Forged by Fire 4/?
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 and 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 hadn’t been able to help the brief glance back at Dean as he was led from the prisoner meeting room. Realizing too late it might have risked their cover, he tried comforting himself with the fact the guards didn’t seem to pay much attention and neither Dean nor Forge were hassled, he was sure he’d have heard rumors if they’d been detained.
Twenty minutes. He’d been given twenty minutes with his brother and to Sam it was as if he’d been granted the most monumental gift possible. Just knowing his brother risked so much to get into the prison to see him made Sam feel less abandoned and alone. Less hopeless. Dean was near, with him, had not left him, even if Dean wasn’t actually in the prison he hadn’t left Sam alone. He’d come back for Sam. He would come back again.
He swallowed down the panic that was his constant companion since coming here. He ignored the urge to turn and run back to Dean, curl against his chest and find solace in the sound of his brother’s heartbeat. Instead, Sam stoically plodded away from the meeting room, one foot in front of the other, he reminded himself, head down, and keep walking where they tell you to go.
The chains and shackles were removed from his arms and legs at the entrance to the pen. One guard opened the door, stood to the side and with a fake smile all over his face, grandly waving Sam back inside.
Keeping to the wall, Sam moved along to the section he’d spent most of his time in since coming here. He wasn’t even sure how long it had been, a day or two, three tops? For now he was thankfully ignored by the others, which suited him fine. He wasn’t exactly the life of any party and he certainly didn’t want to be the center of attention here.
A short time later the guards came, lined them up and everyone was taken to the mess hall. Sam shuffled along at the back, gratefully was able to go through the line and get some food without incident. It was a true testament to how hungry he was when his stomach growled and his mouth watered from the smells and sight of what was offered.
Even Dean wouldn’t eat this, and that was saying a lot. Dean ate anything.
Finding a corner that he hoped was far enough out of the way no one would pay any attention to him, he settled on the floor, back against the wall. Stomach reminding him again of his gnawing hunger, Sam scooped up a few things on his plate with a plastic spoon and did his best not to look at it, whatever it was.
Two mouthfuls were all he’d gotten before he realized there were footsteps coming at him. Glancing up, he tried pulling the tray closer to his chest, but it was useless. A foot lashed out and sent the tray spiraling away, the pitiful meal splashing all over the floor.
“You don’t get to eat with a spoon off a plate. You’re nothing but an animal.”
Sam recognized the man from one of the other sections in the pen. He was Mexican, bald, not very tall but built like a line-backer. Three others flanked him.
Biting his lip to keep from swearing at them, Sam dropped his gaze and tried inching away. The man bent down and grabbed Sam by the back of the neck, pushing him at the floor. “Clean it up.”
Sam had to move quickly to get his hands out and stop his face from hitting the linoleum. Clenching his jaws shut, Sam shook his head, trying to get free. It was clear he was expected to lick the food off the floor.
“You wanna eat, you eat like the pig you are,” the man hissed close to Sam’s ear, pushing harder on the back of his neck.
“Leave me alone. I haven’t done anything to you.” Trying to convince anyone here he was innocent of the crimes he was accused of was useless and he knew it, but they all knew he’d done nothing since he’d been put in this prison.
Without warning the pressure on his neck was gone. He heard the men retreating and a mop appeared in front of him. Pushing up and back onto his heels, he grasped the mop handle and slowly stood up.
The Mexican was flanked by a few others all wearing the same symbols etched into their skin. The odd thing was they were backing away from the man now standing in front of Sam, who had handed him the mop. He didn’t live in the pen, but in one of the older cellblocks and he worked the food-line, Sam had seen him there each time he’d come into the mess hall.
The fact the younger, bigger guys from the pen backed away from this man amazed him and had him standing there staring stupidly at them all. The newcomer was older, maybe in his sixties, Sam wasn’t sure. His back hunched ever so slightly and his thin arms and chest swam in the larger prison shirt. Round, wire-rimmed glasses were pushed up the beak of a nose with one, long, boney finger. His hair was gray and stringy, hanging down his back in a pony tail to his shoulders.
