Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was four in the morning, on the day Sam’s brother finally caught him. It was an unusually heavy fog for that time of year, and the air was thick and freezing. Dean Winchester rubbed his palms together, wincing as blew on them for warmth. As much as it did for his attractiveness and general charming approachability, his father’s leather jacket was useless in terms of general insulation.

He’d stopped outside a gas station for coffee as usual, once he’d woken up from his blessed two hours (or so) parked behind a motel, cleverly concealed behind a tree to avoid having to pay for parking. He couldn’t afford to pay for it, not with how much it had cost to come down here. And he’d come too far for the cops to slow him down.The girl who served him his coffee was short, dark skinned. Generally beautiful. She smiled at him and slipped him her phone number on his receipt. He grinned smoothly back, as he resolved to be back later. For now, he had a Sammy to catch.

It was adorable, the little place he was holed up in. Dean had been tailing him ever since he got out, and he’d laughed his ass off when he’d seen the apartment. It was tiny, shared with a cutie Sammy met in class a couple semesters back, and Dean approved. It was a shame she knew nothing about who Sam really was. Or the reasons why after she left for work that morning, she’d never see his smile again.

Sam’s routine ran like clockwork, as Dean observed as he watched through their first storey window, right into their apartment. His scruffy mess of hair popped out from the covers at 5.30, as his alarm rang out and frightened the dog that slept on the sofa. Soon the kid stood, and sleepily stumbled into the kitchenette to make tea (health-conscious sunovabitch) for himself and the pretty blonde peeling herself from the warm bed. They made a nice little picture, and Dean appreciated the view. He checked his watch.

57 minutes.

Dean watched the two of them, going through the morning routine the three of them had shared for the past year, since Sam and Jess had become roommates. The morning began with tea for two on the sofa with their rescue dog named Titan (God, that thing looked well cared for), deep conversations held in whispers, which Dean listened to keenly through the bug he’d planted in their bedside drawer. Today Jess had a double shift before class, and Sam was deliberating on whether or not to go to the gym before his own job started. Dean hastily made notes on these new arrangements in the journal. He’d been working on this plan for too long for a trip to the gym to throw the whole thing off-kilter. He had no cause to worry. Sam’s inevitable chore of walking Titan came before his own self-care, thus the gym could happen that evening or not at all. Dean smirked at Jess’ suggestion at an alternative method of exercise, which triggered about five minutes of some porno-worthy making out. Dean whistled from his car. Atta boy, Sammy.

Eventually, their morning came to an end. To Sam’s disappointment, after the two ate breakfast together, Jess had to go and get dressed, before leaving for her shift at the local hospital. Lil cutie was a nurse in training, and that uniform was just to die for. Sam kissed her tenderly on the doorstep before she left. It was almost time.

Sam went back inside to hop in the shower, which - although Dean was unable to see, due to the mottled glass of the bathroom windows - was thankfully bugged, too. Sammy wasn’t the type to sing in the shower, though that would’ve been cute. It was just a good way to hear what was goin’ on, and to make sure everything remained in place while he readied the vial of chloroform, rope and flex-cuffs for their reunion later on.

Soon enough Sammy hopped outta the shower, got himself dressed and was getting the dog ready for his walk. Just in time to realise that the leash was missing, as Dean had snuck in and removed it last night. He drew the line on kidnapping dogs, especially as he knew Jess would take great care of Titan even without Sammy to help her. There was no reason to get the pup involved. Dean grinned as he watched Sammy’s mind work, cogs whirring behind those precious brown eyes. That’s it, Sammy, think it through. If Titan can’t be walked, you’ll either need to go out and get a new leash from the pet store, or resolve to walk him later and instead go to the gym while you still have time. Either way, you’ll be walking outta the house and into my arms.

Of course, the dog won in Sammy's mental list of priorities, and he soon grumpily threw on his coat and boots, ready to head out into the cold for a new leash. Dean swiftly exited the car, leaving the back door wide open in the deserted neighbourhood; it was still way too early for anyone to be around to witness this. As Sam stepped out of the door and locked it behind him, he felt the force of a small truck as Dean ploughed into him, covering his mouth with one cold hand and pressing the flex-cuffs around unsuspecting wrists with the other. Predictably Sammy began to struggle, still Dean subdued him easily. The kid had stopped self-defence training when the state took him away, and had obviously never picked it back up. It was embarrassingly easy for Dean to hog-tie his brother right there on the porch, struggling and obviously equal parts livid and terrified. Dean decided it was best to slip a cloth round his eyes. Mostly to calm him, the way you would a feral animal. Also, to stop him from tracing his way home once they’d hit the road.

