unless he played by their rules. Trying to take one on in a fight would end in nothing but Sam having the crap beaten out of him or killed. He was one, they were dozens. He was outmanned and out muscled and very likely the only unarmed man in the entire prison.
Keeping his back to the wall, Sam found a corner. The floor was hard, he was still cold from his forced shower and delousing and now with sweat dripping down his back he was chilled and miserable. His mouth was dry and his tongue felt like sandpaper scraping his skin. Despite it all, he was hungry, feeling sick and terribly afraid.
When shadows lengthened from the small, glass block windows everyone in that part of the prison was ushered, in a single file line, to the mess-hall. Sam hung to the back, still trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. He’d barely gotten two bites of what was supposed to pass for food and a swig of water when a beefy arm swept across his corner of the table, sending his tray flying.
A mop hit him square across the shoulder blades and a round of laughter spilled around him when he hit on his knees on the hard floor. “Better get that cleaned up, freak.” It was the same gruff, bald man from before. Again a good kick to Sam’s ribs accompanied his words.
The few guards in the mess-hall did nothing other than stand at the sidelines, laughing, pointing and Sam saw one pass a bill to another.
Later in the evening he was allowed to the shower area, and thankfully it was empty. He had no shampoo or soap, those were in the kit that was gone when he returned from dinner. At least he could rinse the food remnants and dried blood off his face and body. Sam stood under the shower spray as long as he dared, letting the water drip into his mouth and down his parched throat. He managed to slurp cooler water from one of the sinks before he headed back to the pen.
Hunkering along the wall-there still wasn’t an empty bunk-again the handful of guards hovering outside and along the walls did nothing to intervene as Sam was shoved, kicked and punched. Clenching his fists tight it was all he could do to keep himself from striking back, but he understood, that would mean his certain death.
Cut off and utterly alone Sam could do nothing more than pull his knees to his chest, wrap both arms around his legs and huddle in on himself.
Aching from the abuse he’d endured, still hungry and thirsty, Sam barely slept and in the morning when they were herded for breakfast he took the small amount of food he could get and crouched away from the others, getting what he could into his knotted stomach.
Forge stopped the car, put it in park and cut the engine. “I mean it, Dean, you got anything at all that even remotely resembles a weapon on you and they won’t let you see Sam, and will likely arrest you. Any chances of you ever seeing your brother again will end.”
“I have nothing.” Dean held up both hands and gave him a nasty look, but was less defensive than before. “Search me if you want. You think I’m going to risk Sam in any way?”
“No,” Forge admitted quietly. “No, I don’t. I just want to be sure you don’t risk yourself.” He sighed and looked at the prison facility they were about to go into. “Do we need to go over this again?”
“I’m not a freaking amateur at this,” Dean snapped.
“Have you ever been inside one of these places?”
“No.” Dean shook his head. “Unless you want to count Del Villar’s compound. We were in a decent sized county lock up once, on a case, but it was minimum security and we had a contact inside.”
“And you were together?”
Dean nodded.
Forge kept a careful eye on Dean as he spoke. “This isn’t like those, not even close. I’ve been inside some of these prisons. Your brother is completely out of his element in there and he’s going to need you to stay sharp and clear. He’s going to need something to hang onto, some hope and dude, you’re all he’s going to have.”
The skin around Dean’s mouth tightened and his lips flattened to a hard line. “Don’t you think I know that?” His voice was low and in another setting Forge realized it would be lethal.
Nodding, Forge opened the car door and pushed out, hearing Dean do the same. “Just…look I don’t want to have to fish you out, too. We’re going to have enough trouble getting Sam out.” He stopped and turned, placing a hand on Dean’s shoulder, forcing him to stop walking. “Dean, I can’t say this enough, these places, they’re not like jails you’ve been in, or even county prisons. I know how you are with Sam, but you can’t let your emotions override you. Sam might tell you some things, or you might see something and you can’t interfere, you can’t let on in any way you care one bit about him. He’s nothing more than a creep who hurts kids.”
Shrugging him off, Dean snapped angrily, “I know. How the hell many times are you going to tell me?”
“I want you prepared.”
Dean nodded and rubbed at the back of his neck. “I’m behind you one hundred percent. I swear I won’t do a thing without your lead.”
