Hangman Coming
Title: Hangman Coming
Author:
annj_g80
Rating: PG
Warnings: none
Disclaimer: Nothing and nobody is mine except for the hard work and the English grammar atrocities.
Recipient: mlebayre
Word Count: ~ 3.000
Author’s Note: geminigrl11 did some last minute betaing and I owe her my firstborn for her awesomness *lol* Thank you! Laura, this is for you.
Prompt: mlebayre wanted "Something going into what happens after Folsom Prison Blues, how the guys dealt with prison life, what happened or could have happened during their time separated from each other," and that's what I did with it.
Summary: It's the bars that hold them separated but it's trepidation that keeps them apart.
SAM: I thought we were screwed before.
DEAN: Yeah, yeah, I know. But we’ve gotta go deep this time.
SAM: Deep, Dean? We should go to Yemen.
---
Episode 2. 19, Folsom Prison Blues
Prison is different. It's sharing your whole, pitiful existence with just a few walls, bars and a hundred inmates. And never in his life has Sam shared anything, except with his brother and Jess. Sam can say without second thoughts that he doesn't like prison.
Even though he is never alone, he feels lonely. The light in his cell was turned off hours ago but the hall in font of the cell is lying in twilight. There's always light in the hallway, even when there's no guard making his rounds. Loud snores are coming from the bed above him where Mike “The Flagpole” Dillem is resting comfortably, 200 pounds forming a deep scrape in the lumpy mattress. Once, Sam had asked where the nickname “The Flagpole” came from and regretted getting an answer ever since.
He turns to his left side, slowly, as not to disturb his fellow inmate - who knows in what mood the guy might be in if woken up in the middle of the night - and tries to find a comfortable position. This is worse than the Impala, he thinks and the need to sit in the car and just drive is immense. He'd never thought he'd wish himself into the car. Usually, he craves the freedom for his legs more. Also, he wonders, how much Dean is missing his baby. But he can tell Dean is having way too much fun with this.
Sam, on his part, just wants to get this case over with.
The numb pain in his chest, the receding terror and his inner turmoil give him at least three good reasons.
Earlier
Sam never thinks of himself as defenceless. Before he turned fifteen, he knew thirty different ways to disable an opponent without breaking any sweat. Before he turned sixteen, he'd used them all. So, generally speaking, he is not defenceless. However, he can't help feeling vulnerable.
He is standing naked under a stream of water which had turned cold long before he had started to shower, trying to rinse the stale-smelling soap from his hair while he listens intently at any sound of danger. The sanitary equipment is better than in some motels he had stayed in. Effectively, it's not the mouldiness that troubles him. It's not even the everlasting chill with in the walls. No! It's the fact that he feels alone, yet watched, which makes his goosebumps rise in this moment. Half expecting the ghost of nurse Glockner, he twirls around and stares fiercely waiting for any sign of movement. But the prison infirmary is on the other side of the prison and it's unlikely for a ghost to exceed its haunting area.
There is nothing.
The soap is still clinging to his eyebrows, lips and fingers but he turns off the water. It is freezing anyway and he quickly wraps a towel around himself. Shoes are not allowed in this area and his feet are making slapping noises when he walks towards his clothes, which are stored in a narrow shelf. The air is humid and steamy from earlier, warmer water, and the mirrors are smudgy and almost invisible under thick puddles of condensed water. Only blurred movement can be made out in them. Clearly, he can hear voices now. So, he's not as alone as he had thought. Since the time for taking showers is limited, this is not surprising. It was strange enough to be almost alone as long as it lasted.
Admittedly, he wishes Dean was here, but since they're supposed to act hostile, this is not an option. He's on his own.
Peering around the corner, he can see the guard who oversees the area talk to another inmate. This, in itself, is suspicious enough because guards normally don't talk to inmates except to insult, provoke or put them in their right place. Still feeling uncomfortable, Sam puts on his clothes hastily and rubs his hair dry as best as he can under the current circumstances. The strands, as usually, are stubborn, and when he walks around the corner, he can't see the guard any more.
Yet, he definitely is not alone.
Later
There are cells next to his right and left, all occupied. And the sound is Dolby surround. Loud snores, heavy breathing, some mumbling. Even a few moans Sam does not want to decipher more closely.
