1626/Respite

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Respite
Date of Scene: 24 July 2017
Location: A Hydra Base, Location Undisclosed
Synopsis: The Winter Soldier visits Sam in his cell. It seems almost friendly. Right up until it isn't.
Cast of Characters: Sam Winchester, Winter Soldier
Tinyplot: Tayaniye


Sam Winchester has posed:
Ever since 'Misha' threatened Fred, Sam has been a model prisoner. Not that this is really helping him, personally, but he makes no complaints, offers zero defiance, and takes both his beatings and his mysterious injections as silently as he can, offering not even the most token of resistances. Eventually he has had to be allowed some sleep, and he's taken it with gratitude. He's stopped trying to find any way to escape, stopped pacing his cell, stopped doing much of anything except sitting in that one corner of it, his head either leaned back into the crevice or hanging low depending on whether or not he's been allowed a little rest. Right now he's leaning back, his elbows draped over his knees. He still hasn't been given anything in the way of food, though he's been given the occasional drink of water at unpredictable intervals that make them all the more precious, and leave him in a state of low-level anxiety that he just doesn't really show. If anything, he seems to have settled into a pattern of grim endurance. While it may be easy to think of him as meek, he's not, really. He's just absorbing it all, taking it because he must. Surviving.

His face is a mess of bruises. His jacket and his plaid shirt have been taken from him to ramp up the cold, so he sits in his filthy t-shirt and jeans. His hair hangs lank and greasy, and scruff has sprouted into something that is coming awfully close to the beginnings of a beard. He probably wouldn't be stopping too many hearts in his current state.

He's also muttering song lyrics under his breath, whether to alleviate the boredom or just to keep the worried, frightened thoughts at bay. ACDC's Hell's Bells, at the moment, pretty much on-pitch and with all the words correct, though anyone would be hard pressed to hear him unless they were in the cell and practically on top of him. He hardly wants to rouse the ire of his guards by making too much of a ruckus.

Winter Soldier has posed:
Those selfsame guards are always just barely visible through the slot in the door. Not all of them, obviously, but an elbow here, an arm there... just enough for Sam to know that they are always there, listening and watching.

Up until quite suddenly, they are not.

There is a quiet exchange of words outside Sam's door, too low for him to discern words or identify voices. The two guards abruptly depart, their steps noticeably quick, as if they were not eager to stick around. Whoever dismissed them is not visible at all, standing out of line of sight as the door's lock clicks open.

The reason for such a swift departure becomes obvious when a familiar face-- or, maybe more to the point, a familiar arm-- enters the room. He does not advance at first, merely holding the door for the woman following him: a slight young thing with fanatic's eyes, in a uniform that seems military, yet bears no marking or insignia.

She's bearing a tray. There's food on it, plain and inoffensive food after days of low-grade starvation. Bread, a cut of steak. She leaves it on a little stand in front of Sam, and retreats again. The Winter Soldier watches her wordlessly as she hurries past him and back out the door.

He closes it behind her, and the lock clicks shut.

The Winter Soldier advances into the room himself, afterwards. He takes a seat, on the one solitary chair. And he puts a bottle of vodka down on the floor beside him, settling it down with a precise clink.

"That," he says, "can wait until after you have something in you to soak it up," he says, leaning back and fishing in his jacket for a pack of cigarettes.

Sam Winchester has posed:
Sam stops his weird little recital almost immediately. A half-feral thing sensing a change in his environment, not knowing what it means just yet.

And when it means food, Sam's eyes show a pathetic level of gratitude. Gratitude, and a flash of shame to be feeling it. He's felt it before, in this place, and it terrifies him too. A flash of gratitude whenever he's allowed to sleep.

A flash of gratitude for the shots, which he's starting to look forward to, a fact that chills him to the core when he can bear to examine that too closely.

He actually hesitates, hazel eyes wary, unsure whether it's a trap or a trick, whether he might be beaten again for going for it the way he wants to, whether he might misstep and do something which might trigger the true threat that holds him as tightly as that chair holds him when they choose to place him in it.

So, it's only when Yasha gives that explicit permission to touch the bread and steak that he dives in, all but inhaling three bites before he manages to find his manners again, unlikely in a place such as this, rasping the word "Thank you," in a voice that only shakes a little. Clinging to manners, for him, is as much about clinging to some sense of humanity and control as it is about avoiding any behavior that might anger his captors, but in this case it's also an expression of true emotion.