Forge would actually believe that when he saw it, but it was the best he could hope for. To his credit Dean followed him quietly as Forge presented his badge, then
Dean handed over a driver’s license Forge was sure was going to land them in a federal penitentiary, but didn’t. They were led to the offices and searched. Forge felt a wave of dizziness for a few seconds waiting for some weapon to be found on Dean, but apparently Winchester had done as instructed this time. Maybe Forge’s threats had sunk into Dean’s incredibly thick skull.
Dean smiled and nodded politely to the man completing the search, looking every bit the pious and uncomfortable priest he was supposed to be. He turned into a totally different person right before Forge’s eyes. It was amazing on a level Forge had never seen before. Dean said ‘yes sir’ and ‘no sir’ then mumbled a few Bible passages.
The quick call to Dean’s ‘parish’ superiors completed his background check. How Singer pulled it off, Forge didn’t even want to know. The second call to check on his own credentials was routed to Singer also, but Forge distinctly heard Carter’s voice on the other end of the phone. A quick run of his badge number, verified it was real, and they were on their way inside.
Forge worked to calm himself when the outer doors swung shut with a loud clang and the electronic locks were snapped into place. He’d been in these places more than once over the centuries and they really never changed other than the level of technology used to confine these criminals, many of whom he knew were very mentally unstable and ill. He’d never been at ease in a prison, especially this type and he’d always had the shakes when he was back outside again.
“When do we get to see Sam?” Dean paced around the small office they’d been left to wait in. “How many more hoops do I jump through?”
“They’ll probably bring him from wherever his block is to the visitation rooms. They’re private. We’ll get to talk to Sam in complete confidentiality since you’ll have the rights of any priest coming in here, but only for about twenty minutes.”
Forge’s words stopped when the office door swung open and a man in a suit stepped in, greeted them and shook their hands. “I’m Jeremy Michaels, one of the assistant wardens. I understand you’re here to see Belmont?” He was tall and thin with bags under his eyes and thinning dirty gray hair.
Nodding, Forge stepped forward and shook his hand. “We are, sir, thank you for letting us in. Father Connelly,” he waved in Dean’s direction, “is from Belmont’s family parish. There are a few missing children we believe Belmont is responsible for and he’s agreed to speak about it to the Father. It’s the only chance we have of getting the information we need.”
Dean folded both hands in front of him and smiled pleasantly. The man could really work it when he wanted to. This was a whole new side of Dean Winchester Forge hadn’t seen before.
“You understand this man is incredibly dangerous. You’ve requested a private visit, Father, and without guards in there I can’t guarantee your safety.”
Forge laced the fingers of both hands together and stretched his arms out in front of him. “That’s what I’m here for.”
Michaels nodded. “He’ll be in wrist and ankle chains.”
“As long as he can talk and we can give the families of those poor children some closure,” Dean talked softly and put on an incredibly sincere face. Forge could only imagine how much of an effort that was after hearing his kid brother would be in chains.
At least the two brothers would have a few minutes together to talk freely. Forge was hoping this would ally both their fears for a few days until they could create extradition papers. Forge wasn’t sure how they were going to do that exactly, but Bobby Singer seemed confident, he’d simply need a few days. Bringing Dean in as a priest to question ‘Belmont’ only added credibility to their story.
Forge wanted to get Sam out and the Winchesters and himself away from this place. Conning prison officials was risky at best, they always seemed to have some sort of sixth sense about these things which he supposed came part and parcel with their jobs.
“If you’ll come with me, I’ll have you escorted to the visiting area.”
They followed Michaels along a walkway, three stories of cells lined the walls on either side. They cut across an outdoor exercise yard that was empty, no doubt cleared out to escort them through. When they were inside another section of the prison, Forge’s heart sank and he had to consciously work to stop himself from dropping down his fangs, taking out as many as he could and telling Dean to find his brother, grab him and run like hell.
Dean saw the same thing he did, but obviously had no idea how bad it was or what it even actually was. The Winchesters might have plenty experience with the creepy and nasty of the supernatural kind, but when it came to the human kind, particularly the sort that lived in a prison such as this, Sam was terribly naive and Dean was only a marginally better. The curiosity on Dean’s face when they passed the room marked gymnasium that was filled with bunks and men gave away to Forge how ignorant Dean was of prisons and prison life.
Not that that was a bad thing.
They walked down a corridor to a set of rooms with heavy iron doors that had small windows in them that could be closed off by sliding metal shudders on either side. Forge knew what they looked like before he and Dean were left in one. He thanked Michaels and the two guards with him and leaned casually against the far wall. Once the door was shut he erupted away from the wall as if it were covered in dead man’s blood and stormed across the room a few times.