To lessen the noise Sam produced, Dean gagged him, and carried him back to the car. He stuffed him in the backseat and strapped the kid in, despite his thrashing, and tightened each rope on him for good measure. When Dean was satisfied that his little brother was utterly incapable of any movement, he assumed the driver’s seat, child-locked the doors, and left the atmospherically foggy neighbourhood behind them. Forever.

Chapter Text

Inevitably, the noise and struggling of an angry hostage (who also happened to be a Winchester), was enough to annoy the most patient of kidnapping older brothers. He tolerated Sam’s thrashing, bumping and muffled shouts for about fifty miles, before pulling over in a field so far out that noone would hear him, even if the kid wasn’t gagged, as he was.

Getting out of the car, Dean slammed the driver-side door, letting his prisoner hear him, and despite himself, go quiet and still out of fear. Dean had to smile at that. Ever the obedient little brother.

He leaned into the backseat, getting close enough that Sam could easily hear him, and understand he was close. He unhooked the blindfold, letting the kid blink and slowly adjust to the harsh light change. He instantly made to look around, obviously trying to recognise surroundings, maybe figure out where the hell he was. No luck, of course. Dean was way too clever for that.

“Heya, Sammy.” He greeted him. Sam squirmed, groaning out words so loud that Dean could almost understand them. He wasn’t at an angle where he could look around properly without pain, so Sam contented himself with lamenting into the upholstery. Dean had to mentally translate:

“thhh nhhht mhmfm.” meant: That’s not my name.

“I think you’ll find it is.” Dean said tolerantly, taking out his journal and flipping to a specific page. Since his first foster parents, Sammy had had his name changed, more a formality than to protect his identity. Nobody wanted to remember they were housing the son of a notorious serial killer. That was why most of Sammy’s temporary arrangements had been so, well, temporary.

Dean finally found the page he was looking for, a grin splitting open his face.

“Thomas Mikhail Campbell?” He asked, and the young man’s ears pricked. Along with a host of other names, his most recent and permanent one had been just that. So that’s how they’d tried to keep him hidden.

“Yeah, funny story, you’re not exactly who you think you are.” Dean said, and to remain enigmatic, he immediately switched topic.

The odd nature of this statement clearly eliminated any fear Sammy had, and he soon began thrashing around once more. Dean placed a warning hand on the small of his back.

“Since you move that lil’ butt so much, I’m gonna let you use it. Just keep movin’ around if your answer is ‘yes’.” He said slowly, giving his brother a minute to understand he was being mocked. Blush creeping up to his ears, Sam fell still, body almost vibrating with fury.

“Good boy.” Dean smiled, giving his butt a condescending pat. Sam reacted negatively to this, screaming obvious profanities through the gag, that Dean knew he’d deserve a punishment for, but he’d let them slide. Sammy would learn.

“Listen, you’re gonna wanna watch that mouth of yours, Sammy.” He said calmly, speaking close to his captive’s ear.

“You’re gonna learn real fast that for every punishment you earn, the further I’ll take you away from that pretty apple-pie life you’ve been enjoying for the last couple of years.”

Of course, this was just an empty threat. For every punishment Sammy earned, a punishment Sammy would receive. However, right now, the worst that kid could probably think of was being snatched away from that girl of his. Dean had severed that link a couple towns ago; Sam would never see Jessica again.

Sam grunted, and thrashed furiously, twisting his neck around to get a proper look at his captor. The noises he made at Dean were muffled and completely unintelligible, but judging by the inflection and the desperation touching his eyes, Dean figured he was asking why he’d done this.

“Simple, Sammy.” Dean smiled, crouching down and forcing Sam’s neck to strain to keep him in view.

“I’ll explain to you in time who I am, but as for right now, I am of no consequence. You, on the other hand, are the main event. You have no idea who you truly are, and I’m gonna remind you.”

Dean watched fear infiltrate those gorgeous, hazel eyes. He’d hit a nerve. The night the cops had taken Sammy away, well, alot had gone down. Sammy had ended up with a busted head, and Dean had learned from tapping into his medical files, logging his psychiatrist appointments, that the kid had suffered amnesia. He apparently remembered very little of being Samuel Winchester, and his host of foster families had done nothing to jog his memory. Just that thought had been enough for Dean to leave a little ticking present on the doorstep of each and every one.

