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Sam pulls off the cloth from his neck with a momentary relief that it’d clotted. He discards the cloth on the table in front of him and moves to look over the bite on his bicep. It stung like a bitch and flared as he flexed his arm back in place. But it wasn’t bleeding actively. He had to take that as another win.

“Stay here,” your voice crushed that victory and his heart sank. Your back was turned to him and hand was already reaching for escape.

“Wait!” He snips quietly, pushing to his feet with a flush of embarrassment up his spine as it makes him wobble on his feet. “No, you aren’t going out there alone.” Sam takes a few careful steps towards you.

“I’m going to finish this,” you look over your shoulder at him and your determination holds something almost corruptibly naive. It was as if your bloodthirst stepped out first and did the one thing you’d promised him it wouldn’t. Again. It makes him stall and he swallows. “I’m not going to sit here and wait for them to kill you.”

His brow knits and he tilts his set gaze. “Us,” he corrects with a silent plea in his eyes for you to agree. But you look away and he feels weighted. He shakes his head, parting his lips to snap you out of this funk you’ve moulded into, but as he takes a step he stumbles further and his vision spots. You reach out to help him back in his seat and he keeps his lips sealed to hold back the stirring nausea in his throat.

A few shouts in the distance echo.

“This isn’t a negotiation. Stay here, stay quiet,” you state, soft touch carding some of his hair out of his face.

Another loud crash startles you out of the tender moment and he tries to reach up to hold you back with him, another silent plea parting his lips, but you straighten up quickly and walk back towards the door just as he brushes your arm.

“I’ll be back,” you promise before slipping out of the room and latching the door behind you.

The silence hurts his ears, rudely cracked in disruption by another shout or clatter from the hall.

He can’t just sit back and let you run off into that maze by yourself. Not with those horrible monsters lurking the halls. Not with the ones that made you freeze up back in that empty room you’d both woken up in. Sam knew you were strong and capable, but he worried about you losing focus again when it mattered most.

Thomas. He didn’t know much around that name or what he’d done to you. At least, not the specifics, but he knew enough to worry about that creature’s power over you.

A closer shout was followed with a quick set of footsteps up the hall. Sam forced himself back to his feet to stumble towards the door you’d disappeared behind. He yanks it open- swimming vision and an untrusting ring in his ears- just in time to see a figure disappear up the hall and to the right.

Sam had nothing at his disposal. No weapon, no mode of communication, not even his strength. All he had was a bloodstained set of pajamas and another couple scars to add to his tally.

But he refused to stay in this room while you fought off two major threats half dressed with a nasty bruise he can’t get out of his mind.

The hall had nothing but crumbs of shattered glass and littering papers. Sam held himself up along the wall, closing his eyes and taking a few deep breaths. This was his last chance to pull himself together, to focus and fall determinedly back in place.

A thin wisp ghosts over his lips as he aches for you safely by his side again and it wakes him up enough to split his eyes back open with a steadier gaze and stronger step.

He follows the path of the figure, up the hall and to the right, with as quick a pace as he can consistently manage.

Once he turns the corner, though, he’s stuck on where to go next. He could hear distant shouts and slams still, but they bounce loosely on the wall around him and get lost in the maze of halls. He just takes his best guess, but it ultimately leads him down a quieter section and he exhales a frustrated sigh, running a hand through his hair and looking back up the hall he’d just come from.

And there stood a strong shadowed silhouette, at the tip of the hall, looking down at Sam on the other end.

“And where do you think you’re going?” The shadow steps closer and Sam recognizes it as one of the other vamps- not Thomas.

Sam straightens his shoulders and stares down the vamp, enough fresh blood filling his veins that slowly work in his favor and allow him to collect most of his strength back. Enough to kill this fucker, at least.

“I think I’m exactly where I need to be,” Sam states, his face holding its almost indifferent stone.

“Now that, we can both agree on,” the vamp nods with a sharp tipped smirk piercing his cheek as he walks closer and into better moonlight exposed through a large conference room nearby.

The vamp continues his stalk and Sam takes a peripheral survey of anything helpful nearby. The only thing remotely helpful was a fire extinguisher guarded in a glass box that was mounted closer to the vamp than Sam. It wasn’t practical.

There had to be something else.

Sam took a few steps back and the vamp scoffed a humorous chuckle, slowing to a stop right beside the extinguisher box. “All talk, huh?” He teases just before jerking his elbow into the glass and ripping out the hunk of metal. The vamp’s humor falls into a scowl as he throws the extinguisher right at Sam. Sam runs, dodging the aim and falling down a nearby hall that spills into a familiar hall of mostly windows.

He treks up the hall, thinking of a similar shard of glass to the one you’d had taken against Felix.

“You’re not getting far, Winchester,” the creature teases, watching Sam flit up the hall and running up after him. The vamp, a full battery of stamina on Sam, is able to grab him by the neck and rip him towards the window, which snakes with cracks on the impact. The give throws Sam off balance and he feels his organs flip as if in preparation for crashing through the window.

The vamp laughs, messily bringing up a hand to grip Sam’s jaw to hold him in place as he tries to spit another threat. Sam is able to muster enough force to shove the vamp off and kick him down.

He’s dizzy after the exert, his vision tilting momentarily but softening on a closet just across from the brawl, lined with old janitorial tools and dusted canisters of cleaning chemicals. One tool stands out in particular- a splintering wooden broom hung just off center.

Sam darts towards it, ripping it off the wall and angling the handle so he can snap off the head and be left with a stake- if only those rules applied here.

The vamp pushes back up, gaze set and fangs barred, and lunges back at Sam. With the pointed makeshift spear, Sam aims it and jabs it into his neck. The peirce pulls gurgled chokes from the vamp and he falls to his knees, feeling for the wound and wanting to pull it out.

Sam is quick, grabbing the handle of the lost broom and kicking his foot out step on the vamps thigh to hold him down and he forces the handle up to tear the remaining skin and bone from its host. He repeats the motion, reminiscent of a hand-pumped train car, until the vamp’s corpse falls stiff and the head slacks off, weight tearing the last of muscle holding the two pieces together.

The head crunches on some dusted glass on the ground as it lands and Sam pants, heart racing, wounds throbbing, and mouth dry. He waves on his feet, staring at the puddle of mess below him and tries to reel himself back in. He still had to find you and make sure the last of these fuckers were taken care of.

He looks up and down the hall, blood-seeped weapon still in hand, unsure which direction to go.

A scream ripples through the unreliable maze and sets his waypoint loosely on his internal map.

Surely, it was you.

Sam runs. He remembers this hall vaguely from when you first brought him this way, and he can somewhat make his way back to the room he’d been suspended in. But you weren’t there. He tried to not let the singular scream get to him, shaking his head to dust the thoughts off the forefront of his mind to try and focus on finding you. On finding the room that echoed your scream all the way to him.

He turns up the opposite way of the room from which you’d lead him earlier, towards the lobby area by the elevators, and looks up the main hall. It was wider than the rest, with bigger rooms to warrant windows into the hall. He scans each room he passes, making his way all the way to a set of water fountains with a splatter of red-stained glass sprinkling the steel. He looks across from the fountains to a line of windows and sees a stilled torso and set of legs hanging from a table inside.