“This is bad, Dean. This is so damn bad you don’t even know how bad it is.”
“Hey, hey,” Dean said, voice low and firm, he darted forward and grabbed Forge’s shoulders, stopping him. “You’re the one who keeps telling me to stay calm. What gives?”
Before he could answer the door to their visitation room swung open and Sam was brought in. Even though he looked at the ground, the sneer and glare at the guards was plain to see. By the way he moved Forge could tell he’d been beaten and was trying to hide the pain. His face was bruised and his skin looked hollow and gaunt.
One sideways glance at Dean whose expression went from absolute horror to ferocious anger in about two seconds would have given Forge a heart attack if he’d had a working heart to be stopped. He reached out and grabbed Dean’s sleeve, giving a tug, cleared his throat and took a step forward so he was closer to Sam and the guards than Dean without blocking Dean’s view.
He heard Dean’s quick inhales and how he shifted his body to a straight, tight stance. Forge relaxed a small amount; first hurdle over and Dean had passed with flying colors, kept it together and kept to his cover.
One guard snarled out, “Visitors, freak.” Shoved Sam forward a few steps, nearly making him trip and fall over the chains before he nodded to Forge, glared at Sam’s back and left the room.
The door was slammed shut, the lock securely in place and for a few seconds none of the three men moved and there was total silence.
Chapter 3
Author: mlebayre
Genre: General
Characters/Pairings: No Pairings, Dean and Sam, some other folks.
Rating: R
Spoilers: This is an AU. I've taken canon and events from all seasons, but they are more references than spoilers.
Notes: In this verse Sam never dies, so Dean never makes his deal.
Summary: Apparent mistaken identity lands Sam in prison, leaving Dean on the outside struggling to free his brother. Prison isn't a good place for a hunter especially when not all the inmates are human. Locked in a cage, Sam clings to the edge of sanity and discovers Abaddon has a fan. Next in the Two Souls Verse.
Series: Two Souls Verse
Disclaimer: Not ours,just borrowing from Kripke.
Many thanks to sendintheklowns who was my winning bidder at Kazcon 2009. She asked for another fic in the Two Souls Verse and Sam in prison. What a great idea! Thank you to my wonderful betas, Anickamarie, deej1957 . Amazing art by thruterryseyes and the incredible vid is by kumaproogey thank you so much to both of you! Thank you silverruffian for all her help with research.
Sam was doing his damnedest to be small and insignificant and unnoticed. Who was he kidding, it wasn’t working. He was six-foot-four and even when he tried not to, he stood out in a crowd. He really would have preferred to blend in now, but he didn’t have a clue how to do that. Not here, not this time.
At first he’d managed to keep his level of complete freak-out under control and his panic shoved deep down inside. Surely, when they fingerprinted him to book him they’d find out he wasn’t the man they thought. It might not get him turned loose, but it would at least maybe keep him in the local jail or county lock-up which would make it far easier to escape.
He knew Dean would kill himself getting in and to Sam if he had to. That worried him-a lot. What worried him equally was the question of his own fate and safety, as in, both were very much in doubt right now.
The most difficult part was not fighting back, especially during the full body cavity search. That was something Sam never wanted to do again. He wanted to swing at everyone and take down as many of these cops as possible. It was all he could do not to try. He was trapped and wanted out. The trap was only going to close in tighter. Realistically these cops would likely shoot him if he made any move that even remotely looked threatening. There were too many and they were too heavily armed.
None of them cared anything about what he said, or what he tried telling him. So he stopped and sat quietly in a van while he was transported to a prison. There were six inside the van with him and two more driving. Whoever this guy was they’d mistaken Sam for must have been some sort of monster.
Then he’d gotten to the prison and any hope he had of keeping calm, pushing away his fear and panic flew right out the barred windows. The guards hit him for no reason, he never offered any resistance and one purposely tripped him, sending him sprawling to the floor of the intake area. Still in shackles he’d landed face first on hard cement and received a solid kick to his ribs along with the order to get up and get up now.
That had been an hour ago. Then he’d been put in here.
Sam looked around, unsure what to do. This was a prison, but there were no cells, not the section where he was and some deep sense told him this was the worst of all possible situations. There was no order here other than that provided by the prisoners. Prisoners who looked upon those that hurt children as the lowest of the low. Never having done well in large crowds and lacking Dean’s extraordinary skills to blend in, Sam was barely able to contain the shudders threatening to break loose and ripple along his spine.