“Don’t worry.” Dean reassured him, petting his brother’s unruly hair back, since it had gotten in his eyes. Sam’s gut instinct was to recoil from the touch, but Dean’s cold gaze was enough of a warning to make him go slack.

“Clever boy.” Dean smiled, and continued to pet him. Sam was smart enough to stay still and docile this time.

Sam growled lowly, every muscle he had tensing against his restraints. He was going to want to try and get used to those, Dean mused. Translating gagged-talk, he decided Sam was asking what it was he planned to do.

“All kindsa fun stuff.” He smiled excitedly.

“You oughta see it, Sammy, I decked out an entire cabin for ya. I got your room all set up, I know just how I’m gonna remind ya. I’m gonna teach you slowly who you are.”

A tear squeezed it’s way out of Sam’s dismayed face, leaking down and staining the fabric of his gag. Dean tenderly leaned forward, swiping a finger underneath the almond-shaped drop and wiping it away, like when they were kids. Except this time, Sammy didn’t even know who he was. Or who his brother was. Dean would be lying if he said that didn’t fucking sting a little.

“It’s gonna be a good couple hundred miles til we reach where we gotta reach.” Dean said presently.

“Your girlfriend’s not gonna know you’re really missing until eight tonight, and by then you’ll be too far gone for anyone to follow our tracks. I scheduled today special, ya see; it’s gonna snow tonight, and snow hard. Our tyre-marks will be gone in an hour. It’ll be as if you were never even there.”

Sam’s reaction was one that could be expected on an angry, bound and gagged Winchester under great duress in the back of a car. He threw a temper-tantrum to end all temper-tantrums, writhing and twisting and screaming and hollering to wake the dead. It was then that Dean remembered he had chloroform stashed in the glove compartment.

The remainder of the journey was uneventful. Sammy was kept in a drugged haze in the back of the car, silenced and covered with a blanket in case they were pulled over, and his ropes were tied to every available surface, until the younger Winchester couldn’t make a single twitch without regretting it. He was way too high to try it, anyway.

Soon Dean stopped the car in a field, gently untie his helpless brother, and took him out to relieve himself. After this was done he took him back, bundled him in the backseat once more, and Sam emptied his guts into the snow outside the car.

“Crap.” Dean breathed, kicking himself. He’d forgotten the kid had to eat, and he’d had quite the emotionally eventful day. He stopped at a fast food place the next town over, and their next pit-stop was in the very centre of a forest, darker than a freaking cave.

He untied Sam for the second time that day, and quickly replaced the heavy binding ropes with a pair of flex-cuffs, socks wrapped around the interior, to stop the  boy from rubbing his skin raw. Sammy’s immobilized arms were draped over the seat before him, and his ankles were tied together. Satisfied with the bondage, Dean removed the blindfold and the gag.

He was used to the light, but the free mouth was new to Sammy, having been silenced for hours now. His jaw clumsily moved again, trying to ease the soreness of his face, and he swallowed a good many times before meeting Dean’s eye.

Sam was no longer under the affects of the chloroform, and no doubt his world was becoming sharper, clearer. Soon he’d need another dose.The boy opened his mouth and breathed in harshly, ready to yell.

“Scream all you want.” Dean told his brother, watching him passively.

“No one can hear you, and you’ll just get gagged again. I got you some food, and if you’re a good boy I’ll let you eat it.”

This promise was truly a tempting one, the kid was surely ravenous by now. Eyeing Dean with enough venom to take down a freakin’ herd of elephants, Sam leaned his head back, pretty mouth opening slightly.

The invitation was open, and heavy in the air. I’ll be good. Let me eat.

Dean was happy to oblige. He held up the burger he’d gotten, waving aside Sam’s grimace as he bit into it, still not hesitating to eat the entire thing. Sam chewed slowly, only looking at his detainer when Dean was looking the other way. Proud kid. I guess the apple really doesn’t fall far from the tree. Dean thought.

“My name is Thomas.” Sam’s voice rang out, young as a breeze, and with it a chill crept down Dean’s spine. He turned back to his prisoner, still well-tied up but glowering with John’s cold eyes.

“My name is Thomas Campbell. I come from Michigan, my parents are called Bobby and Ellen, they own a bar called the Roadhouse. I have a sister named Jo and a dog called Titan. I study Law at Stanford University, I’m getting married in a year to the love of my life, and tomorrow morning is my interview to law school.” He spluttered, pent up emotions of the day spewing from his sore red mouth.