His heart jumps in his chest and he falls into the doorway and into a room with aisles of files on one side and a set of desks on the other, varying in levels of work tied to them.

At the very end of the room is a table with the same set of legs attached to a headless body laid upon it. A quiet drip of blood coming from the decapitation and leading a trail to a familiar set of too-blonde hair coating a lonely head on the ground.

Sam steps closer, identifying the scene and taking in the bloodied blade along an industrial paper cutter that had sliced Thomas into two. He was almost impressed.

Jagged breaths alerted him to your position as he stepped closer to the display. You had pressed yourself into the stack of drawers on a desk along the windowed wall. Your skin bloodied and hands shaking even as they held tightly onto your shoulders. Almost as if covering yourself the best you could.

Tear-stained cheeks were pale and eyes wide like you’d cried all you could and mellowed into a distant husk from unleashed emotion.

Sam calls your name softly, but you don’t even show a hint of recognition. He calls a little louder, but still, no reaction. He frowns, squatting low at your 3-o’clock and lightly dropping his weapon off to the side. He tries one more time, ducking into your line of sight a little more.

He’s worried. You don’t even seem to know of your own presence in the situation and it looks too reminiscent of your dissociation back when he found you in the walk-in. He looks back onto the scene, following your eyes to Thomas’ own- lifeless but still disturbingly observant of your frozen fear.

He hates to do it, but he reaches a gentle hand to place it on your knee, repeating your name once more.

The touch startles you out of your funk and you scramble away, eyes wide and unsure if Sam was a threat or not. He lifts his hands in quick surrender, pulling in a quick breath of surprise.

“Hey, we’re okay. ‘S just me,” he shakes his head softly, looking over the rip on your neck. “Just me,” he repeats with a whisper as he takes you in. A mess of slick blood and damaged skin holding in an all-too-damaged woman.

Your eyes stutter blinks back at him, quick and random, like you couldn’t roll the subconscious task back into rhythm.

“Are you with me?” Sam asks, settling down to his knees and leaning in a little closer. You just stare back at him, lips closed and eyes unsure as if catching back up slowly to the moment.

“You’re okay,” repetition finds him happily for his comfort. He doesn’t really know what else to say. “It’s over,” is all he has to give.

Your lip trembles and brows crunch. With enough effort to control your lips, you whisper, “Vin?” but it's more a frame of air hissed past your lips than it is a coherent word.

“The other one is dead. The big guy with the dark hair,” Sam nods, hoping that’s who you meant.

Air scoffs from your throat like a dry sob at the confirmation and your eyes fall shut. You reach up a hand to your forehead, ducking your face down into your knees awkwardly tugged into your chest, and breathe out tearless cries.

Sam scoots in, wrapping his arms over your frame and pressing you in close. “It’s over,” he whispers into your hair, messed up and knotted with the stick of blood.

Your chest heaves out painfully absent sobs with no more tears left to spare, and Sam just keeps you in place, looking at the wall behind you with no set spot in particular to inspect. His mind was elsewhere, vision simply stalled as his mind was flooded with flashes of memories from the night.

He worried for you. For the unpredictable spin of motive and emotion that’d come from you tonight, but that’d slowly peeked through over the past couple weeks. He’d sensed it. He’d been somewhat confident that the unresolved events that’d transpired at the steakhouse- and the emotions it’d sprouted that were neglected- would have to be expressed irrationally and unpredictably, and he’d started to feel guilty for inserting his presence in the form of romantic intentionality towards you.

He’d started to wonder if you’d feared that your rejection towards his feelings for you would lead to a lack of his willingness to aid you in your recovery.

A pit of uncertainty nestled low in his gut as he dreaded the thought of taking advantage of you.

“Sammy!” Dean’s familiar bark was distant but sparked a nostalgic pang in his chest that washed him in a feeling of safety.

“I’m gonna be loud,” Sam warns, waiting a second before shouting back. “In here!” Then waiting a moment. “By the water fountains!" You trembled under his hold, tensing at his shouts and pressing your body closer to his. The thought of Dean and Bobby seeing you like this again, half naked and prickled in nasty wounds, made you almost hateful.

Indistinct orders and shuffled footstomps neared closer as Dean stepped into the room. Sam looked to his left, towards the entrance, and breathed out a slow exhale of relief. Dean’s stern face mellows to a wave of relief as he sees that his baby brother is alive. Then his eyes flick to your crumpled frame, tucked against Sam, and a bit of that glare rises back up.

Bobby fell in next, hand braced on the frame of the door as he quickly found you. It hurts like hell, but he’s learned to take this slow. He keeps his feet planted and holds his breath- completely still so he isn’t tempted to run to you and rip you away from Sam.

Weak fists grab at Sam’s damp shirt as you level out from your dry sobs and Sam tucks his face down towards you again. “You ready?” He whispers, thumb caressing your shoulder.

You press your fist into his chest, unable to find any words.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he hums, adjusting his hold on you so he can help you both up. He keeps in front of you, blocking Dean and Bobby’s view as you sway on your feet. Sam steadies you with a firm hand, despite his own dizziness threatening to intrude.

Dean clears his throat from behind them, and Sam looks over to see a jacket in Dean’s hand, outstretched to him. Sam notices it as Bobby’s and takes it for you, giving Bobby a sad smile and nod as appreciation. Bobby only tightens his jaw and looks to the floor, where Thomas’ head begins to rot.

“Here, love,” Sam says softly, holding the jacket up for you to slip your arms through.

“We’ll make sure the coast is still clear. Come out when you’re ready,” Dean announces, rustling papers as he steps out of the archives with Bobby and leaves you two alone.

Your eyes are vacant as they stare at nothing, but your hands fidget with the zipper as you struggle to line it up. Your eyes burn from lack of tears but abundance of emotion, and fast blinks remind you of your control of your vision. You’re able to line up the zipper and pull it up just before Sam reaches to help.

Gaze heavy from the night, you pull it lazily up to meet Sam’s own. “It’s over,” he reminds you. And you hate that the declaration doesn’t free you like you’d expected it to.

———

Bobby cleans you up as Dean cleans up Sam. You’d agreed to this set up, mainly for Sam’s sake. It hurt to think of him still taking care of you when he was as beat up as he was.

You hadn’t said a word since leaving that office building, and you hadn’t cared of another set of hands touching your skin that weren’t your own. You almost couldn’t feel it, skin becoming numb from lack of control and abused exposure.

You simply sat still and waited for him to be done.

The bites stung as they were cleaned, but you felt so distant from your own body that you’d swear your skin grew 12-inches thick from how far away the pain screamed. You hadn’t realized you’d followed a direction to change clothes in the bathroom of a motel you don’t recall checking into until you’d locked the door and sat on the edge of the provided tub.

Clothes were soft in your lap as you looked down at what was provided: green t-shirt, grey sweatpants, white socks, purple underwear. You stood to strip off the lame excuse of an outfit you have on currently. First, Sam’s shredded t-shirt that was torn to almost a fitting length. Second, your favorite work-out shorts that you’d favored so much you’d started to wear to sleep. You threw them both in the plastic trash can tucked beside the toilet.

You refused to face the mirror, knowing you couldn’t bear to see the state of your skin.