He stared back at Sam. Nodding to the floor he said, “Clean that up. I’ll be working the line in the morning, see me.” He turned and walked away.
Sam made quick work of cleaning the food off the floor and disposing of it, ignored by everyone in the room other than a few of the guards pointing at him and obviously talking about him.
Waiting until after the other men had their shower time, Sam hoped he could get the scum, sweat and stray bits of food washed off in peace. He should have known it was too much to ask for. He barely had the soap rinsed off and out of his hair, knuckles rubbing over his eyes to clear them of the soap residue when he heard voices.
He had a pretty good idea what was coming and was honestly surprised it’d taken this long.
Out of sheer reflex, Sam reached out, grabbing for a towel, squinting from water droplets running along the rim of his eyelids carrying the burn and sting of soap. His vision cleared for a few seconds, long enough for him to see there were four men between him and where the towel had hung. The shower floor was still wet, soap swirling around and circling the drain.
“Leave me alone,” Sam snapped and half turned, shutting off the water and looking for another towel. It was a stupid thing to do, he knew it, but he was tired, his nerves were frazzled, he was naked and he had spent the days since being arrested in a constant state of scared out of his mind.
He should have known better than to turn his back.
Though facing them or turned away wouldn’t have made much a difference. They were clothed, wore boots and had sure footing. One held a length of tightly woven material. Sam was naked, his feet were slipping over slick tiles and he was out-numbered. He gritted his teeth and braced himself for the attack that was coming.
His brother had been there, and would come back for him. There was nothing these men could do to him that wouldn’t fade once he was out and safe with Dean. Sam let himself sink farther into his head, imagined how Dean would handle this, be proud of him for surviving because sometimes that’s all you did, survive to fight another day.
Sam clung desperately to the knowledge he wasn’t abandoned in here alone. He’d get out.
One man strode forward, boot connecting hard with Sam’s middle, not only knocking him backwards but tearing at the tender skin of his belly. A second man had him down, face first on the shower floor, arms cranked up behind his back while he pressed one knee to the middle of Sam’s spine. Focusing on the jarring pain radiating across his back and shoulders kept Sam from thinking of the other pain that would surely follow. The one he had to ignore, the one he’d have to survive through.
Someone grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked his head back until his neck was cranked at such a painful angle it was hard to breathe. He gasped and tried bucking the man off when the woven material was wrapped around his neck and pulled taunt, not cutting off his air so much as a warning of what would come.
“You’re sick. You’re not even human. This place is Hell and you aren’t even good enough to be here.” The man holding his hair bent down and snarled the words in Sam’s face, his breath hot and foul, making Sam want to turn away. He couldn’t, but he could squeeze his eyes shut and close his mind.
He heard one of the other men moving around behind him, heard how his boots squelched on the wet flooring. He heard the sound of pants being pulled down.
Twisting, trying to get free and at the same time convince himself he’d endured far worse, Sam ground out panicked words, “Do I look thirty-seven to you?”
His answer was a grunt and a sharp jab to his left ankle with the toe of a boot then a solid kick to the inside of his knee. His ankles were caught in a harsh, unrelenting grip and his legs pulled painfully wide and held fast.
Sam squeezed his eyes even more tightly shut. He wanted to dip his head and tuck his chin closer to his collarbone but was unable to move because of the hand clamped in his hair holding him. He wanted to press his cheek to the floor and hide. Instead he panted through the pain of his body being forced to contort into a position it was never meant to go. He’d been shot, beaten, stabbed and twice thrown out of a moving car, this couldn’t possibly be worse or hurt more.
It couldn’t.
He’d faced all sorts of monsters, most of which people, even these people, only knew of from books and nightmares. He’d been afraid and faced them, fought hard. This was no different. These were simply another kind of monster. He was afraid, but as long as he lived through it the fear would recede, he’d get beyond an assault.