Dean leaned back on his haunches, almost impressed. That ended quickly, however.

“You’re wrong…”

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

Thomas wasn’t expecting the hit, and it came too soon and way too hard. The bastard punched him in the face with enough force to knock out two teeth, and he had to check quickly, to be sure they were still there. After a foul-smelling rag was held tight over his nose and mouth for almost a minute, the gag was unceremoniously stuffed back in, the blindfold wrapped back over his eyes, and due to whatever kinda drug he’d given him, Thomas couldn’t lift a hand to stop him. His dark world pitched and rolled, as he found himself being moved in large, rough hands, back onto his belly on the godfuckingdamn upholstered seat, plastic cuffs removed from his ankles and wrists, soon replaced with the rope he knew so well. He wasn’t hog-tied this time, it was different, he could tell. There was an anger in his captor now, a ferocity that had been absent before. Sure, the freak was fucking crazy and evil and planning some weird kinky kidnapping shit, but he’d been patient, almost fatherly toward him. That, apparently, ended right now.

Thomas felt his wrists being bound once again, tight behind him, and then he was rolled onto his back, awkwardly crushing his hands beneath him. He let out an angry moan to try and stick up for himself, and was rewarded with a slap to his thigh that smarted like a cigarette burn.

Thomas felt a deep twinge of pain, as, bizarrely, he felt his ankles pulled up and back, forced unnaturally high. He groaned, trying to struggle, and received another slap that made him wince and bite his gag. With force that made his eyes roll back with agony, this fucker was pushing both his legs behind his head.

He tried to struggle, but couldn’t do so, without falling into the crawlspace and risking even further humiliation. Instead he grunted indignantly as this position was enforced with more rope, binding one end of a length of rope around each ankle, and the rope between was then placed behind his neck. Just like that, he was caught in an eye-wateringly painful stretched position, and one he didn’t hope to escape for a while.

He was soon secured extra-tight, concealed completely beneath a sleeping bag that smelled of whisky, and left there. He heard the bastard shut the door on his side, heard the clunk of the child lock enable on all doors, and his captor pull out and continue driving. As if nothing had ever happened.

Chapter Text

It was a while longer of driving until they reached their destination. John had bought out several safe-houses throughout his career, and one of them was where they were going now. It was a tiny log-cabin in the centre of a huge forest in Wyoming, that no one knew about, ‘cause John had been sure to make it himself. The surroundings were so far out that nobody had heard him assembling it, and he’d done this before he became a wanted man. Dean was proud to have this cabin as an heirloom. He pulled up outside the forest at around six in the morning, and took everything outside. Torch, provisions, cell, Sammy. Everything he needed, Dean noticed with a grin.

“Wake up Sammy, we’re home.” He told Sam gently, opening the back door and removing the blanket that covered him. Sam had had enough chloroform to knock out a horse, so Dean had elected to give him his final dose recently, to avoid him making noise as he brought him out of the car. You could never be too careful when you were handling a Winchester.

Sammy was understandably fussy when Dean woke him up, tied up with his legs behind his head, which made Dean chuckle. Kid had warranted a punishment, so he wouldn’t be so bad again. It wasn’t such a bad view, he acknowledged with a smirk.

“Alright alright calm down…” He smiled, carefully releasing the knot that held him that way, A groan left Sam’s bound mouth as he was released, and he unsuccessfully attempted to stretch a little. He glared up at Dean angrily, mouth struggling to move in the confines of the gag. Dean calmly reached around to tighten the fabric, keeping him silent. Sam groaned again, frustrated.

He slung his backpack over his shoulder, and then scooped Sammy up in his arms. Sam struggled, trying obviously to stand, as his ankles were no longer tied together. Dean looked at him warily.

“You wanna try and walk?” He asked, as if expecting an answer.

Sam nodded tiredly, swallowing. Kid was humiliated with the way he’d been bound, obviously he wanted to retain some trace of dignity by walking to his prison. Dean set the kid on his feet, and removed his hands. Sam dropped at once like a felled tree.

“Aww, it’s alright, happens to the best of us.” Dean comforted him, picking up his brother over his shoulder like a fireman, and walking slowly up the hill that lead to their new home. Sam stopped struggling, as he’d probably exhausted himself entirely, until he saw the words carved into the door. Then he began thrashing.

Dean smiled proudly, regarding the words his dad had written with a penknife:

Property of John Winchester.