Once you're fully draped in baggy clothing, you step back out into the motel room and only Sam remains. You scan over the room still, landing on Sam with tired eyes, heavy and burdened with overused emotion.

“Hey,” Sam hums, brows pulled and eyes observant like they always are when he’s exhausted after a hunt but still concerned about you.

You don’t have any words to use to reply to him.

“How’re you feeling?” He asks, standing and taking a few steps towards you with no indication of being in any pain. He has a fresh bandage wrapped over his skin like a turtleneck and a matching bandage on his bicep.

Still mute, your eyes drift down and away, unable to keep up with all of your senses and their intake. You wished you could turn off touch and scent.

“First word?” He asks softly, closing the distance almost fully, but he hesitates to touch you. His gut stirred unsettlingly.

No words even dare to touch your tongue.

He swallows, face stiffening to more curious concern. He reaches out a gentle hand and places it carefully on your arm, trying to dip his gaze down and around to your line of sight, and speaks another soft string of words that you don’t register.

The skin of your stomach tenses with the leftover sensation of rough hands, neck throbbing from the painful pierce in rhythm with the bite on your side, body almost floating from the distance you feel between it and your mind.

It’s like a thick cloud fell from the sky and sucked you in, dazing you and taking the weight from your bones. You almost felt bouncy, like standing in the middle of a trampoline after a double jump. You feel a guide to your shoulders as your body is set in the middle of the cheap couch provided by the motel.

Your name echoes through your skull and you look up at Sam. He looked worried.

“-please? Any sign that you’re still with me?” He finishes a longer string of words you didn’t hear the entirety of.

You nod, blinking a few times and trying to focus. “Tired,” you whisper, unable to muster any more energy for speaking tonight.

Sam opens his mouth with bated breath like he wanted to push, his eyes twisted with concern, but he sighs and releases the queued words.

“Okay, love,” he smiles sadly. He helps you up and to the bed, lifting the covers and letting you slide in. He flips off the lights and checks the locks and you watch. He rounds the bed to get in on the other side and you lose focus. His arm drapes over your side and pulls you close and you let him. Sleep doesn’t come easy that night.

The drive home whirls by similarly to the way the commute here had. Except this time you weren’t fueled by anger and vengeance, but instead drained by it. You hadn’t talked much or eaten or really even gotten out of the car.

At some point though, you did fall asleep against the back window. Disrupted slumber from last night begging to be compensated. And Sam had to wake you up when Dean pulled into Bobby’s lot.

“We’re home,” he says with a gentle hand on your shoulder to wake you up. You still awoke with a start and he was apologetic.

It was late, but you were unsure of the exact time. Your legs led you up to your room and you crashed on your bed, letting sleep take you again.

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With the two conveniences of escape followed by a flash of red curls haloing a silhouette up the hall, you’d almost believe that her ghost was on your side this time. But that wasn’t anything you could dwell on now, and honestly, not that plausible. If anything, the steakhouse would be haunted. And now, the realization sprouted a moral obligation to go back to that damn restaurant and make sure no one was left behind in such a way.

Again, you couldn’t dwell just yet.

You shake away the thoughts, scanning up and down the hall one last time before stepping out. Initially, you had no clue which way you were going to go, but a muffled conversation from the right set you in your pace.

The hall was maybe seven or eight yards long till the ‘T’, and the closer you got, the clearer a struggle got. You turned and scanned, kept a keen eye out, and stayed as quiet as you could. It felt like you were an auto pilot. Like you were a controlled character in a video game.

Though the pain throbbing from your bruised ribs and residual concussion slowed you down, you managed to snake around the maze quick enough to finally make it to the main hideout of the nest- or what was left of it- and through the halls, peeking into each passing room, you were able to piece together that this was an old office building.

A few halls back was a duo of elevators with the numbers ‘6’ above them which made you already begin to dread the escape out of here. But, if things unfolded in your favor, it wouldn’t be a chase out. A part of you, deep in your gut, knew that you weren’t walking out of here until each one of them were dead.

“You guys were sloppy.” You recognized it as Felix’s voice, the ‘father’ of the group. Thomas being the favorite. “Vin here spotted you two leaving just after killing my son.” Seemed like a stretch. If memory serves, Dylan was rarely even acknowledged by Felix. “He decided to follow ya’ and give me a call. It was simple from there. My children listen well.”

“Fuck you,” Sam weakly spouts, eyes lidded. You peek around the corner, all the vamps’ backs to you and Sam too dazed to notice you. He was hung up just like you had been, wrists rubbing raw and red from the weight, feet dangling, toes barely touching the ground. It would’ve been impressive to get a man so big so well suspended if it didn’t infuriate you to your core.

Sam’s bandage was ripped off his neck and fresh bites stamped over the first. He even had one on his bicep that you knew had to have been Vin. 

You had to be strategic here. You couldn’t just jump out, it would be over before it even started. You stalked away from the doorway, ducking into a nearby conference room, searching quietly for anything that could help.

With how dead this place felt, there was surely no way you’d find a working phone that didn’t belong to one of the vamps. And the chances of finding a long, sharp blade- one of which specifically for decapitation- were beyond slim. There wasn’t even an object in specific you were looking for, just anything that could feel like another gift from your hallucination birthed from survivors guilt.

The conference room didn’t hold much other than rotted furniture and broken fixtures, but on the edge of the main table sat a notepad branded by the office’s address and corporation name. You rip off the first paper and stuff it in your pocket for later. Making your way around the rest of the room, you spot a door on the opposite end that leads to another hall you hadn’t seen yet. And up to the right was a sign for a kitchen. If anything could be found, it’d be there.

You hoped for a butcher knife, but upon opening the door to the room and only finding a kitchenette less equipped than most motels the Winchesters frequented, your hope quickly died.

“Fuck,” you curse sharply, still scouring the cupboards for anything. Anything at all.

But it’d seem your luck had run out at escape as the best you could find was a butterknife. You didn’t even bother to pick it up.

You looked up the hall, picking up your pace as you jogged lightly to cover more ground, getting progressively more panicked as you kept coming up short.

A few circles made around the maze of the halls of floor 6 lead you to a hall that was half windows that display the city. You slow to a stall, arm over your bruised rib and shoulders hunched. In the distance, you could see the interstate. Dozens, if not hundreds, of cars whizzing past a vein of stacked bridges, completely unaware of your situation. Dean could even be in one of those cars and you’d never know.

You close your eyes, trying to keep yourself held together. “C’mon, you can’t give up on him. There has to be something,” you breathe out as you look up the hall, then back. A handful of doors poked the opposite side of the halls. Maybe you could check a few more rooms?

A cool breeze snips over your skin, awakening goosebumps over your exposed legs, and it causes you to look back at the windows, searching for an opening for a draft. At the far end, the floor is littered with shattered glass, and the wind gets stronger as you approach. The windows are huge, which meant more than just dusty fragments left after a break. It meant larger chunks still relatively intact.

And one in specific stood out.

A long shard, probably the length of your forearm and width of roughly three inches at its widest, loosely hung from the frame, like a child's first front tooth ready to fall out. A distant scream makes you jump and you don’t hesitate to pluck the shard from the iron frame, lightly jogging back to the main room.

Still remaining as hidden as possible, you duck your head just enough to get a glimpse to make sure Sam was okay. You still had to figure out a plan, maybe lure them out one-by-one until none remained.