He forces himself to slow down seconds after that, sense and sensibility taking back over. He doesn't want to vomit it all up. His eyes flick to the Vodka, and there's longing there too. Vodka will ease some of the pain. It will be liquid and calories all at once. It might ease some of the emotional strain as well. He definitely wants some Vodka, but sees the sense in eating first.

Winter Soldier has posed:
"Slowly," Yasha chides, his blue eyes watching Sam with an unreadable look. "You will make yourself sick. I had enough of an argument just to bring you this much." He grins to himself; he assuredly recalls that 'argument' and the details thereof a lot more fondly than the person he was arguing against does.

He taps a cigarette out, replaces the pack in his jacket, and lights up. Crossing an ankle over his knee, he tilts his head to one side, smoking slowly in silence as he waits for Sam to finish.

"I didn't feel like the whole nine yards was necessary after the first couple days," he says, his tone bored. Like he's seen this before many times. He probably has. "Especially not after bringing up Miss Burkle. Not my call, though."

His blue eyes half-lid. "How do you feel?" It's a loaded question. "I dislike the injections, myself."

Sam Winchester has posed:
Sam exhales sharply at the mention of Fred, and that does a lot to curb his ferocious appetite even now. He doesn't squander the food even so, working his way through it. Even taking it slow, he's done at a pretty decent clip. He analyzes everything about Yasha's behavior. He probably has seen it a dozen times.

He probably has gone through it even more times. But Sam keeps that thought on lockdown.

How does he feel? A slight, bitter smile crosses over his face.

"Like you guys are still a long way from getting that 5-star Yelp review you've all been asking me about."

He hasn't really made a joke since his first one, and that one was less a joke than a matter of fact statement that Misha had simply laughed uproariously at. "Feel like Stasya's massage therapy techniques could use some work. She doesn't use enough oil."

Winter Soldier has posed:
Yasha laughs at the remark about Stasya. His outward amusement belies the way he avoids looking at the injection marks up and down Sam's arms. "Nastka," he says, the contempt in his voice at odds with the lingering smile on his features, "is a mean little cunt who wants to be me, and cannot be. That kind of spite will sour even the prettiest woman."

He grins. "Go ahead and call her Nastka sometime. Though--" He tilts his head back and forth. "Maybe don't, I suppose, if you don't feel like a beating."

He picks up the bottle by his chair, opening it. There's a small glass on the tray; the Winter Soldier pours obligingly into it.

"There were a number of you plotting against me, weren't you?" he asks conversationally. "Whole little party. I'm flattered to garner so much attention. I'd like to know more."

He finishes his pour, pulling the bottle back. "Miss Thompson has an interesting friend, in particular."

Sam Winchester has posed:
Yasha avoids looking at the track marks. Sam finds his eyes morbidly drawn to them. Livid red and purple, marching up and down his arms, each aching and beading with tiny scabs. Then he's giving him, conspiratorially, a little 'dirt' on Stasya/Nastka. She hands them out anyway, but he won't because of Fred. Antagonizing her just to get a little of his own back is briefly tempting, but ultimately nothing he'll try. But he does ask, "What does that mean? Nastka?"

This is a new situation for him. He's felt almost this afraid for Dean before, but never quite as bad. He flicks a grim little smile in return to Yasha's grin though. It feels good to smile, even a little. It feels great to have a human conversation. He'll take it.

And then his heart sinks, cause this is a new kind of interrogation, it seems. Still, he watches the Vodka pouring into the glass. "Liam? Don't know much about him," he says. He holds up a hand. "Truly. We worked a case, very briefly, but he wasn't really the chatty type. We didn't even finish the case."

The truth is he really doesn't know anything, he thinks, that they probably don't already know. Maybe a few details here and there, but nothing, he thinks, that is too harmful.

As with the food, he hesitates to come near the Vodka without some sort of express sign that it's okay. But his eyes haven't really left the glass since the pour started. Part of him is aware it will warm him up, too. The unpleasant cold and damp feels like it has sunk into his muscles like it's planning on living there permenantly.