The only thing Sam could really concentrate on was Dean, how he’d be taking this, how Sam would get back to the safety of the Impala and his brother. He was completely out of his element here and he knew it. This wasn’t a tight, confined space, it was large and open, but he was caged nonetheless. Caged up and alone.
A sharp jab to his back brought Sam’s plight stampeding back. “Hey, white bread, whatchu doin’ here?”
Sam turned and faced a black man a half foot shorter than he was who no doubt could cause a lot of damage to Sam. He was flanked by several others. They all wore symbols tattooed along their arms. One of them pointed to a section across the room. Opening his mouth to say he’d been arrested and thrown in here when Sam realized they meant this part of the pen. That’s what he’d heard the other prisoners call this part of the prison, the pen.
Breaking eye contact-don’t look aggressive in any way, be submissive-Sam mumbled, “Sorry, won’t happen again,” and slipped along the wall to a less crowded section.
The room he was in had once been a gymnasium but was now lined with rows of bunk beds each separated from the next by small tables and there were military style trunks at each end of the bunks. There was a definite division amongst the prisoners with the whites being in the minority. Mostly there were blacks and Hispanics, they seemed to group together. Next was a group of oriental descent. Each of the four groups had different symbols carved or tattooed on their forearms.
Gripping the hygiene kit he’d been issued, Sam tried to be inconspicuous as he headed toward the part of the pen pointed out. Head down he walked quietly along the rows of bunks until he found an empty one. Setting his kit on the table he started to ease onto the lower bunk.
“That one’s mine.” A gruff voice, coming from an even gruffer looking face sneered at him. The man was older, bald, and heavy with a scraggly beard.
Sam stood up and stepped away to another bunk, again mumbling an apology. He found another bunk that looked empty.
“That one’s mine too.” The man was behind him.
Sighing, Sam tried to rub his headache away with his fingers against his forehead. “Which one isn’t yours? Which one can I use?”
“You-” the man growled and stepped into Sam’s space, grabbing his collar in both hands, lifted him and slammed him into a wall, pulled him away, delivered two quick punches to Sam’s middle and slammed him back into the wall. “-don’t get any you kid raping freak.”
Freak maybe Sam was, but child rapist, he was not. No one here was going to listen or care. Oozing down the wall, Sam tucked the hygiene kit under his arm and pushed along with his hands until he was away from the man. Shaking, Sam looked around, carefully not making eye contact with anyone. Several others were standing near the bunks, they didn’t say a word, but the message was clear, Sam tried to claim a bunk and he’d get more of the same.
Normally he’d exert himself, take one or two of them on and end this nonsense. However, this wasn’t a rational situation, these people were different. These weren’t like the men in Del Villar’s compound where winning a fight gave one status. He wasn’t going to scare them or make them leave him alone unless he played by their rules. Trying to take one on in a fight would end in nothing but Sam having the crap beaten out of him or killed. He was one, they were dozens. He was outmanned and out muscled and very likely the only unarmed man in the entire prison.
Keeping his back to the wall, Sam found a corner. The floor was hard, he was still cold from his forced shower and delousing and now with sweat dripping down his back he was chilled and miserable. His mouth was dry and his tongue felt like sandpaper scraping his skin. Despite it all, he was hungry, feeling sick and terribly afraid.
When shadows lengthened from the small, glass block windows everyone in that part of the prison was ushered, in a single file line, to the mess-hall. Sam hung to the back, still trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. He’d barely gotten two bites of what was supposed to pass for food and a swig of water when a beefy arm swept across his corner of the table, sending his tray flying.
A mop hit him square across the shoulder blades and a round of laughter spilled around him when he hit on his knees on the hard floor. “Better get that cleaned up, freak.” It was the same gruff, bald man from before. Again a good kick to Sam’s ribs accompanied his words.
The few guards in the mess-hall did nothing other than stand at the sidelines, laughing, pointing and Sam saw one pass a bill to another.
Later in the evening he was allowed to the shower area, and thankfully it was empty. He had no shampoo or soap, those were in the kit that was gone when he returned from dinner. At least he could rinse the food remnants and dried blood off his face and body. Sam stood under the shower spray as long as he dared, letting the water drip into his mouth and down his parched throat. He managed to slurp cooler water from one of the sinks before he headed back to the pen.