“Let him go,” the voice was quiet, familiar and calm.
“He’s scum, you can’t possibly-”
“I said, let him go. No one does this to this boy. This one is for me.” The voice didn’t raise, didn’t yell but issued a stern command nonetheless.
Sam recognized the voice. It was the man from the mess hall food line.
All of a sudden his arms and legs were released. The material dropped away from his throat and his hair was let go allowing him to straighten his neck.
“Go back to where you belong,” the man spoke to the other prisoners.
There was grumbling, some half-assed threats and general scuffling of feet for a few seconds before Sam and the man were alone. Gathering his arms and legs, he got to his elbows and knees, looking up. Dangling off the man’s fingers was a towel, which Sam snatched immediately. Leaning back on his haunches, he wrapped it around his hips before standing.
Normally he’d thank the man. He didn’t want to know what he’d have to do to show his thanks and he certainly didn’t want to owe this man, or anyone here, anything.
“Get dressed and come with me.”
While Sam fumbled with his clothes, the man stood silently watching him but not in a way that he seemed interested in him. Once Sam was clothed again, the man turned and walked away making Sam stretch his legs to their fullest to keep up. He kept his mouth shut as he followed the man through the prison to an older section that was divided into cellblocks and individual cells.
None of the guards paid much attention to the fact Sam was well out of the area he was assigned to or to the man he was with, other than a few men that nodded almost politely to the man. Sam felt as if he were invisible or simply didn’t exist at all. That had been his goal all along and suddenly it gave him an even more creepy feeling than he’d had up to this point.
Nothing added up, not why he was here, not why no one saw that he was a twenty-five year old man, not a thirty-seven year old one. He felt like the entire place was all sorts of wrong, starting with the man he was with. The guy was off and not in the been-in-prison-too-long crazy sort of way.
They stopped at a cell on the second level, one of many rows of cells on three levels and taking up all four sides of the building. Pushing the sliding barred door to the side, the man stepped in and motioned for Sam to follow. Swallowing hard, Sam stepped up to the threshold, but didn’t go inside. He didn’t want to be in a small enclosed room with this man. In fact, he didn’t want to be in any small, enclosed room. A small voice in the back of his head asked why this guy had such freedom.
The cell was long and narrow, the bunk bed had only one mattress and sat positioned so it blocked a clear view of the rest of the cell, which was maybe six foot wide and ten long.
“You don’t belong in here,” the man said simply and held out one hand, pointing at one of the longer walls. “I know you.”
Leaning around the doorframe to see farther into the cell, Sam snorted and muttered, “You and everyone else think you know me.” When his eyes adjusted to the lower lighting his attention immediately riveted to the wall. There were papers, newsprint mostly, but some from magazines, pictures and articles, some new, some seemed new, some looked older, covering the majority of the wall.
“I know you’re not who they all think you are.” The man crossed his arms over his chest and smiled kindly. “See we have a common…acquaintance.” The smile that spread larger over the man’s face reminded Sam of oil sliding over pavement.
Sam felt a muscle in his jaw twitch as heat drained from his face, and no doubt his color too. He couldn’t move, despite the fact he wanted to run. His knees felt like jelly, the air around him suddenly thick and like sludge pulling into his nostrils to ooze along to his lungs. Fear curled up from his testicles and ripped up his spine, through his gut and filled his chest.
“He’s been waiting for you.” The man turned and looked at the pictures on the wall. “He wants to finish what he started. A real artist is what he is. I might be his biggest fan.”
“W-who are y-you?” Sam finally found his voice, wondering if his words could be heard over the hammering of his heart.
“Folks around here call me Weasel. I’ve been here longer than anyone, one of the first prisoners. I’m famous, like you. You’re the one that got away, sole survivor,” Weasel chuckled and rocked on his heels. “Abaddon has been waiting for you, Sam. We both have.”
Chapter 5