A/N: AU, set sometime near the end of Season 5.
Disclaimer: Don't own SPN.
Summary: Lucifer is wearing Sam to the prom, Dean's in prison, and Bobby and Cas are MIA. Meanwhile, demons are roaming the earth, and the Apocalypse looms ever closer. . . .
Three bangs on steel, a guard taunting, "Wakey, wakey, eggs and bakey!" and he's pushing himself from the cot, feeling more exhausted than when he fell asleep. He's itching to let his voice rip from his chest, to reach through the bars and squeeze the life from the guard, but the generous collection of scars on his back suddenly seem to burn—ghosts of past offenses.
So he keeps his mouth shut and silently gets to his feet.
A pathetic tray of food sits idly near the cell door, though it looks far from appetizing—as always—and for a moment, he lets his stomach growl.
It's been almost a year since he was brought to this prison. He woke up one morning in the same cell he occupies now, confused and bandaged, bruised and bloody. His mind was completely blank, and it scared him. He couldn't remember a damn thing. Not his name, not his past. Nada.
Back then, he'd had a cell mate named John. Why the name had struck such a chord, he still didn't know. Though the guy had been good company. John had told stories of hunting things, terrible things, things that seemed too far–fetched to be real. Supernatural things.
Yet he'd believed every word.
During that time, he'd learned about ghosts, ghouls, vampires, spirits—the most common creatures out there, according to John. Stuff hunters could kill with their eyes closed. Hunters who risked their lives on a daily basis to save innocent people.
But then John had told him about the demons.
John had been in prison for quite some time before he had, and claimed that demons guarded the place. For the limited time John had spent outside of his cell, he'd found other hunters like himself, who had also woken up here, memories intact more often than not. Other prisoners confirmed his theory about the demons. Apparently, they had the power to control a human body.
"Have you ever seen one before?" John had asked, trying to jog his memory. "They have black eyes."
He thought long and hard, but no memory of such beings came to mind. He'd shaken his head and sighed in frustration. All the memories he could remember were associated with the prison. And he rarely saw guards—except at night and in the morning to feed inmates—let alone one with black eyes.
John hadn't been altogether surprised at this, saying they could easily conceal the dark orbs. "Tricky sons–of–bitches. Know your life story as soon as they take you over. Scary as hell. Even happened to me, once. Good thing my brother was there with salt and Holy water. Saved my life." He'd then revealed a tattoo on his shoulder hidden by a navy–colored sleeve. "Anti–possession symbol. Got it right after."
John's stories kept him awake that night. The guy had a brother who was also a hunter, who'd saved his life, who fought evil alongside him.
Why did that sound so . . . familiar?
He'd tossed and turned, plagued by unanswered questions. Each a puzzle piece he forced together, only for it break and crumble to bits, leaving him more confused than before.
He heard whispers of an escape plan whenever he was released for an hour every two days. During this time, you were expected to shower, dress, and report back to your designated cell.
His cell number was thirteen.
The first time he'd showered, he had noticed the marking on his chest. At first, he'd thought every inmate probably had them, as some symbol of imprisonment. Later, when John had shown the same tattoo, he'd figured something similar had happened in his own past, that maybe he had been a hunter himself.
One morning on his way to shower, John noticed a guard kicking a man on the floor. He stood up to the guard, and a vicious fight had followed. He'd been dragged away unconscious with a busted lip and blood pouring down his face. Everyone in the shower room had watched in horror, not one man moving to assist John, who never returned to the cell after that.
Many claimed the guard had eyes as black as coal, but he'd never know if that was true; only one cell mate could shower at a time.
Rarely did the men ever see women in the prison. They had their own separate wing on the other side of the building, and he assumed they were hunters who had also been captured by demons and suffered the same conditions as the men.
He returned his attention back to the tray of food. The portions were barely the size of a fist, served only twice a day. Just enough to keep you alive; but he'd been starving for the past year.
He'd tried to rebel early on, refused to eat and left the slimy trays untouched, but the guards had beaten him severely for it. He'd even tried flushing it once, but they'd somehow known about that too.
The stone walls always made him feel extremely vulnerable rather than safe. He could only see through the bars of the cell door, stone blocking his view on the remaining three sides, which put him at a disadvantage; he hardly ever knew when guards were passing by unless he listened closely for their soft footsteps.
The only way he knew it had been a month since John's disappearance was by the small window positioned near the ceiling. Days brought unbearable heat, nights the coldest of chills. There had been talk recently of a man who had frozen to death in his cell one night, though no one seemed to speak much in this hopeless existence, most fearful of punishment.
Now, with John gone, life in the demonic prison was even harder. There wasn't a soul he knew outside the cell. Though, lately, they'd been talking practically nonstop about him. He ignores the whispering for the most part, knowing John's disappearance is likely the reason for it.
He eats, showers, and lies down on the cot, eyes cast upwards at a few cracks in the ceiling. He wishes he could break through the stone and see the stars one more time before he dies here. Escape would be impossible. Many have died trying.
A tiny crack in the wall catches his attention. He lifts a finger to trace it, feel the smooth material beneath the tips. He adds pressure to the spot and his heart almost skips a beat when he realizes the stone is loose.
He jumps from the cot and leans against the bars to search for any guards. Most inmates have settled for the rest of the day, having already showered and eaten. He listens, but doesn't hear any heavy boots on the concrete floor. Security cameras are located at the end of each hall, and luckily for him, cell thirteen is near the middle where neither camera can fully see into.
It takes some work, but he manages to pull it free, listening for guards at regular intervals. Hidden in the hollowed–out stone is a leather book filled with drawings and descriptions, some in Latin and other languages he's surprised to find he understands.
On the inside of the front cover is the name John Ramsey.
So, what do you think? Should I continue?