He's been lying awake for hours now. His eyes have gotten used to the twilight and he's counting bedsprings over and over, always coming to a different number. Unfortunately, his mind is capable of multithreading because he can’t stop thinking. Thinking and thinking, like a cheese wheel going down a steep slope that goes on for miles. Going through tactics, calculating, planning. The only positive effect: it keeps him from feeling the pain. When a guard passes his cell, shining his torch directly into his face, Sam presses his eyes closed. But the guard apparently has experience with men trying to appear asleep.
“Hey, you. Winchester!” The man grunts, amused. “Too crowded for your taste, huh? You shouldn't be too picky in here.” This said, he walks on and Sam is left behind, staring longingly through the bars.
Tomorrow, they'll get out. They have to. He might carry Dean out of here himself if needed. Sam is not sure how much longer can keep himself or others alive.
The background noise has not changed, but something is different and it takes a moment for Sam to figure out what it is.
“Sam?” It's a harsh whisper, coming from a few cells to his left and he knows what's wrong. He had been hearing a dozen men's snoring but he only had listened to one. Dean's.
“Dean?” As quickly as the pain allows it, he scrambles to the bars, his finger surrounding the cold metal like he can bend them just by pure muscle power. The thought makes his fingers lose their grip immediately. The bars are too narrow and he can't look around corner but he can imagine Dean's arms hanging out, casually, as if trying to impress a girl with his absolute coolness. And he can almost hear his brother's smirk behind his words.
“Hey princess, having fun?”
Earlier
The guard is gone. That shouldn't happen. Really. Something stirs in Sam's stomach and it's foreboding, bordering on fear. Worse than when he's out in the dark, hunting monsters. Because his attackers are human. He can't salt and burn humans. Well, he could, but that would make the stay in this … accommodation last longer and, which was even worse, justified.
“Hey princess!”
Justified is arguable, seriously.
The man is huge, twice his broadness, and he's not on his own. Right and left behind him, he's got two followers, kneading their fists as if warming them before hitting them against something, likely Sam's face. Their intention is obvious: They want to make trouble.
“All alone on your way to your grandma?” The beefy man's cheeks are rosy, his eyes glassy. A thick double chin wobbles disgustingly under his face and makes him look like a big toad. The other two men behind him exchange a look, grinning and Sam takes back a step. Unwillingly. Normally, he is not the one to take steps back. Normally, he is the tall one, but he really wants to get as much space between himself and the toad as possible. He's heard enough stories about prison to be cautious. Most of them from Dean.
“Maybe you find yourself a pretty girl in there?” Dean had joked when they had planned this whole fucked up disaster, which in Sam's eyes did not deserve the term “case” and Sam had hit him, hard. Not hard enough, he thinks now.
Dean would soooo have to suffer from his brother's never ending brooding, pouting and bitching for the next months. Minimum!
He hasn't realized he has taken another step back. Then another, until he's standing with his back against the wall.
Walls! If there's one thing he's had enough of, it's walls.
“You don't want to do this.” It sounds pathetic and his voice is shaking. Not from fear but anger. He's been caged for days and he's nervous and freaking angry with Dean.
Yeah sure! Let's go to prison. A warm bed, food three times a day. It's going to be fun.
Jackass!
For the three goonies, his words sound pathetic as much as fearful because this is exactly what they are expecting from their victims. What they do not expect is the howl of pain coming from the toad master when he tries to punch Sam right in the face but hits the wall instead. They must have been good for something, after all. Sam ducks out of the way smoothly. The scream should have brought guards to their attention but no one comes running, and Sam has the bad feeling that this is how things work in prison. Guards going terminally deaf and blind when things get ugly.
Only this time, they have chosen the wrong guy to play with.
“You really don't want to do this,” Sam repeats, this time his voice is steady and low, the adrenalin bringing his ears to a ring. The toad's bulging lips form an ugly sneer and the man hisses.
“Convince me!”
Later
“Hey princess, having fun?”
Lucky for Dean he's so far away. Sam really itches to give his brother a kick in the ass. But silence will do just fine, too, Sam decides.