“How the hell did she find us!?” Felix bellowed, pushing Thomas as he walked past him and to a body on the floor. Your brow pinched as you tried to get a good look at who laid bloodied on the floor.

Felix kicks the body, rolling the figure onto their back, and then, you can make out that it’s Max,  his throat so brutally shredded that it killed him without full decapitation. You gasp softly, the mess of stringy gore making you sick. Vin hears the inhale, quietly stepping off towards the door and you retreat in a panic, slipping into an empty office just in time.

“She still out there?” Felix grunts.

“Not that I can see,” Vin shakes his head.

“She can’t have gotten far, find her!” He demands, his shout scaring you into your retreat further. Footsteps stomp up the hall. “You, go check on the girl,” Felix instructs and Thomas obeys, his footsteps disappearing up the hall as well.

You were now in a crunch. It was only a matter of time before Thomas realized you’d made it out, and you had to make sure Felix was put down before then.

Felix hadn’t often fed on you, but he stood as the foundation for the way things were run at the steakhouse. It was difficult to think it had to be quick, but at least the most rewarding kills would be left for last.

Once you were sure Thomas and Vin were out of sight, you tiptoed back out into the hall and peek around the corner to find Felix looking out the window onto the city.

“Winchester,” he began. “That name gets around a lot, y’know?” His back remains turned to Sam and you wonder if now is your shot. You ready the shard, about to pounce when he turns back unexpectedly. You duck back quickly. “Your father sure has a reputation ‘round him. Love to meet the old man some day, kill him myself.”

“Too bad, you’re too late,” Sam spat.

Felix sighs. “My condolences. Perhaps his son will be just enough.”

You peek back around the corner, Felix’s back to you once again as he stands right before Sam.

This was it. He was closer, distracted, easy. You ready the weapon again, trying to judge the distance between him and Sam. Felix reaches out to grab Sam’s jaw, turning him to expose his neck to sink his teeth again. Sam winces, trying to conceal the pain he was in. You see your chance slipping. But then, Sam opens his eyes and spots you, his breathing picking up a tad and eyes flicking to the excuse of a weapon in your hands. His jaw stutters as his breathing becomes ragged and he begins to lose too much blood.

His lips form a loose word, “three,” he mouths silently, “two,” he grimaces. “Now.” He uses the last of his remaining strength to pull himself up and kick Felix off of him, punting him back a few feet.

“The hell is your-!?” But your crystal weapon is too quick and it hacks through his neck with the help of the speed of your swing. The glass sinks halfway through, so you pull it back out and slice one more time to completely sever his head. The skull thuds to the floor and the body swiftly follows.

Sam noticeably relaxes, body slacking against the stinging hold.

Your eyes dart from the slowly building collection of corpses on the floor and up to him, and you rush by his side, setting the pane down, and pulling along a chair. Stepping up onto the chair, you dig in your pocket for the bobby pin and as you bring it up to pick his cuffs, you realize the glass had cut deep into your palms. The sting started to catch up to you, but you still had too much to do.

As soon as the cuffs snap open, Sam’s arms fall and you barely catch him. He’s hard to hold, but he does enough himself. He tries to steady himself, blood loss making his mind spin. You quickly slip off of the chair, helping steady him.

“I know, I know,” you whisper, reaching for his jaw to cradle in your bloody palms. He grimaces at the texture and uses a weak hand to grab one of your wrists.

“You’re bleeding,” he takes in the pooling in your palm.

“So are you,” you brush off his grip. “We don’t have a lot of time. Thomas is gonna realize I’m missing.” “Thomas?” Sam questions, letting you place him in the seat.

“The one who got in my face,” you mumble, turning to check over Felix’s body for a phone. “Yes!” You hiss victoriously, flipping it open and dialing Dean’s number. The line rings as you walk back over to Sam, checking over his injuries. Most of the open wounds have clotted enough, but Felix’s last bite still cries. You bite at the hem of your shirt to rip off a chunk for him to press to it. “Here,” you hand him.

“Thanks,” he murmurs, taking the strip and pressing it into the wound.

The line clicks. “Who is this?”

“Dean! Thank god,” you breathe out a sigh of relief, crouching to your knees and keeping an arm over Sam’s lap. “Me and Sam are in some office building, floor 6.”

“Are you both okay? Is Sam with you now?” Dean rushes, and you can hear your fathers muffled demands in the background.

“Yes, we’re both alive, but we’re honestly a little whipped,” you said, fishing out the page you’d swiped earlier to read out the exact address. “Please hurry. There’s two left, but Sam’s lost a lot of blood. I’ll keep ‘em off in the meantime.”

“We’re on our way,” Dean hangs up and you discard the phone, checking on Sam again. He squinted as if he was staring at the setting sun, and his teeth hissed as he took in inconsistent breaths. You hated this. You couldn’t even get him down without a stepstool due to his insane height, how were you supposed to carry him out of here and off to somewhere safer?

Maybe he could stumble with you off to a room you’d cleared through earlier and stay low while you take out Vin and Thomas? But surely, you weren’t making it off this floor anytime soon.

Your arm rests over his lap and fist grips his thigh, soft pajama pants reminding you of the spontaneity of your two’s abduction. Cold air kissing your exposed skin makes you even more aware- if even possible. Your stomach flipped at the idea of Thomas relishing in the vulnerability. Your head spun at the quickly spiraling drain of thoughts.

Sam readjusted the cloth against his neck with a stifled groan that reeled you back in. Your hand reaches up to assist and he smiles weakly.

“Who was the woman?” You ask, memory forcing out the question before you even register your own curiosity.

“Woman?” He asks with a slight tilt.

“Yeah, that killed Max,” you look over your shoulder to the corpse still seeping blood from the frayed rip of flesh.

“Oh,” Sam frowns, “I don’t know.” He tries to think back but you shake your head.

“Doesn’t matter,” you scoff a nervous laugh, standing back up and looking around the room. “We gotta move.”

With a fresh cloth, ripped from your own shirt again, you pick up the shard of glass that’s chipped a few inches more jagged from the hack, and duck out of the room to survey the hall.

Quiet enough.

“Think you can walk okay?” You ask with a slight wince, heading over to Sam and guiding his jaw a bit as you check him over.

“I’ll be fine,” he pushes to stand, straining and visibly dizzy. You quickly accommodate, steadying him with your unarmed hand.

“Now is not the time to play ‘tough guy’,” you scold, keeping stern eyes on him as he contemplates arguing.

“I know my limits,” he closes his eyes for a moment, probably to keep from being sick. “Trust me, I won’t do anything stupid,” he reopens, noticeably more focused.

“Okay,” you agree, not wanting to but needing to.

You lead the way, checking the hall before guiding Sam around the loosely mentally mapped maze. You think back to the kitchen, but there was only one exit. Then, maybe the conference room, but it’s too close. Perhaps the hall of windows, one of the many rooms along the line up- far enough, plenty of options, but deeper in the maze and further from the exiting staircase by the elevators.

Distant footsteps make your mouth go dry and you decide quickly.

“C’mon,” you whisper, free hand on Sam’s bicep as you lead him through the conference room and towards the array of rooms by the windows. You could only hope the deeper you two hid, the longer they’d take to find Sam.