A little ostentatious, but John had been a man for a bit of a show, that’s how the old bastard had got himself caught. Sam had evidently heard of America’s most Prolific Serial Killing Father-Son Duo, and only now were the dots connecting in his pretty head. He’d been kidnapped by a serial killer. Not just any, but the best.

“Relax, Sammy.” Dean calmed him unsuccessfully, setting him down on the chair by the door, one meant specifically for hostages. It had leather wrist and ankle straps attached to the arms and legs, and was bolted to the floor for added security. The cabin had no windows, no carpets, so this ugly thing was the only furnishing old John had allowed himself. Dean felt a twinge of emotion as he secured his baby brother in it. Last time he’d sat Sammy down, he had been setting him in his high-chair.

“Seriously, relax. No one is gonna kill you, you’re not a victim.” He reasoned. He leaned forward to take the gag, and thankfully, the kid was silent. He was too busy listening, desperate for some kind of clue, or context.

“You’re here because you’re Sammy, Samuel Winchester.” Dean began. “You’re my brother, and son of John Winchester, God rest his soiled soul. I’ve been trackin’ ya down for years now, and today is the day I caught ya. My name is Dean Winchester, your older brother. I’m gonna remind you who you are, and then the family can be back together.”

Dea’s eyes twinkled with excitement.

“I could take you on hunts with me, scope out local bars, share a beer, do all that stuff. I’ll have my brother back, and you’ll have yours. Now tell me, how’s that sound?”

“Fucking insane.” Sam snapped angrily, speaking for the first time since he’d pissed Dean off. Irritated, Dean stood.

“I see how this is gonna be.”

He turned away, and briefly checked the room he’d prepared. He was extremely fucking proud of it, even if he did say so himself. It was a totally accurate replica of Sam’s room, from the one and only house they’d ever owned. Granted, he’d been two at the time, but Dea had graciously replaced the little crib with a single bed, and the diaper changing table with a chest of drawers. Lil model airplanes filled the ceiling overhead, and tiny dogs printed the curtains he’d hung over the one window. The little cabin may have needed to undergo a remodelling, but Dean wanted Sammy to have a window. It was good for morale. The other side of the window was also a one-way mirror. No one would see the pretty captive inside.

In the corner of the room sat a chair not unlike the one Sam was constrained in now, except it was blue. Blue had always been Sammy’s favourite colour, and Dean hoped it still would be. There were straps for his wrists, ankles, neck, thighs and middle, and in front of it was a TV. Little and portable, and stocked with footage from their past. John Winchester had been careful with leaving digital footprints; he’d been a wanted man for five years before Dean was born. That’s why all their home-movies had been stored on cassette tapes, and Dean had painstakingly converted them to DVD, and now was gonna let Sam watch them for the first time. Unfortunately he couldn’t play them on a computer (too easily trackable), but the quality was still good.

It was child's play wrestling the drugged Sam into his new bedroom. His head snapped around like an owl once they were in there, and he stopped struggling for a second. Thank God, the kid remembered it.

Before Dean secured Sam in the chair, he hit the kid on the back of the head, knocking him out unconscious. Laying him back on the bed Dean undressed him, and replaced his clothes with something a little more Sam-like. A soft plaid shirt that had belonged to John, and some new jeans Dean had bought himself with Sammy in mind, and the kid looked more like a Winchester already. He gave Sammy a haircut - matching the army-look he’d sported from a young age, and stepped back to admire his work. The criminal couldn’t help but shed a tear.

“Welcome back, Sam Winchester. Welcome back.”

0o0o0o0o

The next weeks were a blur, at least when Thomas looked back on them after every individual day. In the moment they were happening they seemed to drag on forever, each second painfully longer and slower than the last. It wasn’t long before he wished for death to end his misery.

The first day, he awoke in a bright blue room, that looked more suitable to be inhabited by a child. For some reason he felt as if he’d seen the patterns, the cars and dog-patterned curtains all before, but most of him rebelled against that vehemently, his head splitting open with pain. He’d been knocked out, he knew that much. He wondered if that blow to the head was enough to kill him, and that possibility didn’t scare him nearly as much as it would have a week before.

Thomas saw himself in a mirror, right across from him and behind a small retro television, hooked up to a DVD player. His hair had been cut, and his clothes had been changed. The thought of that sicko unclothing him made the captive feel sick. He could have been, if he’d been fed recently.

Time blurred into an odd pattern, of which he couldn’t track. His life was technicolour black, white and red, and every second overlooked and calculated by Dean. He learned very quickly that certain actions resulted in punishments, while others earned rewards; all of which were different and specific to the crime. Days were on a strict routine, unbeknownst to anybody but his jailer.