“You okay?” His brother sounds a little worried now because Sam doesn't answer. Sam doesn't feel like talking. Just wants to close his eyes and think himself somewhere else. Wants to listen to Dean's voice, even his snore would do. “Didn’t see you at dinner. Meatloaf, you totally missed something.” Dean says and falls into an expectant silence.
Sam still waits to hear Dean go on talking. Anything to make him forget where he is, who he is with. Forget, that he is surrounded by walls and bars and sick bastards. Forget what happened today. What he had done. Had to do, thank you very much.
“I'm okay. Not hungry.”
That, at least, is true.
Their hushed dialogue is broken by the snores and grumbles and unidentifiable grunts around them and Sam needs his brother so hard it hurts. However, he's glad Dean can't see him. Can't see the way he presses his hand against his hurting side and the light bruise on his left temple, hidden from view by his bangs. Can't see the confusion and terror on his face.
A guard steps out of the office at the end of the hallway and shouts, “Shut up!” Some inmates are startled awake but most of them are used to nightly disturbances. Still, Sam and Dean get the point. They settle into a tense silence, not even sure the other one is still awake after a few minutes.
Behind Sam, the metal cot squeaks and Mike “The Flagpole” Dillem flops on his back like a whale stranded on the beach.
This whole... situation... feels surreal. Bizarre. There are moments when Sam thinks he will wake up any minute now.
The silence turns oppressive. For a second there, he wants to scream and wonders if that's what claustrophobia feels like. Must be, because the wall are coming closer, the snores are turning into avalanches and his head feels like bursting.
It feels familiar.
A soft sound gets his attention, a jingling sound and he realizes it comes from Dean, who is knocking the ring on his finger against the bars. Sam listens, waits for a pattern and there it is.
Cliiink clink clink... clink clink cliiiiink.
The sound as well as his soft, melodic humming gets carried around in the hallway, echoing and getting louder, like the bells of a church and when Sam recognizes the song, he smiles.
“You know,” Dean says quietly and in an amused tone. “I always wanted to know what this song really feels like.”
Leave it to Dean to make the situation lighten up by singing Styx' Renegade in prison.
Earlier
The dirty yellow tiles are tinged with red. It's running out of the side of his mouth where he bit his tongue. Just one lucky punch and he slipped on his naked feet. Had gone down, hitting his head painfully against the unforgiving floor. The three men aren't laughing any more. They're angry, evidently not used to their victims fighting back, and now they realize things are going to be messy where Sam Winchester is involved.
“Keep him down!” Toad-face orders and the other two comply, one sitting down on Sam's legs, the other one grabbing his hands and pinning them down over his head.
So, now he really feels vulnerable. A kick in his side robs him of his breath and anger bubbles in his throat, distorting his lips into an angry snarl and when his head finally clears a little, he starts struggling against his constraints and his panic turns into hot, white rage.
He went to prison to help a friend of his father and that's how it's going to be repaid? Shitty conditions at best.
The bones in his wrists are painfully grinding against the tiles, another foot is being kicked into his side and the air rushes out of his body with one hefty gasp. Black dots are dancing in front of his eyes, but he will not give in. Will not give in to let them have their satisfaction of him screaming out in pain. Instead, he tenses his body, straining his muscles and tendons to ward off the impacts, and gathers his strength as much as his anger. Just when he wants to get into action, things change so fast he doesn't even consciously register any difference. It takes him a second to realize that something else happened with his last gasping breath, a sensation - unfamiliar but not unknown. It's feels like another wave of adrenaline but it isn't. A chill, deep in his cores and its source is unknown.
The kicks have stopped abruptly, the hands, wrapped around his wrists and ankles disappear, and it takes him another breath to take in the sight as well as the shocked sounds of confused panic.
Toad head, 300 pounds of pure fat, is pressed against the ceiling exactly above Sam, his stumpy arms and legs sprawled out, his eyes comically wide and staring at Sam like he his the devil himself. His mouth opens and closes and Sam's does the same.
It's another kind of panic that seizes its grip at Sam's heart and when he rolls on his stomach to get his feet under him his eyes never leave the spot above him where. Out of the corner of his eyes he watches the two goons, but they seem to be paralysed by something else. Not supernatural. Just plain old fear.