Retracing your earlier path, you quickly make it back to the drafty hall and tug on a few doors. Some didn’t open, some were too small- simply supply closets with spilled cleaning chemicals or barely big enough to squeeze into. Finally finding one suitable, a break room with another exit into a hall you hadn’t explored yet, you close both doors and settle Sam in one of the seats at a far table.

Shelves of a bookcase had been long since cracked, spilling musty books like a stagnant waterfall onto the pale linoleum. A couch, moth-eaten with exposed bone, took up space along a wall, and a few tables dotted the floor space of the room. An old TV mounted opposite of the couch, and a coffee machine sprinkled with shattered glass only left a lonely handle as evidence of there once being a pot.

Still, no other weapon worth imagining.

You paced back and forth between both doors for a few minutes while Sam rested, but his gaze lingered. From the opposite side of the door you’d yet to pass, you heard distant arguing and held your breath to get a better listen.

Only pieces came through, like ‘How did she get out’, ‘How did he get free’, and ‘I’m going to kill them’. But it didn’t feel threatening. Almost like a challenge. You wanted to laugh and bait them to ‘try me’.

A quick glance back to Sam as he inspected the bite on his bicep stirred the cocky attitude more. They’d dared to hurt Sam. After everything they’d done to you and those other women, Sam felt like a final straw. And hearing them declare now, as if they could actually get to Sam again, as if you’d let them, flipped a switch in your chest.

“Stay here,” you say, reaching for the knob.

“Wait!” Sam hissed quietly. “No, you aren’t going out there alone,” he struggles to stand, bloodied cloth neglected on the table in front of him.

“I’m going to finish this,” you look back at him, glare set like you’d been possessed. Sam froze, taken aback by the gleam. You didn’t seem to mind. “I’m not going to sit here and wait for them to kill you.”

“Us,” he corrected with a questioning squint. Your jaw tightens and your eyes dribble away, unable to agree nor face his trademark puppy-dog plea. He takes a step forward, mouth parted to argue more, but he stumbles, his hand darting out to steady himself against the table. You step out quickly, aiding him to sit back down.

A few shouts in the distance echo closer.

“This isn’t a negotiation. Stay here, stay quiet,” you instruct, hand pushing back some of his hair from his face.

A loud crash, closer than comfortable, makes you jump and look back towards the door. You straighten back up, taking long, quick strides towards the door and peeking past the dusty glass.

“I’ll be back,” you promise, leaving no room for argument as you slip out of the room and quietly close the door behind you.

Making your way up the hall, you can hear him clearly. “Get the fuck out here, doll!” Thomas bellows, knocking stuff over and hitting his weapon against walls as he passes. Lazily tearing a path in his wake as he stalked closer. Too close to Sam.

You duck back, pacing back down the hall, passing the break room, and to the opposite ‘T’. You stand there, at the cross, looking back up the hall and waiting for Thomas. With a length stretched between you two, you’d at least have a headstart once he saw you. Your heart thudded dreadingly in your chest, blood wooshing through your ears and mouth going dry. But your hands stayed still, your face remained stone, and your head cleared.

And even as Thomas turned that corner and his evil gaze sniped yours again, your limbs remained reliable and goal precise.

“Here I am,” you spit with no stain of emotion or fear past inexcusable rage.

His lips curl into a devilish smile and he starts towards you, footsteps stomping with a determination that was vaguely reminiscent of a child forced to go to bed early.

You turn and dart down the empty hall to your right that, if your internal compass was correct, would spit you back out around where you and Sam woke up.

“I know this place better than you. You can only make it so far!” He shouts after.

With each new room passed and corner turned, the throb over your wounds weigh you down more. The bruise on your side groaning annoyedly, the stinging licks across your palms from the shard of glass in your dominant hand, the headache compressing a halo around your temple. But you had to keep going until you’d find a pocket to slip in so you could try to flank him.

And finally, after another long hall eaten by running steps, you find just that. A small dip along a wider hall where a rusted water fountain hung from a wall with speckles of tile slowly flaking off from prolonged strain. You pressed your back into the wall behind you, hoping he’d guess you to slide into one of the offices on the opposite side of the hall.

You kept the shard close, fist over your sternum and glass pressed against your abdomen. The tip of the crystal, streaked with blood and pressed along your skin exposed from the rips of fabric, rippled goosebumps from the cool weapon. You held your breath, listening as Thomas’ footsteps slowed.

He laughed, a little breathless and almost exhilarated. “Sure, hiding,” he enunciated the words mockingly, taking a few more steps. You saw the tip of his shoulder melt into view. “It’s your only advantage, that.” He teased, taking a few more steps and looking along the wall with a trio of doors  placed inconsistently. “Only so many skills can be taken up by a girl of your stature. Hunter’s kid with a flock of men taking care of her all her life,” he stops his pace, back turned to you. You could see your chance before you. “And with all of that safety, still comes out a not-so-smart entitled bitch who doesn’t know the first thing about the real world.” He looks over his shoulder, right at you, and the poisoning fear rushing through your blood seeps into your limbs and you start to tremble.

His smile cracks menacingly and almost beautifully. You're stuck staring at him, unsettling masked perfection with the curl to the lips of a hyena. “There she is,” he adores with a tilted head and cold eyes moulded with a warm squint of his smile. “And what do you think you’re gonna do with that?” He switches the tilt, pointing at the glass you wield with a curious smile.

Your breath hitches as you open your mouth to speak and he licks his lips. “Same thing I did to your daddy,” you manage to utter, words and voice strong but tremor skipping up the intimidation factor.

His smile falls. “So that was you,” he clarifies, taking a step closer which makes you hyper aware of the wall you’re flush against.

“Yeah,” you nod, raising your brows and letting the wall hold you straight up, chin high. “That was me,” you credit, staring him down and swallowing past the thickening lump in your throat.

With only two more steps, he closes the distance between you. You lift the glass weapon from your chest, aiming it at his neck, but he’s too quick and knocks it out of your hand. His sedimented confidence rattling the tremor under your skin and making you loose in your own stance. If it weren’t for the wall holding you up, you’d probably fall flat on your ass from the maneuver.

The glass makes contact with the edge of the waterfountain and shatters into a dozen other pieces far too small to do any real damage.

“You’re mine,” he states as if it were fact. That you trapped between him and the wall meant you were his kill lined up all nice and neat to satisfy his thirst.

The proximity of him so close rattles something branded deep in yourself. When he was far, just an echo, you could muster up the confidence to convince yourself you could take him on. But now that he stood so close that his body heat uncomfortably warmed your skin, it was like you were dragged back into place.

The chilly air, the gleam of the stainless steel of the waterfountain, the bordering agonizing ache over your muscles, and your exposed skin took you right back to that walk-in.

“And so is Sam,” he follows, a hand coming up to twirl some of your hair around his finger. “Just like all the others.”

A thudding beat of anger spikes back up and you can feel your body start to ignite back to the present. And with all of your force, you shoved him back as hard as you could and ran to a room with windows into the hall. It was the only one guaranteed big enough for just a sliver of possibility.

With taking him off guard from your shove, you successfully got him to the ground and he cursed with an infuriated huff.

