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This is nothing like the X-Files.
Angie yawns and slides forward on her hand, despite the fact that she had propped herself up against her keyboard in an attempt to stay awake. The worst part is that she always gets stuck with the early bird shift. And she doesn’t have a young, hot Gillian Anderson to distract her, either.
Sighing, Angie flicks on the cameras at exactly five o’clock. After thirty-five days of this, she has a pretty good idea of how the Winchesters operate. Both of them, despite the fact that it’s been thirty-five days since they’ve been in contact, wake up at the same time. The one time Angie had dared to sneak a peek at their file (her superiors think that only people who have fully gone through the limited supernatural-based training the US government provides should have access), she’d caught a glimpse of their father’s military record. When she got home that day, she’d looked up the Marine wakeup time. Sure enough, five o’clock.
They don’t go about their morning routines the same way. The younger one—Sam, she thinks, it’s not really her place to know their names, just if they appear to be planning an escape attempt—sits cross-legged on the too-small pallet that they call a bed and sinks into some sort of weird meditative state. Angie can’t really blame him. It’s got to be boring as hell in there.
The other brother, Dean, doesn’t waste any time with that. He heads right into a routine that puts Angie’s fitness-nut older sister to shame. Simple stuff like push-ups and sit-ups to start. One time, Angie witnessed him literally climbing the wall—strong fingers searching out cracks to dig into for purchase.
By the time someone delivers breakfast at exactly 6:30, both of the brothers are done with round one. Then it starts all over again. Sam does the sun salute yoga routine that Angie’s sister swears up and down will stop the backaches Angie gets from sitting here like this all day before getting into the same push-up setup as his brother. Dean takes the hour after breakfast to sit on the edge of the pallet, head in his hands. For the life of her, Angie can’t figure it out. It doesn’t look like it makes him feel any better, like the meditation does for Sam. Every time he emerges, he looks a little more wane.
Angie knows she’s probably supposed to be scared of these guys, but they don’t look like the kind of men that she would expect to see in a maximum security prison. Maybe because they’re good looking—even Angie, who had a poster of Dana Scully in her room instead of Mulder growing up can see that—or maybe because there’s a part of her that thinks that maybe it’s not so bad to have normal, ordinary people out there working against monsters. Less red tape than government.
When her shift ends, though, the Winchesters leave her mind until the next morning.
After a few weeks that Dean fails to play his round of Word with Friends, Mary starts to worry. It kind of feels like the first time he ever got a fever when he was a kid. Mary had run around the house, jiggling Dean on her hip as she tried to get him to stop crying, utterly panicked. She’d been a crying mess by the time John got home because she hadn’t been able to make him feel better when it was all she wanted in the world.
Mary decides, after the third missed call, that something is wrong.
The Impala isn’t sitting outside of the bunker when she arrives, which Mary takes as a bad sign. She supposes that Dean could have her in the garage, but it still feels ominous. Her worst fears are answered when Castiel opens the door instead of either of her sons.
“Is something—?”
His face tells her all she needs to know.
They head to the kitchen. Castiel starts the story before they’re even seated. Mary tugs her jacket a little tighter around her shoulders. It’s freezing. He explains about Lucifer being set free, about trying to return him to the Cage, about the president. Mary listens, setting aside any ideas she had about how the world works. Clearly, that’s all out the window.
“So who do you think has them?”
Castiel shakes his head miserably. “I have no idea. They were framed for serial murder several years ago, so it’s possible it’s the government and not the Men of Letters at all.”
Mary shakes her head. This is insane. Her life is insane.
“Well, we should get to work, then. How about you take the government angle while I work the MoL one? Two heads are better than one.”
Keeping her spirits up for the both of them is significantly more difficult than Mary had anticipated. Sure, she knows Castiel and the boys are friends. But she also knows that he’s an angel, and part of her had (maybe stupidly) thought that he would just sort of…bounce back. Apparently not.
She’s getting nothing on the Men of Letters. The American chapter, it seemed, had believed that it was the only one worth mentioning. Typical. Mary stumbles across the file of one Henry Winchester, which she decides not to look into. Maybe there will be time to ask the boys about it later.
Finally, she can’t take the despondent look on his face any longer. “All right, spill.”
Castiel scrubs a hand over his face. The electricity that Mary always feels on her skin when he’s around, like going outside right before a storm, dims somewhat.
“I can hear them.”
Despite herself, her heartrate leaps. “That’s—that’s great! What are they saying? Where are they? Are they okay?”
“They’re alive,” Castiel says with a nod. “Angry, but alive. I don’t believe they’ve been harmed yet, but the isolation is beginning to wear on them both.”
Mary remembers her Dean, who had been so excited to go play with all the other kids at kindergarten next year and swallows hard. The worst part is, she has to keep things together. That’s a mom’s job, right? The family glue? So instead of bursting into tears like she wants to, she gives Castiel’s hand a quick pat.
“It’s going to be fine. Keep digging.”
Dean is going to lose his mind in here.
He’d never call himself a people person, but the truth is that he’s lived very little of his life alone. Growing up, he’d never gotten a moment to himself. Back then, it had seemed like a curse, but he’d happily kill right now if it meant he got to spend an hour in a sleazy motel room at three A.M. with Sam and Dad snoring up a storm. Even after he and Dad split up for hunts, he still found himself surrounded by people—the occasional one night stand, thin motel walls, sleeping in the Impala on the side of the highway with the sound of traffic.
The worst part is the loneliness.
Even Hell hadn’t tortured him with solitude, even if he would have jumped off the rack and picked up a knife in a heartbeat for just two hours without hearing Alastair’s growl in his ear. Of course, this isn’t as bad as Hell, but at least then he’d known that Sammy was safe. In here? All he has are guesses.