The pain in Sam's head and chest retreat into the background, only a dull pressure that indicates no lasting injuries. His ears are ringing, the air unqualified to fill his lungs properly and his heart is thumping so hard he can feel it thundering against his sternum.
Without another word he turns around and walks away swiftly, not looking back, pretending not to hear when a crashing sound and a surprised scream announces the sudden lifting of Toad's invisible chain's.
Things had just gotten out of the frying pan and headlong into the fire.
Much Later
The radio is blaring loudly, the windows are cranked down, letting the harsh wind of the early wintry weather in. It's freaking cold but Sam can't help feeling caressed by its biting temperature. Green River County lies behind them, hours away, and never before has riding shotgun in the Impala had felt more like an escape. Not just from prison but... from something else. Another kind of foreboding that had nothing to do with being imprisoned or them being fugitives in several federal states.
In the end, the case was closed successfully and they had gotten away, as usual. And if there was something they were good at, it was vanishing unseen.
Still, Sam just has the distinct impression, vanishing unseen would not be enough this time.
The song is dying away and the first notes of the next song rise. The melancholic voice turning into a duet. “Oh momma I'm in fear for my life from the long arm of the law...“
Sam smiles when, out of the corner of his eyes, he sees Dean grin widely. He is pretty sure Dean has chosen this cassette just for effect. And probably to get a reaction from Sam, since he has been silent ever since they had gotten in the car two states earlier.
“So, what do we do next?” Dean wants to know in a conversational tone while playfully air drumming on the steering wheel in rhythm with the song. “I heard Alcatraz is nice this time of the year.”
“Sure,” Sam says and his brother looks at him worriedly.
“What's wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Don't gimme that shit!”
“Shut up!”
“Jerk!”
“Bitch!”
Sam can't help the smile creeping up on his face and suddenly the greyish light of the day looks a little bit friendlier and less gloomy.
They resolve into a new comfortable silence driving towards whatever fate might have in mind for them.
“Dear momma I can hear you crying
You're so scared and all alone
Hangman is coming down from the gallows
And I don't have very long.”
---
Styx, Renegade
Author:
annj_g80
Rating: PG
Warnings: none
Disclaimer: Nothing and nobody is mine except for the hard work and the English grammar atrocities.
Recipient: mlebayre
Word Count: ~ 3.000
Author’s Note: geminigrl11 did some last minute betaing and I owe her my firstborn for her awesomness *lol* Thank you! Laura, this is for you.
Prompt: mlebayre wanted "Something going into what happens after Folsom Prison Blues, how the guys dealt with prison life, what happened or could have happened during their time separated from each other," and that's what I did with it.
Summary: It's the bars that hold them separated but it's trepidation that keeps them apart.
SAM: I thought we were screwed before.
DEAN: Yeah, yeah, I know. But we’ve gotta go deep this time.
SAM: Deep, Dean? We should go to Yemen.
---
Episode 2. 19, Folsom Prison Blues
Prison is different. It's sharing your whole, pitiful existence with just a few walls, bars and a hundred inmates. And never in his life has Sam shared anything, except with his brother and Jess. Sam can say without second thoughts that he doesn't like prison.
Even though he is never alone, he feels lonely. The light in his cell was turned off hours ago but the hall in font of the cell is lying in twilight. There's always light in the hallway, even when there's no guard making his rounds. Loud snores are coming from the bed above him where Mike “The Flagpole” Dillem is resting comfortably, 200 pounds forming a deep scrape in the lumpy mattress. Once, Sam had asked where the nickname “The Flagpole” came from and regretted getting an answer ever since.
He turns to his left side, slowly, as not to disturb his fellow inmate - who knows in what mood the guy might be in if woken up in the middle of the night - and tries to find a comfortable position. This is worse than the Impala, he thinks and the need to sit in the car and just drive is immense. He'd never thought he'd wish himself into the car. Usually, he craves the freedom for his legs more. Also, he wonders, how much Dean is missing his baby. But he can tell Dean is having way too much fun with this.
Sam, on his part, just wants to get this case over with.
The numb pain in his chest, the receding terror and his inner turmoil give him at least three good reasons.