The room of choice almost looked like an archive. It was long and had tight aisles of shelves that just about reached the ceiling. There was a front desk at the entrance with a few dots of desks behind it down the room, all littered with papers from discarded files, and you rounded it, slipping into one of the aisles and coming out the other side.

“You’re not fucking getting away again!” He seethed with a hiss of tightly gritted teeth.

Stepping carefully, you pass the aisles, hoping that at the end there would be another exit.

“I made you a promise!” He laughed, hitting his palm against a metal shelf. The sharp sound twists your stomach and hurts your ears. “Come out here!” He yells, a deep pull rumbling his words.

At the end of the room was an annex, one door into a copier room with windows plastered along the wall to see through to the archives. There were a couple big printers, a few shelves and carts for files, and a table in the center of the room cluttered with staplers, scissors, pens, and markers. You got closer to the window, trying to see if there was a door hiding on a wall you couldn’t fully see from your previous angle, but there was nothing.

Another punch to a shelf makes you flinch back towards the room, and you slowly step to the end of the last aisle to poke your head around the corner to survey the windowed portion of the room with the desk and entrance. Along the wall were some desks with lamps, a couple computers, and forgotten files, but at the end of all of it, the end closest to you, was another free table, like the one in the copier room, with an industrial papercutter.

The breath was stalled in your lungs as you forgot to breathe at your own blinding luck. No fucking way was there a blade of ample size right before you.

You feel a gaze over your shoulders and you turn to see Thomas behind you, his eyes dead and scowl sharp. You stumble back, mind racing with ways to dislodge this weapon and sling it at his throat. But the train of thought is derailed as he tackles you to the floor.

You cry out, the impact sending a wave of shock through your already ached body. He straddles your lap, harsh fists reaching to bind your wrists together above your head. You writhe and struggle, tugging at his hold and kicking at nothing behind him.

“I told you,” he bites out, barely moving from your force. “I made you,” he leans down, taking a slow breath in. “A fucking promise.” He brings up a free hand to direct your jaw away to expose your neck, and he kisses sloppily before latching on a spot and sinking his fangs.

The pain ripples all too familiarly.

He moans against your skin and swallows, his tongue darting out to lick the stinging wound, and sinks his teeth deeper.

His hand tangles up into your hair and his other, releasing your hands, trails down to your stomach.

“Fresh skin,” he whispers against the bite, his mouth sticky with thick blood.

His lips trail over your neck and down your shirt before he lifts the cloth, purple bruise bright but he ignores it as he dips to your stomach, teeth latching on the opposite side, with no bruise.

The pierce is fresh and betraying. Your stomach, sensitive and virgin, hadn’t been subjected to the razor sharp teeth of these monsters, but now that it had, you’d believed you’d felt all pain to feel. Both physical and emotional.

Your stomach was all you had left.

But as his hands continue to wander, you're immediately corrected and forced to confront that there was still a line to cross. Still flesh he could claim and taint forever. You couldn’t bear the thought.

Despite the dizzying of your vision, you direct your eyes to the floor beside you and under the table with the papercutter.

It was mostly papers and manilla folders that carpeted the ground, but buried beneath it were various office supplies. You fished your hand around the pile, feeling pens, a ruler, a roll of tape, but then finally, a pair of scissors.

Rusted and cemented shut, they still did the job as you whip them up to stab them deep into Thomas’ shoulder. He unlatches, fangs jagged like a Great White and stained in rosy red, and grunts in pain. His hand reaches back to grip the scissors and you take your chance to slip from under him and work on tugging off the blade of the papercutter.

The table shakes as you pull and yank, wanting to snap the blade off and sling it behind you.

The scissors clatter along the floor and hit the side of one of the file shelves and Thomas growls as he gets to his feet.

Chills bump over the back of your neck and your arms start to feel weightless as you continue to work the slowly loosening weapon off its base. He’s close, any second he’ll grab you again and throw you aside and it makes everything in you panic. Little bugs jumping under your skin, begging to be freed, and stuttering breaths unable to regulate as you don’t know when he’ll smack the air out of your lungs.

Heavy hands clamp on your shoulders and you feel your stomach sink. The blade, bolted to the side of the cutter with a rusted nut, only rattled lightly as you let go. Like a rotting tooth decaying deeper in your gums.

This can’t be it.

He spins you around and slams you into a desk nearby, your cheek hitting the stiff wooden top.

You can’t watch it end like this.

His hand plants your head in place and the pressure is nauseating.

After everything you’ve lost and everyone you’ve let down.

His fingers bend into a claw as he lifts the back of your shirt and scratches down your spine.

Heather, Bobby, Sam.

He messes with the hem of your shorts.

You thrash. You scream. You squirm every way your body will move.

“Fucking stay still,” he growls, his hand slipping from the back of your head. You take advantage of the slip and grab his arm with both of your hands. With all the strength you can find, you twist his arm and shove him back. The angle makes him groan in pain, that arm being the shoulder you’d stabbed, and stumble back.

You push up fully from your plant against the desk and wave on your feet, vision a little lagged and head pounding.

It doesn’t stop you though, the pain. You fight against it and ram your shoulder into his chest like you’d seen the Winchesters take down a door.

He loses his balance and falls against the table behind him.

Seeing for yourself, the luck of your attack leading him to land on the industrial paper cutter, you jump on him to keep him down and lift the blade.

He fights, hands grabbing at your shoulders and neck, but your blood makes it too slippery for him to lock on to any spot in specific.

With the blade lifted high, you smack him down with your forearm over his collar and line him up against the edge.

“I made you break your fucking promise,” you spat, bringing down the blade.

The metal bites past his skin and you’re sprayed with blood. You take your grip from his collar and use it to press your full weight against the blade to snap off his head like a carrot.

His body stills beneath you and his head splats on the littered ground of the archives.

The air goes still and your ears ring.

You swallow, letting go of the blade and climbing off of his body. Your arms shake from effort and legs tremble from adrenaline and you fall on your ass. Eyes locked on his.

You don’t realize you’ve moved until your back hits the desk you’d almost been ruined on and you feel a force of salty emotion climb up your ribs and out of your mouth.

And you sob.

thank you so much for reading!! <3

>masterlist for this series is here >>check out my other works here

Fresh snow, rippled by wind and piled on mounds across the forest floor, crunched with each step taken.

“It’s freezing, I have no clue why either of you want to be out in this,” Dean grumbles, his newly deeper voice cracking with a few breaks of puberty every couple syllables or so.

“I didn’t ask you to come along,” you state like you’ve been repeating it constantly.

“I’m not gonna let you two wander off and freeze to death out here,” he grunts as he climbs over a fallen log, helping you and Sam over next. “What’s even your goal?” Dean asks, scanning the uneven disperse of trees, most dry and leafless.

You shrug with an open mouth hum of ‘I dunno’.

“Maybe we shoulda followed the river,” Sam looks back to where they came from, his face tightened in slight concern. You struggle to fit your gloved hand in the pocket of your bright purple coat to pull out a brass compass. It takes two hands to position it correctly in your hands to click it open. You show the face to him and he follows the needle with his eyes.

“As long as we go back north-ish, we’ll be okay,” you assure, with a sniffle from the cold and contradictingly warm smile. He still looks unsure, but Dean pipes in.