Hunkering along the wall-there still wasn’t an empty bunk-again the handful of guards hovering outside and along the walls did nothing to intervene as Sam was shoved, kicked and punched. Clenching his fists tight it was all he could do to keep himself from striking back, but he understood, that would mean his certain death.
Cut off and utterly alone Sam could do nothing more than pull his knees to his chest, wrap both arms around his legs and huddle in on himself.
Aching from the abuse he’d endured, still hungry and thirsty, Sam barely slept and in the morning when they were herded for breakfast he took the small amount of food he could get and crouched away from the others, getting what he could into his knotted stomach.
Forge stopped the car, put it in park and cut the engine. “I mean it, Dean, you got anything at all that even remotely resembles a weapon on you and they won’t let you see Sam, and will likely arrest you. Any chances of you ever seeing your brother again will end.”
“I have nothing.” Dean held up both hands and gave him a nasty look, but was less defensive than before. “Search me if you want. You think I’m going to risk Sam in any way?”
“No,” Forge admitted quietly. “No, I don’t. I just want to be sure you don’t risk yourself.” He sighed and looked at the prison facility they were about to go into. “Do we need to go over this again?”
“I’m not a freaking amateur at this,” Dean snapped.
“Have you ever been inside one of these places?”
“No.” Dean shook his head. “Unless you want to count Del Villar’s compound. We were in a decent sized county lock up once, on a case, but it was minimum security and we had a contact inside.”
“And you were together?”
Dean nodded.
Forge kept a careful eye on Dean as he spoke. “This isn’t like those, not even close. I’ve been inside some of these prisons. Your brother is completely out of his element in there and he’s going to need you to stay sharp and clear. He’s going to need something to hang onto, some hope and dude, you’re all he’s going to have.”
The skin around Dean’s mouth tightened and his lips flattened to a hard line. “Don’t you think I know that?” His voice was low and in another setting Forge realized it would be lethal.
Nodding, Forge opened the car door and pushed out, hearing Dean do the same. “Just…look I don’t want to have to fish you out, too. We’re going to have enough trouble getting Sam out.” He stopped and turned, placing a hand on Dean’s shoulder, forcing him to stop walking. “Dean, I can’t say this enough, these places, they’re not like jails you’ve been in, or even county prisons. I know how you are with Sam, but you can’t let your emotions override you. Sam might tell you some things, or you might see something and you can’t interfere, you can’t let on in any way you care one bit about him. He’s nothing more than a creep who hurts kids.”
Shrugging him off, Dean snapped angrily, “I know. How the hell many times are you going to tell me?”
“I want you prepared.”
Dean nodded and rubbed at the back of his neck. “I’m behind you one hundred percent. I swear I won’t do a thing without your lead.”
Forge would actually believe that when he saw it, but it was the best he could hope for. To his credit Dean followed him quietly as Forge presented his badge, then
Dean handed over a driver’s license Forge was sure was going to land them in a federal penitentiary, but didn’t. They were led to the offices and searched. Forge felt a wave of dizziness for a few seconds waiting for some weapon to be found on Dean, but apparently Winchester had done as instructed this time. Maybe Forge’s threats had sunk into Dean’s incredibly thick skull.
Dean smiled and nodded politely to the man completing the search, looking every bit the pious and uncomfortable priest he was supposed to be. He turned into a totally different person right before Forge’s eyes. It was amazing on a level Forge had never seen before. Dean said ‘yes sir’ and ‘no sir’ then mumbled a few Bible passages.
The quick call to Dean’s ‘parish’ superiors completed his background check. How Singer pulled it off, Forge didn’t even want to know. The second call to check on his own credentials was routed to Singer also, but Forge distinctly heard Carter’s voice on the other end of the phone. A quick run of his badge number, verified it was real, and they were on their way inside.
Forge worked to calm himself when the outer doors swung shut with a loud clang and the electronic locks were snapped into place. He’d been in these places more than once over the centuries and they really never changed other than the level of technology used to confine these criminals, many of whom he knew were very mentally unstable and ill. He’d never been at ease in a prison, especially this type and he’d always had the shakes when he was back outside again.
“When do we get to see Sam?” Dean paced around the small office they’d been left to wait in. “How many more hoops do I jump through?”