For all he knows, they capped Sam the minute they got in here.
Shaking off the thought, Dean presses out one more pushup, his arms complaining loudly. Before his time in here, he’d been losing his touch. Now he’s bulking up again. Well. Not exactly bulking up. That would require actual food, not literal bread and water.
Speak of the devil. His breakfast comes through the slot on a tray that’s just as grey as the rest of the prison. He knows from experience that failure to return to tray means no lunch or dinner, so he doesn’t even bother checking it for anything he could possibly turn into a weapon.
He tries to savor the meal, such that it is, but it’s still gone in under ten minutes. Great. Dean pushes the tray and the plate back through the slot, not bothering, as he had in the first weeks, to see if he can get a glance of the outside hallway.
Hey, Cas. Got your ears on? He doesn’t even know if the angel can hear him, but it’s like writing in a diary. Something to keep him from going totally insane. I don’t have any updates. Still haven’t seen Sammy, still have no idea where I am. Except I think it’s likely underground, or we’re in the basement. I know. So original.
He pictures Cas sitting in the bunker, all alone. Maybe driving in that stupid truck of his, maybe convening with Crowley on how to fix this. Unexpectedly, the thought stings a little. Maybe Cas isn’t looking at all.
You…you are looking, right?
Anyway. Miss you.
The yoga helps.
Physical activity has always cleared his mind a little bit, and since he can’t run while stuck in this little grey cube, this is the next best thing. Sam lets out one last, long breath before opening his eyes.
Damn. Part of him hopes, every time, that he’s going to see something other than the cold stone staring back at him.
Sam’s trying to keep it together, but it’s starting to wear at him. Being alone like this, again—
The thing is, Lucifer had been fond of just leaving him places. Dumping him in the corner of the Cage and not coming back for what had felt like months. It had been worse than the torture, sometimes.
An important difference: Cas and Mom are out there somewhere, and Sam knows that they won’t give up until they find them. Another important difference: Dean is here, too. Somehow, thinking about the sarcastic remarks his brother must be yelling through the food slot every time a meal arrives makes him feel better.
He wishes he had a book. Sam’s better than most people at keeping himself occupied; a childhood spent entertaining himself in motel rooms equipped him well, but even he has a breaking point. Apparently, thirty-five days is that breaking point.
Well. One hundred and five meals. Sam assumes that they’re bringing them three times a day, but he has no real way of actually knowing if they’re doing that. For all he knows, they’ve been screwing with him.
Sam flops down on the bed, groaning. It’s not quite long enough for him, and it’s too narrow for him to properly curl up, so he’s been getting even worse sleep than he would have imagined from being locked up in a supermax.
The worst part—and yeah, it’s weird, but it’s the truth—is that he hasn’t gotten a shower in as long as he’s been in here. Which, for a fully grown man, does not have very nice-smelling results. Sam has always hated feeling grimy like this. If he had the choice, he’d chop all his carefully cultivated hair right now. He can’t stand it hanging, greasy, in his face anymore.
Despite himself, Sam’s unscarred hand wanders over to the scar on his palm. It doesn’t hurt anymore, but there’s some comfort to be found in tracing it over and over. The skin is unusually smooth compared to the rest of his palm.
It’s a reminder. They’ve faced down so much worse than the American government before. What’s a bunch of government stooges compared to Lucifer? Or any of the other crap that’s come their way? He rubs at the skin for a few more passes before letting it drop.
He tries not to hear Dad’s drill sergeant voice echoing in his ears when he drops down to do another round of pushups. The least he can do while he’s in here is make sure he’s ready to get out as soon as he possibly can.
Cas’s entire body hurts.
He told Claire once that a prayer doesn’t have to be a prayer—he can pick up on longing. And it’s never been truer than right now.
When Mary goes to get them a pot of tea, Cas lets himself slump forward slightly on to his palms. The worst part is that he doesn’t know whether Dean is longing for him, or longing for the rescue that Cas can provide.
Should be able to provide. He feels utterly useless sitting here like this. There was a day that he could have banged down the door and saved both of the Winchesters without a thought. Now all he can do is wait.
Having Mary around helps. She’s a relentless presence, at times reminding him of both of her sons. She has Sam’s cool head, Dean’s sheer determination. Sometimes, something she says, or a way she moves makes the constant lump in his throat even bigger.
The bunker feels enormous without the Winchesters. They’re always moving, always doing something. Sam in the library, reshelving or working on that card catalog of his, puttering around with a cart he’d found a while ago. Dean in the kitchen, microwaving pizza or putting something more elaborate together. It doesn’t feel like home without them.
Maybe they are the home.
Cas closes his eyes as Dean’s daily message floats in his head. At first they’d been soft, hesitant, but now it sounds like the stream of conversation he’d get if Dean were sitting next to him in the bunker right now. This one is different.
“You’ve told me six times already,” Cas says affectionately, as if Dean can respond to him. “You think you’re underground. Very astute.”
I know. So original.
He has to crack a smile at that. They’re on the same page, even apart.
You…you are looking, right?
The swell of indignation never comes. He’s let the Winchesters down before, what feels like hundreds of times. Of course Dean thinks that. He has a right to. Cas bows his head.
Anyway. Miss you.
Cas’s eyes snap open just as Mary hurries back into the room with two cups of tea, “extra strong, extra caffeine.” She smiles at him, but it looks forced. The smile she gets in return is just as fake.
“We’re going to get them back, Castiel,” she tells him.
Cas nods.
I miss you, too.