Earlier
Sam never thinks of himself as defenceless. Before he turned fifteen, he knew thirty different ways to disable an opponent without breaking any sweat. Before he turned sixteen, he'd used them all. So, generally speaking, he is not defenceless. However, he can't help feeling vulnerable.
He is standing naked under a stream of water which had turned cold long before he had started to shower, trying to rinse the stale-smelling soap from his hair while he listens intently at any sound of danger. The sanitary equipment is better than in some motels he had stayed in. Effectively, it's not the mouldiness that troubles him. It's not even the everlasting chill with in the walls. No! It's the fact that he feels alone, yet watched, which makes his goosebumps rise in this moment. Half expecting the ghost of nurse Glockner, he twirls around and stares fiercely waiting for any sign of movement. But the prison infirmary is on the other side of the prison and it's unlikely for a ghost to exceed its haunting area.
There is nothing.
The soap is still clinging to his eyebrows, lips and fingers but he turns off the water. It is freezing anyway and he quickly wraps a towel around himself. Shoes are not allowed in this area and his feet are making slapping noises when he walks towards his clothes, which are stored in a narrow shelf. The air is humid and steamy from earlier, warmer water, and the mirrors are smudgy and almost invisible under thick puddles of condensed water. Only blurred movement can be made out in them. Clearly, he can hear voices now. So, he's not as alone as he had thought. Since the time for taking showers is limited, this is not surprising. It was strange enough to be almost alone as long as it lasted.
Admittedly, he wishes Dean was here, but since they're supposed to act hostile, this is not an option. He's on his own.
Peering around the corner, he can see the guard who oversees the area talk to another inmate. This, in itself, is suspicious enough because guards normally don't talk to inmates except to insult, provoke or put them in their right place. Still feeling uncomfortable, Sam puts on his clothes hastily and rubs his hair dry as best as he can under the current circumstances. The strands, as usually, are stubborn, and when he walks around the corner, he can't see the guard any more.
Yet, he definitely is not alone.
Later
There are cells next to his right and left, all occupied. And the sound is Dolby surround. Loud snores, heavy breathing, some mumbling. Even a few moans Sam does not want to decipher more closely.
He's been lying awake for hours now. His eyes have gotten used to the twilight and he's counting bedsprings over and over, always coming to a different number. Unfortunately, his mind is capable of multithreading because he can’t stop thinking. Thinking and thinking, like a cheese wheel going down a steep slope that goes on for miles. Going through tactics, calculating, planning. The only positive effect: it keeps him from feeling the pain. When a guard passes his cell, shining his torch directly into his face, Sam presses his eyes closed. But the guard apparently has experience with men trying to appear asleep.
“Hey, you. Winchester!” The man grunts, amused. “Too crowded for your taste, huh? You shouldn't be too picky in here.” This said, he walks on and Sam is left behind, staring longingly through the bars.
Tomorrow, they'll get out. They have to. He might carry Dean out of here himself if needed. Sam is not sure how much longer can keep himself or others alive.
The background noise has not changed, but something is different and it takes a moment for Sam to figure out what it is.
“Sam?” It's a harsh whisper, coming from a few cells to his left and he knows what's wrong. He had been hearing a dozen men's snoring but he only had listened to one. Dean's.
“Dean?” As quickly as the pain allows it, he scrambles to the bars, his finger surrounding the cold metal like he can bend them just by pure muscle power. The thought makes his fingers lose their grip immediately. The bars are too narrow and he can't look around corner but he can imagine Dean's arms hanging out, casually, as if trying to impress a girl with his absolute coolness. And he can almost hear his brother's smirk behind his words.
“Hey princess, having fun?”
Earlier
The guard is gone. That shouldn't happen. Really. Something stirs in Sam's stomach and it's foreboding, bordering on fear. Worse than when he's out in the dark, hunting monsters. Because his attackers are human. He can't salt and burn humans. Well, he could, but that would make the stay in this … accommodation last longer and, which was even worse, justified.
“Hey princess!”
Justified is arguable, seriously.
The man is huge, twice his broadness, and he's not on his own. Right and left behind him, he's got two followers, kneading their fists as if warming them before hitting them against something, likely Sam's face. Their intention is obvious: They want to make trouble.