In the mornings he would wake up, and be fed. It was tasteless food and depending on the last time he ate, it would be met with gusto or revulsion. Spitting the food out resulted in a punishment. On the first day, that punishment was a freezing cold shower. Once the cold shower was done with, Dean helped a hysterical Thomas get out of the bathroom. He landed a kick directly in his stomach, and for that Thomas  earned his second punishment of the day. He was still naked and dripping from the shower when he was shoved outside, and his moment of bewilderment was instantly replaced with agony. He was standing outside the cabin in a huge wire enclosure, not unlike the ones that zoos used to trap bears. He had no prayer of getting out, but the worst was yet to come. It was snowing.

He remained there, hammering on the door and screaming for an hour before being allowed back in. Thrashing and yelling wildly, he manage to warrant his third demerit. Though he was handed a scratchy towel to dry himself, Thomas was not granted any clothes, and merely secured in the chair in his room. After the harsh reprimands for behaviour Dean did not like, instincts for self-preservation kicked in. Thomas allowed himself to be strapped into the chair in the blue room, and as he did, the TV was turned on. Dean gagged him and left him there, still blue-lipped and almost convulsing, and on that first day he didn’t spare a look for the people on the screen.  

The next day was the same, and could be shaped for better or for worse, depending on Thomas’ conduct. In the morning he awoke in his bed, tied down but warm, and he welcomed that. When Dean entered the room to feed him, he devoured the dry bread hungrily, gulping down the bitter coffee. Dean smiled, and held up a bottle of tepid water to his mouth. Thomas had never been so relieved to eat disgusting food in his life.

Next, Dean dressed him. Obviously Thomas could not be trusted to clothe himself after his behaviour of yesterday, so Dean untied him, pinned Thomas down beneath his body, and dressed him manually. Thomas grimaced as he felt the bastard slide boxers up his long legs, but welcomed the clothes and - though he hated to admit it - he relished the heat that pulsated from Dean’s body. Soon he was dressed, and Dean dragged him over to the chair. He was strapped to it, gagged, and Dean left him there. Seeing that, only after he had been calm, quiet and docile he had been allowed clothes and no rough treatment, Thomas became resigned. Though he hated it, he knew that if he was left outside naked and wet in the snow, his vital signs could not be good. If he was to ever see Jess again, or Titan or his professors...he needed to self-preserve. The cops would find him, and in the meantime, he’d have to stay alive.

All throughout that day he was left there, and as the TV was the only source of stimulation he was offered, he couldn’t help but pay attention. They seemed to be a fuzzy poorly-recorded collection of home movies, featuring the rotating cast of a black-bearded man, a blonde woman with kind green eyes, and two boys who were very young. It made no sense. Who were these people?

Were they victims of Dean, and he was just rubbing it in Thomas’ face? was he about to witness some kind of sick snuff-movie?

Time went on, and luckily Thomas saw no violence, just a regular load of footage. Since they played on a loop and he’d spent the first time thinking, Thomas was sure to pay attention the moment they reached the beginning again.

The first clip depicted that pretty blonde woman, in a white hospital gown, writhing round-bellied on a bed. It didn’t take long for Thomas to catch on, he was watching a birth video. The woman sighed, a midwife mopping her brow, and her other hand was held by whoever held the camera. She turned, gasping towards the screen, and whispered gently:

“John…”

Thomas realised at once. John Winchester, the serial killer! Was this his set of home movies?! Thomas’ head spun, and he wracked his brains for the last time he’d seen the name on the news. John Winchester had died years back, been shot during a hostage situation, but the reason it had taken them so long to shoot the bastard, was because he’d brought his sons.

Thomas’ eyes snapped open.

His unnamed sons - one an infant, one under ten years old, the infant had been taken into adoption under witness protection, and the older one confined to a juvenile detention centre, also under strict witness protection. The way the years added up, that older son could easily be Dean. But then the infant son…

You’re Sammy, Samuel Winchester.

Not one of his foster parents had ever, ever given him a straight answer as to his birth parentage. Not even mom and dad (the mom and dad he eventually ended up with) had been willing to, informing him instead that he suffered with amnesia, and not even the social workers were certain who he really was. Well, now he knew. He was the youngest son of a long-dead murderer.

The home movie progressed, and he focused on the screen. The birth scene had been skipped, and instead the camera was focused on a house, a white one with a pretty well-trimmed garden, one that Thomas knew in his mind. Any attempt that he made to find the memory resulted in a headache, which discouraged him from looking any further.