“They’ll probably bring him from wherever his block is to the visitation rooms. They’re private. We’ll get to talk to Sam in complete confidentiality since you’ll have the rights of any priest coming in here, but only for about twenty minutes.”
Forge’s words stopped when the office door swung open and a man in a suit stepped in, greeted them and shook their hands. “I’m Jeremy Michaels, one of the assistant wardens. I understand you’re here to see Belmont?” He was tall and thin with bags under his eyes and thinning dirty gray hair.
Nodding, Forge stepped forward and shook his hand. “We are, sir, thank you for letting us in. Father Connelly,” he waved in Dean’s direction, “is from Belmont’s family parish. There are a few missing children we believe Belmont is responsible for and he’s agreed to speak about it to the Father. It’s the only chance we have of getting the information we need.”
Dean folded both hands in front of him and smiled pleasantly. The man could really work it when he wanted to. This was a whole new side of Dean Winchester Forge hadn’t seen before.
“You understand this man is incredibly dangerous. You’ve requested a private visit, Father, and without guards in there I can’t guarantee your safety.”
Forge laced the fingers of both hands together and stretched his arms out in front of him. “That’s what I’m here for.”
Michaels nodded. “He’ll be in wrist and ankle chains.”
“As long as he can talk and we can give the families of those poor children some closure,” Dean talked softly and put on an incredibly sincere face. Forge could only imagine how much of an effort that was after hearing his kid brother would be in chains.
At least the two brothers would have a few minutes together to talk freely. Forge was hoping this would ally both their fears for a few days until they could create extradition papers. Forge wasn’t sure how they were going to do that exactly, but Bobby Singer seemed confident, he’d simply need a few days. Bringing Dean in as a priest to question ‘Belmont’ only added credibility to their story.
Forge wanted to get Sam out and the Winchesters and himself away from this place. Conning prison officials was risky at best, they always seemed to have some sort of sixth sense about these things which he supposed came part and parcel with their jobs.
“If you’ll come with me, I’ll have you escorted to the visiting area.”
They followed Michaels along a walkway, three stories of cells lined the walls on either side. They cut across an outdoor exercise yard that was empty, no doubt cleared out to escort them through. When they were inside another section of the prison, Forge’s heart sank and he had to consciously work to stop himself from dropping down his fangs, taking out as many as he could and telling Dean to find his brother, grab him and run like hell.
Dean saw the same thing he did, but obviously had no idea how bad it was or what it even actually was. The Winchesters might have plenty experience with the creepy and nasty of the supernatural kind, but when it came to the human kind, particularly the sort that lived in a prison such as this, Sam was terribly naive and Dean was only a marginally better. The curiosity on Dean’s face when they passed the room marked gymnasium that was filled with bunks and men gave away to Forge how ignorant Dean was of prisons and prison life.
Not that that was a bad thing.
They walked down a corridor to a set of rooms with heavy iron doors that had small windows in them that could be closed off by sliding metal shudders on either side. Forge knew what they looked like before he and Dean were left in one. He thanked Michaels and the two guards with him and leaned casually against the far wall. Once the door was shut he erupted away from the wall as if it were covered in dead man’s blood and stormed across the room a few times.
“This is bad, Dean. This is so damn bad you don’t even know how bad it is.”
“Hey, hey,” Dean said, voice low and firm, he darted forward and grabbed Forge’s shoulders, stopping him. “You’re the one who keeps telling me to stay calm. What gives?”
Before he could answer the door to their visitation room swung open and Sam was brought in. Even though he looked at the ground, the sneer and glare at the guards was plain to see. By the way he moved Forge could tell he’d been beaten and was trying to hide the pain. His face was bruised and his skin looked hollow and gaunt.
One sideways glance at Dean whose expression went from absolute horror to ferocious anger in about two seconds would have given Forge a heart attack if he’d had a working heart to be stopped. He reached out and grabbed Dean’s sleeve, giving a tug, cleared his throat and took a step forward so he was closer to Sam and the guards than Dean without blocking Dean’s view.
He heard Dean’s quick inhales and how he shifted his body to a straight, tight stance. Forge relaxed a small amount; first hurdle over and Dean had passed with flying colors, kept it together and kept to his cover.
One guard snarled out, “Visitors, freak.” Shoved Sam forward a few steps, nearly making him trip and fall over the chains before he nodded to Forge, glared at Sam’s back and left the room.
The door was slammed shut, the lock securely in place and for a few seconds none of the three men moved and there was total silence.
Chapter 3