“All alone on your way to your grandma?” The beefy man's cheeks are rosy, his eyes glassy. A thick double chin wobbles disgustingly under his face and makes him look like a big toad. The other two men behind him exchange a look, grinning and Sam takes back a step. Unwillingly. Normally, he is not the one to take steps back. Normally, he is the tall one, but he really wants to get as much space between himself and the toad as possible. He's heard enough stories about prison to be cautious. Most of them from Dean.
“Maybe you find yourself a pretty girl in there?” Dean had joked when they had planned this whole fucked up disaster, which in Sam's eyes did not deserve the term “case” and Sam had hit him, hard. Not hard enough, he thinks now.
Dean would soooo have to suffer from his brother's never ending brooding, pouting and bitching for the next months. Minimum!
He hasn't realized he has taken another step back. Then another, until he's standing with his back against the wall.
Walls! If there's one thing he's had enough of, it's walls.
“You don't want to do this.” It sounds pathetic and his voice is shaking. Not from fear but anger. He's been caged for days and he's nervous and freaking angry with Dean.
Yeah sure! Let's go to prison. A warm bed, food three times a day. It's going to be fun.
Jackass!
For the three goonies, his words sound pathetic as much as fearful because this is exactly what they are expecting from their victims. What they do not expect is the howl of pain coming from the toad master when he tries to punch Sam right in the face but hits the wall instead. They must have been good for something, after all. Sam ducks out of the way smoothly. The scream should have brought guards to their attention but no one comes running, and Sam has the bad feeling that this is how things work in prison. Guards going terminally deaf and blind when things get ugly.
Only this time, they have chosen the wrong guy to play with.
“You really don't want to do this,” Sam repeats, this time his voice is steady and low, the adrenalin bringing his ears to a ring. The toad's bulging lips form an ugly sneer and the man hisses.
“Convince me!”
Later
“Hey princess, having fun?”
Lucky for Dean he's so far away. Sam really itches to give his brother a kick in the ass. But silence will do just fine, too, Sam decides.
“You okay?” His brother sounds a little worried now because Sam doesn't answer. Sam doesn't feel like talking. Just wants to close his eyes and think himself somewhere else. Wants to listen to Dean's voice, even his snore would do. “Didn’t see you at dinner. Meatloaf, you totally missed something.” Dean says and falls into an expectant silence.
Sam still waits to hear Dean go on talking. Anything to make him forget where he is, who he is with. Forget, that he is surrounded by walls and bars and sick bastards. Forget what happened today. What he had done. Had to do, thank you very much.
“I'm okay. Not hungry.”
That, at least, is true.
Their hushed dialogue is broken by the snores and grumbles and unidentifiable grunts around them and Sam needs his brother so hard it hurts. However, he's glad Dean can't see him. Can't see the way he presses his hand against his hurting side and the light bruise on his left temple, hidden from view by his bangs. Can't see the confusion and terror on his face.
A guard steps out of the office at the end of the hallway and shouts, “Shut up!” Some inmates are startled awake but most of them are used to nightly disturbances. Still, Sam and Dean get the point. They settle into a tense silence, not even sure the other one is still awake after a few minutes.
Behind Sam, the metal cot squeaks and Mike “The Flagpole” Dillem flops on his back like a whale stranded on the beach.
This whole... situation... feels surreal. Bizarre. There are moments when Sam thinks he will wake up any minute now.
The silence turns oppressive. For a second there, he wants to scream and wonders if that's what claustrophobia feels like. Must be, because the wall are coming closer, the snores are turning into avalanches and his head feels like bursting.
It feels familiar.
A soft sound gets his attention, a jingling sound and he realizes it comes from Dean, who is knocking the ring on his finger against the bars. Sam listens, waits for a pattern and there it is.
Cliiink clink clink... clink clink cliiiiink.
The sound as well as his soft, melodic humming gets carried around in the hallway, echoing and getting louder, like the bells of a church and when Sam recognizes the song, he smiles.
“You know,” Dean says quietly and in an amused tone. “I always wanted to know what this song really feels like.”
Leave it to Dean to make the situation lighten up by singing Styx' Renegade in prison.