The camera turned to the blonde woman from before, who he heard John refer to as Mary. She held a bundle in her arms, and clinging to her hand was a green-eyed toddler. He was kind of adorable, at least Thomas thought so until the boy tripped, and John dipped at once to scoop him up, comforting him by saying:

“S’ok, Dean. Daddy’s gotcha.”

The baby cooed from Mary’s arms, as she stepped up to the wrap-around porch, sitting herself on a bench. She lowered her shirt to nurse the baby, and his eyes betrayed his identity.

Thomas gasped, as best he could, almost inhaling the gag.

Him. That baby was him. His eyes were exactly the same colour, the moles in the right place. The baby giggled at his mother and made grabbing hands for her hair, and Mary sighed contentedly as the baby began to feed. The scene was picturesque, almost happy. That is, you ignored the fact that the guy filming it was responsible for the deaths of 60 people, and the infant he bounced on his hip was the man currently intent on ruining his life.

The next scene was just as cheesy, Mary held the camera in her hand as her son and father played soccer on the lawn. A little baby sound alerted her, and the camera dipped to her perspective. The baby was nestled in her arm, and it blew a raspberry at the screen.

Thomas didn’t know he was crying until Dean opened the door, switching off the TV set and turning him around. Dean knelt before Thomas, removing the gag, letting his body double up with tears that he had no clue why he was shedding. Or maybe he did. He’d never seen himself as a baby before. How could a baby that happy have grown into..well, him?

“Sammy, d’you recognise yourself?” Dean asked gently, drying the tears from his cheeks. Thomas kept his eyes on the ground, and continued to cry. He didn’t fight when Dean wrapped both arms around him.

0o0o0o0o

Life went dull, and fuzzy around the edges - despite the harsh opposition of punishments and rewards, separating his new life into pain, pleasure and void.

Answering to Sam or Sammy meant warmer clothes. Letting himself be tied or untied without fighting meant he was allowed to sleep in his own bed. Eating the food he was given without fussing allowed him warm shower privileges. Going a certain number of days without punishment warranted food three times a day, and not twice.

Likewise, punishments were just as regular. Refusing to answer to anything but Thomas earned him no food. Any violence or attempted violence against his captor meant an hour in the snow (whether or not he was allowed clothes depended on how many hits he’d landed). Yelling or swearing at Dean meant he got a cold shower. Trying to talk through gags or fighting being tied down meant a more embarrassing discipline. He’d be forced to drink up to two litres of water at once, which alone made him feel sick to his stomach (puking resulted in another punishment). Once his bladder had swelled beneath his skin, he’d be tied down to his bed and left for the remainder of the day/night. More often than not that resulted in him disgracing himself, which Dean would calmly clean up and tie him back down to a fresh, clean surface. Even that wasn’t the worst punishment of all.

Dean kept a star chart, like a fucking teacher, logging all of Thomas’ good and negative behaviours. In one week, if Thomas earned up to five stars (he got one star sticker per every reward), then he received a pat on the head, and was let out of his restraints for the whole day. If he made an escape attempt during this day, Dean would carve a pretty pattern into the skin of his back, and Thomas remembered that until it healed weeks later.

However, there was an opposite end to this spectrum. Dean had bought different stickers - little black dots, like full stops. Thomas earned one black dot for every discipline, and if he earned more than five a week, he went to The Punishment Room.

The layout of the cabin was hard to determine, especially as Dean kept him blindfolded when they moved from room to room, which served to disorientate him. From what Thomas could tell, there were a few rooms on the ground floor of the cabin. When he was allowed out of his room, he could see the main space of the cabin was taken up with a stove, the first chair he’d been strapped down on, a stove and sink, a sofa that Dean presumably slept on, and the door to the outside enclosure. There must have been other hidden doors, because he knew there was a bathroom he’d been permitted to use, but never seen the door too without having his eyes covered.

He hadn’t known about The Punishment Room until he’d been bad enough to warrant his first stay there.

Once being taken into The Punishment Room, you were in there for at least a day and a night. Once there, Thomas was forced to strip (if he was wearing clothes at all) and to lay down on the ground, stock-still. He’d then be zipped up into a latex suit, tight enough to make him feel sick and claustrophobic, especially when the hood covered his face. A gag would be pushed into his mouth, and noise-cancelling earbuds pressed firmly into his ears. He’d then be left there, the latex hood zipped over his face, unable to move, hear, or speak until he was released. An hour alone there would be enough to encourage him to do what Dean said. A day and a night turned him submissive for a week.

