Sam finally lit out after one too many lies.
Sure, deceit had always been embedded in the Winchester framework - rinse and repeat forgiveness was a habit they had mostly managed to make work. However, secrets and lies were like sand on a beach; they might appear to wash clean with each wave, but every time the tide went out their deepest betrayals were exposed all over again.
And the biggest secret Dean had ever kept from him was a fucking tsunami.
Sam knew that if he hadn’t turned around and walked away from his brother when he did, hadn’t gathered up the last remaining scrap of composure that he had left, dragged from somewhere deep, deep down inside of him, he would have ended up doing something he would regret. Something permanent and unforgivable. Something akin to what Dean had done to him.
Heartsick and alone, Sam ended up choosing to stay in England – several thousand miles away from the man he once called brother.
And fuck, it wasn’t easy. None of it was. Everything he thought he once knew had crashed down around him in the worst possible way. Sam found himself so overwhelmed at times, it often seemed a more worthwhile use of his time to throw himself off of Blackfriars Bridge, rather than walk across it. But that old Winchester stubbornness, that sheer bloody-mindedness, forced him to keep putting one foot in front of the other.
He knew no one in London. Didn’t know the lay of the land, the currency, or how difficult urban life would be to someone who had spent his entire life roaming free. At first, things appeared to be superficially similar to the stuff in the States (surely a car is a car?) then mad random moments would suddenly show him just how outside of his comfort zone he really was (what the hell is a Robin Reliant?? People actually drive that??). And, fuck me sideways (a phrase he had picked up from an East-London barmaid), he never would have believed that navigating a ‘roundabout’ on the wrong side of the road would be more difficult than figuring out how to gank a damn dragon.
What he did know, however, was people. Particularly, how to find that right kind of person that could lead him to finding another even more wrong kind of person who could get him sorted with a legitimate national insurance number and a passport. Even Sam at his most fucked-up was resourceful and smart. Cause the only other thing he knew for sure, was that he wasn’t going to hunt again. Just six weeks after the shit didn’t only hit the hit the fan, but also liberally coated the ceiling, walls and floor, Sam found himself gainfully employed in a very un-Winchester-like job, and living in a tiny apartment (although they called them ‘flats’ here) in Stratford, East London.
Flashback to six weeks earlier
Bloody, and trembling, Sam raised himself up from his cell floor. Things had been bad here, very bad, but hallucinating his dead mom was a new low.
Clutching at the bare concrete walls for support, he teetered over to the cell door.
The door was plain solid iron. A thin rectangle with a deadbolt flap was cut out at the bottom for food to pass though, and a much larger one was at head height, inlaid with some kind of clear toughened glass. Your typical, average and ordinary cell door in other words. Yeah, it had a few warding sigils inscribed on it, but the door wasn’t the problem.
It was the lock that was the problem.
The lock was fused with a very specific spell. It hadn’t opened once since he had been brought here. Even the main-fucking-top-boss-bitch keeping him prisoner couldn’t get into his cell. The only people with the potential to be able to unlock the door from the outside was his own family. Short of blowing up the walls (and thereby killing him instantly) ‘blood of my blood’ was the only thing able to get him out of that room.
They thought their trap was so fucking clever. “Of course he will come! Who else is going to rescue you but Dean?” They said, smugly. “Who else do you have that is blood?”
Didn’t matter how much he cried that his brother was dead, they would not believe him. Sam was convinced he would be trapped in his cell forever, and told them so.
They said they knew different. He argued he knew better. He told them they were lucky that Dean was dead. That if Dean was alive he would have come for him by now, and slaughtered every last fucking one of them. They said they were happy to wait.
Well, they had waited three long weeks already and they still seemed quite happy.
Just cause they couldn’t open the door, it didn’t mean they couldn’t fuck with him.