Earlier
The dirty yellow tiles are tinged with red. It's running out of the side of his mouth where he bit his tongue. Just one lucky punch and he slipped on his naked feet. Had gone down, hitting his head painfully against the unforgiving floor. The three men aren't laughing any more. They're angry, evidently not used to their victims fighting back, and now they realize things are going to be messy where Sam Winchester is involved.
“Keep him down!” Toad-face orders and the other two comply, one sitting down on Sam's legs, the other one grabbing his hands and pinning them down over his head.
So, now he really feels vulnerable. A kick in his side robs him of his breath and anger bubbles in his throat, distorting his lips into an angry snarl and when his head finally clears a little, he starts struggling against his constraints and his panic turns into hot, white rage.
He went to prison to help a friend of his father and that's how it's going to be repaid? Shitty conditions at best.
The bones in his wrists are painfully grinding against the tiles, another foot is being kicked into his side and the air rushes out of his body with one hefty gasp. Black dots are dancing in front of his eyes, but he will not give in. Will not give in to let them have their satisfaction of him screaming out in pain. Instead, he tenses his body, straining his muscles and tendons to ward off the impacts, and gathers his strength as much as his anger. Just when he wants to get into action, things change so fast he doesn't even consciously register any difference. It takes him a second to realize that something else happened with his last gasping breath, a sensation - unfamiliar but not unknown. It's feels like another wave of adrenaline but it isn't. A chill, deep in his cores and its source is unknown.
The kicks have stopped abruptly, the hands, wrapped around his wrists and ankles disappear, and it takes him another breath to take in the sight as well as the shocked sounds of confused panic.
Toad head, 300 pounds of pure fat, is pressed against the ceiling exactly above Sam, his stumpy arms and legs sprawled out, his eyes comically wide and staring at Sam like he his the devil himself. His mouth opens and closes and Sam's does the same.
It's another kind of panic that seizes its grip at Sam's heart and when he rolls on his stomach to get his feet under him his eyes never leave the spot above him where. Out of the corner of his eyes he watches the two goons, but they seem to be paralysed by something else. Not supernatural. Just plain old fear.
The pain in Sam's head and chest retreat into the background, only a dull pressure that indicates no lasting injuries. His ears are ringing, the air unqualified to fill his lungs properly and his heart is thumping so hard he can feel it thundering against his sternum.
Without another word he turns around and walks away swiftly, not looking back, pretending not to hear when a crashing sound and a surprised scream announces the sudden lifting of Toad's invisible chain's.
Things had just gotten out of the frying pan and headlong into the fire.
Much Later
The radio is blaring loudly, the windows are cranked down, letting the harsh wind of the early wintry weather in. It's freaking cold but Sam can't help feeling caressed by its biting temperature. Green River County lies behind them, hours away, and never before has riding shotgun in the Impala had felt more like an escape. Not just from prison but... from something else. Another kind of foreboding that had nothing to do with being imprisoned or them being fugitives in several federal states.
In the end, the case was closed successfully and they had gotten away, as usual. And if there was something they were good at, it was vanishing unseen.
Still, Sam just has the distinct impression, vanishing unseen would not be enough this time.
The song is dying away and the first notes of the next song rise. The melancholic voice turning into a duet. “Oh momma I'm in fear for my life from the long arm of the law...“
Sam smiles when, out of the corner of his eyes, he sees Dean grin widely. He is pretty sure Dean has chosen this cassette just for effect. And probably to get a reaction from Sam, since he has been silent ever since they had gotten in the car two states earlier.
“So, what do we do next?” Dean wants to know in a conversational tone while playfully air drumming on the steering wheel in rhythm with the song. “I heard Alcatraz is nice this time of the year.”
“Sure,” Sam says and his brother looks at him worriedly.
“What's wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Don't gimme that shit!”
“Shut up!”
“Jerk!”
“Bitch!”
Sam can't help the smile creeping up on his face and suddenly the greyish light of the day looks a little bit friendlier and less gloomy.
They resolve into a new comfortable silence driving towards whatever fate might have in mind for them.
“Dear momma I can hear you crying
You're so scared and all alone
Hangman is coming down from the gallows
And I don't have very long.”
---
Styx, Renegade