“Sure, that sounds solid,” he says sarcastically, plucking the item from your hands and inspecting it himself. He then bites the sleeve of his jacket to roll it back, exposing his watch. “We head back in thirty minutes. If we aren’t home when Bobby gets back, he’ll kill me.” Dean speaks as if it’s law, and for a preteen you and Sam, it practically was. You both nod before he turns back toward the nonspecific path you were trekking, and resumes the hike.

Your bulky, gloved hand grabs Sam’s with another smile, this time exhibiting more excitement, and you tug him along as you pick up your pace enough to pass Dean and earn a stern warning…

…Your head throbs, the bolts matching the ache of your abdomen in rhythm. It’s too painful to even dream of opening your eyes just yet, even if you hear a muffled whisper from Sam a few feet away.

Maybe if you were more hopeful, it would’ve taken less convincing to open your eyes, but the heavy ache that was powerful enough to flood your ears compressed you harder than you thought was possible. You felt paralyzed.

Only a twitch of your brow sparked on your own accord. A sticky sap itched your forehead but there was nothing you could do to clear it. Even with your body defying your own will, you could feel cuffed hands that only added layers to your restriction.

A soft, desperate whine of your name, syllables muffled, was the last thing you heard before the thick oil drowned you once again…

…“Yes!” You exclaimed with a clenched jaw, dropping Sam’s hand and sprinting a few yards forward from the group.

“What did I say!?” Dean barked, his words clumsy with a youthful crack and the misplaced footing from tripping over a decayed bush frozen under the snow.

“I knew we’d find something!” You point ahead, looking back to Dean spitting out snow caked on his face like a thrown pie. “And you were gonna make us turn back!” You mock, nose scrunched and hands on your hips, coat puffy over your frame, making the pose more awkward than it felt.

You look back ahead of you, Sam catching up and looking out as well. “Woah,” he breathed, puffs curling from his lips.

“Hell yeah,” you mumble to yourself, looking over a rusty bus slowly digested by thick vines of kudzu that claimed anything left for too long out here. The vines were, however, like all the trees, paralyzed by the bite of Winter.

Dean, a little breathless and still brushing snow off of himself in annoyed flicks, finally catches up and lets out a soft, “huh.”

You giggle, pulling down your hood and taking off one glove. “Told ya’ so,” you boast, giving him a high nose and stomping up to the door. You pull out your pocket knife of the week, whichever one of your dads looked cool to you, and hacked away at the frozen veins.

“How’d it even get out here?” Sam asks, the force of his jogging steps bumping out the words in different levels of ‘umph’.

“Does it matter?” Dean calls, catching up at a steady pace. With his newly deepening voice came a ‘cool guy’ attitude you hoped didn’t last longer than his sophomore year. It was annoying. You struggle with a few vines, but for the most part, they crack apart like dryrotted rope.

With a soft huff, you break the last vine and tug at the door, and with a few tries, it screeches open. Sam covers his ears and Dean winces at the unpleasant sound, you letting out an annoyed, “yuck.”

Just as you step up to enter the bus, Dean’s gentle hand reaches your shoulder. Despite his asshole tendencies, he still has his control issues. “Lemme check it out first.”

You patiently wait with Sam, kicking snow at each other. It quickly gets competitive when he ducks down to scoop a quick ball of snow to snipe you with.

“Hey!” You exclaim with a laugh of disbelief, squatting down to scoop your own and throw it. But it was too rushed and instead fell apart before it even reached him.

“Wow, nice one,” he widens his eyes sarcastically, laughing. The image of his open mouthed laugh framed with rosy cheeks is one that is forever burned in your mind, and you knew it in that moment too…

…“-fuck do you want?” Sam huffs, his breathing heavy. You can practically see his snarl behind your lids. The scrunch of his eyes and shimmer of his canines barred.

A sickening laugh fills the room and words are muffled again.

Sam argues with the voice and it all sounds underwater. Like the oil congealed in your ears…

…A soft clink comes from the bus and you and Sam go still, waiting for Dean to come back out. But the moment falls eerie when you realize it’s taking him longer than it should to look down the aisle of a bus. Sam glances at you before walking towards the door. “Dean?”

No answer.

Sam gulps, stepping into the bus, you following close behind.

The metal floor moans under your feet, old and rusted, with each step. Almost half the windows are shattered, glass littering empty seats.

“This isn’t funny,” you call out, fear disguised in annoyance.

Only more silence follows.

Sam takes a few steps deeper, the bus creaking as weight shifts the floors, and an icy wind blows through the open, jagged, mouths of windows. And as you step on a small pile of glass, the sediment grinding under the rubber sole of your boot, the bus rocks as Dean's hand pumps up from behind the next seat back, holding a waterdamaged cabbage patch kid with a hole where the eye should be.

“Shit!” Sam startles, bumping into you behind him, his knuckles white as they grip the seats closest to him. You jump silently, breath leaving your lungs momentarily and quickly refilled with hot anger.

“You dick!” You curse, throwing your glove at him as he stands up fully, laughing his ass off.

“I coulda’ killed you!” Sam scoffs, closing his knife against the seat. You hadn’t seen him open it.

“That’s why I stayed down,” Dean tossed the doll back with a tone of ‘duh’.

Still an asshole despite his control issues.

Sam punched his shoulder as Dean entered the aisle again, gesturing you both out. “Go, go, fun’s over. We can check this place out tomorrow, we’re late,” Dean directs, ripples of residual laughter wracking his shoulders. “C’mon,” Dean slaps the side of the bus as they all exit. And the sound jerks you awake…

…A gruff cough exhales a few feet away, followed by spit splattering the ground. “I told you to shut the fuck up. We wait for her,” the venom sounds nauseatingly familiar. Your eyes crack open to see a blurry picture.

A single construction light brightens the room, but makes it hard to see the figure it illuminates. The most you can guess is it’s either Max or Vin towering over Sam, hands behind his back and face to the cool concrete floor.

A distant voice calls out, and the figure sighs, leaving and slamming the door behind him. You wince with a groan the sound rocks in your skull. Your head lolls to your other shoulder, but nothing can alleviate the pain. You’d want to cry if the force wouldn’t push the pain past torturous.

Sam breaths out your name as he struggles to position himself back up into a sitting position. Your eyes crack open again to take in a trio of him, lip split and teeth rosy like they’re freezing cold. A stream of blood has stained the side of his lips, and you look down to see that the spit was red alike. “Hey, can you hear me?” He winces as he tries to scoot forward.

You only hum in response, the sluggish drown of your effort making you feel beyond useless right now.

“Shit,” he sighs, and you open your eyes to see his gaze on your forehead, and you’re reminded of the itchy syrup you can’t wipe away.

“‘S’it bad?” Your words slur, eyes lidded as you take in his swimming trio that dances around him like cartoon birds.

“You’ll be fine, just stay awake with me,” Sam says, looking around the room for anything to help. You wonder why they’ve left you both unbound to pillars or walls. Only your wrists remained cuffed. If you were in better condition, you both could walk out of here. Maybe that was the point.

“We never went back,” you breathe, adjusting your posture a bit. The fog was a few pixels lighter.

Sam tilts his head a touch. “What, lovely?”

“The bus,” you swallow, “John picked you up the next morning and dad never let me in the woods by myself. Wonder if it’s still there.” Your speech cleared a bit, but it was still more like one continuous contraction. Sam thought back for a couple beats, his face melting when he remembered.