The rest of his time, when not being punished or rewarded, he watched home movies. It was after the first month of this (as he was told much later, he had been totally unaware of the concept of time), that they moved onto the next phase of his reassignment.

When Sam was good (it was Sam now, he knew better than to answer to anything else), he was let into the Motel Room. The Motel Room (as Dean proudly told him), was a photo-realistic replica of the motel room John, Dean and Sam had stayed in, the night before they took him away. The room was lavish compared to it’s surroundings. There was a double bed, soft quilts, and a bedside table with a foul green lamp. Sammy got to sleep there sometimes, but he was never permitted to sleep there alone. Dean would spoon up behind him, keeping him warm and safe and restrained throughout the night.

When Sammy was bad, the punishments got worse, and took a gruesome turn. Now when Sam refused food or puked it up, Dean would go out for a while, before returning with a small, writhing woodland creature, that usually looked as if had been kidnapped from the set of Bambi. He’d secure it on a table with his hands before turning to Sam coolly, and saying:

“Gut it Sam, or you’re in the Punishment room for a month.”

With such a threat, Sam had no choice but to do as he was told. Crying, shivering and screaming louder than the creature, he would gut the animal alive, before collapsing in a ruined heap, sobbing at the blood and unmentionables on his hands. After this was complete and the animal was well and truly dead, Dean would bend down, pull Sam tenderly into his lap, and clean his hands with a warm damp cloth.

“You did good, Sammy.” He would say, and Sam believed him. He was good.

When Sam was bad but Dean was feeling generous, he’d just tie him up and force him to watch snuff movies, taken from John’s personal collection. They were graphic, and if Sam had dreams he knew they’d feature heavily in what he saw in those movies. By the end of one he’d be sobbing in his bonds, unable to unsee the graphic portrayal of daily life for his father.

A couple of days after that particular punishment, the snuff movies became a daily thing. Soon Sam realised why Dean was doing this, He was watching Sam’s reaction, and reprimanding/rewarding what he saw. Everytime Sam cried, flinched or vomited as a result of the events of a film, he would have a cold shower, after which he’d be strapped back down to watch the rest of the footage. Everytime he reacted with indifference or even smiled, he’d get to eat a greasy fried meal, as opposed to dry bland food. Sammy took to this game immensely, and he was soon rolling with laughter that he didn’t even have to force. It was funny. It was funny seeing the women run, or their boyfriends threaten dad. You couldn’t threaten dad, silly man on the screen! That’ll only make him kill you slower!

They were like some kind of vintage violence-heavy cartoon, and Sam appreciated them as such. It didn’t take long before Dean was so impressed with his progress that he was allowed to sleep in the Motel room permanently, and when he awoke in Dean’s arms the first thing he would say would be:

“Dean, I wanna watch a movie!”

One day, Sam awoke to the dawn chorus, as usual. He rolled over to hug Dean for warmth and comfort, except he wasn’t there. He stood, starting to hyperventilate, and hammered at the locked door. He called out for Dean and began to cry. Had he left him? What had Sammy done wrong?

Dean burst in after a moment, and sighed with relief when he saw his unhurt brother. He took Sammy in his arms and gently rubbed his back until the sobs slowed down.

“S’ok baby boy, Dean only went out to get you somethin’. Close your eyes…”

Sammy did as he was told, and was lead out by the hand into the main room. He was sat down on the sofa, and when he opened his eyes to Dean’s request, there was a cake on the table in front of him. Sam started at it in wonder, almost unsure what to do. He hadn’t seen cake since...before he’d been Sam. He looked up, and Dean kissed his forehead.

“You look adorable like that, Sammy. I got you a cake to celebrate. It’s been a year since big brother rescued you, and you’ve been back to yourself for eight months.”

Sam was speechless. That was all? hadn’t he always been Sammy, Dean’s little brother and John’s younger son? The thought of being anyone else was...well, odd.

Odd or not, the cake looked delicious, and Sam looked up pleadingly at Dean to let him eat it. Dan smiled.

“Good boy, lookin’ to me for permission. Go on, take a slice.”

After Dean cut it, Sam did. Dean patted his head as he bit into the icing, and Sammy looked up, in heaven.

“What’s yer name?” Dean asked quietly, smiling down at him.

Sam gulped down his cake, hastily to reply.

“My name’s Samuel Winchester.”