“I’d bet it is. Too big ‘a thing to haul out of the middle of the woods,” Sam groans out as he pushes to his feet, body swaying from his own head injury. He looked around the room once the walls stayed in place, but there was nothing. Only the one construction light powered by a battery. Even the door didn’t have a handle on this side.

Sam shuffles to the light, squinting at the bright beams it gleamed at him. He used his foot to spin it a little to expose the back and slowly lowered himself back down to look at it closer.

The back of it was entirely slick, only a switch covered with thick plastic, and a hole which held the screw hiding the battery. He cursed, standing back up and kicking it to the corner so that it wouldn’t blind either of you anymore.

“Can we look for it when we get back home?” You ask, looking up at him with open eyes again, only weighted by the dread of what’s to come. It almost feels like a request that is only spoken and inevitably never met.

“Of course,” he nods, like he knew you needed to be able to look forward to it to keep going right now. “Think you can stand?” He asks, walking closer, inspecting the cut along your forehead again. He hated how it continued to seep rusty iron.

“Mm,” you groan, adjusting, sliding your feet as far under you as you could. “Maybe,” you try, your abdomen seizing. You screw your eyes shut, hissing, but force your legs to push you up fully. Sam tries to help, ducking his shoulder down and under your own like it’ll help any. It didn’t. But you made it to your feet, eyes spinning in protest. You tripped on nothing, feet stuttering like they didn’t know where to step, but Sam turned, angling his hands to grab your hip to help steady you. You lean against him, taking a moment to feel his liveliness flush with your own.

“We’re gonna get outta here,” He promises, his hands holding your hip, head turned to talk into your crown. “Either ourselves or with Dean and Bobby’s help.” Sam continues to scan the room, only frustrating himself further when there’s nothing of use.

“What’d I miss when I was out?” You ask, eyes on the back of the light, not really focusing much, though.

“Nothing important. They wouldn’t tell me anything,” Sam sighs, the motion moving your head that is laid against his back. “Did you recognize them?” He asks, turning his head to look back at you, and you can feel his breath against your skull.

“Yeah,” you whisper, eyes glossy and elsewhere. Ignorant of the flash of red ghosting past the small window in the door. Of course, borderline concussed, restrained, and taken captive by these vamps yet again, she’d still be here. You close your eyes and emerald gleams back like a set of traffic lights.

“Then even more reason to kill them,” he says with a soft kiss to the crown of your head. “You got it?” He asks, letting his grip on you loosen. You hate to lose his warmth, but you nod regardless, straightening up. “Did they leave anything on you? Anything useful?” He asks, turning to face you again. You wobble a bit as your feet shuffle with little balance, but you manage.

You think back, but your sleep attire had little storage for even your phone, much less a weapon. You shake your head and he smiles sadly, as if to say ‘that’s okay, we’ll find something else’.

But there wasn’t much time before the door was pushed open again. Sam took a step forward, keeping you behind him the best he could for the little floor space of the room.

“Hiya, doll, I see you’re awake.” Blonde hair frames a set of evil eyes that wink in your direction and you feel sick. Your head shakes without you controlling it, and you take a dizzy step backwards. “Lovely to see you again,” his eyes rake your form and they make you feel beyond exposed. His use of Sam’s word makes you want to rip out his throat. Your wrists bound behind you, legs mostly exposed. Your only comfort was Sam’s shirt that flooded more of your frame than your mini dress ever did.

Sam glances back at you, his gaze sharp and concerned, but you can’t acknowledge it. He looks back at the threat when he sees the horror across your face.

“Wow, you’re a scary one,” Thomas feigns sarcastic fear as he looks over Sam. He starts towards you, but Sam side steps him, looking down at the vamp with a glare that could kill. If only he were that lucky.

Thomas scoffs a laugh. “The nerve of you, big guy,” he nods. Thomas then grabs Sam by the throat and shoves him hard towards the wall. Sam lands with a harsh grunt, rolling onto his side with a hiss.

You’re speechless, unable to utter a word when he was watching you.

Thomas progresses, backing you into a corner. “Told ya’ I’d keep my promise, doll,” he reached up, brushing some hair back. “I’m a bit of a completionist that way.” He leans in, his hand cradling your face and his lips by your ear. “And I have some catching up to do with you.”

Max clears his throat from the doorway where he leaned into it with his arms crossed. “We’re hungry, Tommy, you bringin’ her or what?” He asks, annoyed.

Thomas growled in annoyance, pulling back and maneuvering his hand to grab a fistful of your hair. You cry out, his grip harsh and unforgiving.

“No!” Sam grits out, pain lacing his seethed demand. “No, take me,” he pushes up, staring right at Thomas. Practically unable to take you in. It just might kill him.

“Ignore him,” Thomas says, but Max holds up a hand.

“He’s bigger,” Max shrugs, “There are four of us.”

Words you want to spew get stuck in your throat, tears stinging your eyes. Your heart races and the angle Thomas holds you at makes it hard to breathe.

“More blood,” Sam tries to convince, and you want to beg him to stop. This was your fight. You were the target in all of this.

Thomas rolls his eyes, loosening his grip and shoving you to the floor. “Get him,” he says to Max, keeping his eyes on you. Max walks past, reaching down to pull Sam up. “I’m telling you, I keep my promises,” Thomas vows, helping Max haul out Sam.

Just before Sam is shoved out the door, he looks to a specific spot beside you on the cement, then quickly back at you, his eyes a desperate plea to be understood.

The door latches behind them and your throat closes up. “No,” you whisper, pushing up the best you can. “No, no,” you crawl closer to the door. Footsteps disappear up the hall and you’re left in silence.

Your ears ring from the lack of sound, and it takes a burning in your lungs to realize even your own breathing has stopped. You slack to the floor, staring at the door.

You force your eyes shut, trying to stomach the bile that threatens to gag at your abandoned fear.

Red curls flash again as you open your eyes, there's a clack, presumably when your cuffs settle on the floor. Guilt floods your veins as you think of them all: Iliani, Carmen, Heather. You hope to god that Sam isn’t next on that list. You don’t think you could survive another loss that fell from your own lack.

The anger morphing his face as he demanded Thomas to take him instead. The pain of which he grimaced at when he was forced to his feet. The begging understanding of his eyes as he passed that frame.

But then you begin to wonder- why would he glance away like that? What could Sam have possibly seen? You turn around to where you just were on the floor, a stain of blood from your temple on the dusty concrete, and just a couple feet away, shiny bobby pin that was definitely not there before.

Your heart rate quickens in anticipation and fear that it’s just a mirage, but as you back up enough to reach it with your hands, you feel it’s truth. You exhale a humorous scoff, asserting your hold on the tiny object that could lead to your freedom.

As you think a little harder as to how this ended up here, you remembered that the shorts you were currently wearing were the ones you last wore to the gym. Inside the pockets, you were sure you’d find a hair tie as well.

It didn’t matter how you found it, or how annoyingly long it took you to pick the lock of the cuffs, or even how the vamps somehow forgot to secure the door. What mattered was finding Sam, and putting an end to this- all of this- tonight.

thank you so much for reading!! <3

>masterlist for this series is here >>check out my other works here