Winter Soldier has posed:
What does that mean? Sam wants to know. Yasha's head tilts slowly at this attempt to reverse the flow of questioning. "We have a lot of ways to refer to a person, in Russian," he eventually deigns to explain. It's eerie, watching a man he objectively knows is pure-blooded American speak as if he were born and raised Russian instead. So obliviously-- so convinced of the truth of it--

Eighty years of conditioning will do a number on a man.

"There are many nicknames we use in place of any given name," the Winter Soldier continues. "Some are less polite than others. Anastasiya is her name. Stasya is one shorter way to call her. Nastka, not such a nice way to call her."

The comfort afforded by such a normal-seeming conversation is deceptive, however, as revealed when Yasha seamlessly leads it into a more interrogatory line of questioning. Sam confesses no knowledge of 'Liam,' a claim that brings the Soldier to study him a long time with those appraising blue eyes. He looks through Sam, gaugingly, before his eyes return to the vodka as he tops it off. "Yeah? And what case was this?"

He leans back. He can see the way Sam looks longingly at the alcohol, but does not touch for fear of some trick. Yasha cocks his head, curious. "It would be counterproductive for us to kill you," he observes. "Not when you've got so much potential in you. But--"

He tips the bottle and drinks straight from it. He takes far more of it at once than a man should take, should be able to tolerate all at once, and then he sets it aside. "Does that reassure you?" he inquires baldly, his voice still clear.

Sam Winchester has posed:
It's not just eerie to listen to this man tell him all about being Russian. It's chilling. Absolutely bone chilling terrifying. Sam's hazel eyes are steady as he affords the man his full attention.

He reaches slowly for the vodka when the man drinks from it. "It's-- not really poisoning I'm afraid of running afoul of, no," he says, softly. Maybe he's weak. Maybe he is complying too much, too soon. That idea bothers him, but when Fred's safety is on the line, can he afford to be too flippant, too presumptuous? "Thank you," he says again.

But he hastens back to the question, for all the same reasons that he was afraid to touch the Vodka too quickly.

"Cursed artifacts. One of them was a mirror. It subjected its bearer to spontaenous combustion, and was changing animals into monsters. Mercy and I fought off the animals and I shot the mirror. That led us to a series of auctions pawning off cursed objects up and down the Eastern seaboard, but we don't really understand what the endgame is, who is doing it, or how to stop it. We ah...got a little distracted before we could put in much more work on it."

It chills him to think how readily he answers, but as with answers about himself he thinks really this can't possibly be anything too consequential. The Vodka hits his bloodstream. He is an accomplished drinker, really; his Dad's been shoving beer in his direction since he was 14, but in his current state it makes him gasp and splutter a bit of a laugh. "That's good. Good stuff."

Winter Soldier has posed:
It's perhaps a little glimpse into Sam Winchester's own potential future. Maybe someday, decades down the line, this will be him: believing, down to his very core, he is someone other than he truly is. Maybe someday he will have someone captive too, someone he will break and groom to join him in his own captivity.

Just as the Winter Soldier seems to be doing now.

And that awareness makes it impossible to truly relax, even though 'Yasha' has been perfectly kind so far-- kinder than any of the other visitors Sam has had in this dark hellhole of a place. Despite his genial acts, his eyes follow Sam with the keenness of a predator waiting for the first error to slip prey into easy reach. Those eyes continue to watch, with that same aspect to them, even as he drinks demonstratively to prove there is nothing 'extra' in the alcohol.

Then again, his constitution is obviously not that of a normal man, so does the gesture really mean anything?

His eyes certainly seem clear enough as he takes in what Sam has to say about the one case he worked with Mercy and Liam. Magic. Curses. Artifacts. His eyes gleam, like he knows a little something Sam doesn't know, but he doesn't share. "I see," he says instead.

Seeming to find that line of questioning a dead end, he switches smoothly off it to something else. Sam has finally taken his drink, the vodka hitting his blood, and Yasha agrees seamlessly and transitions: "Yeah, I only drink the good stuff. Now-- your brother. Is he like you?"

Sam Winchester has posed:
Sam has had those same morbid thoughts several times over the past ten days, but they grow even more morbid now as he contemplates a future where he hurts people instead of saves them, all in the service of this shadowy organization he barely understands. Nazis, some sort of modern day Nazis. Only Nazi's were German, not Russian. He doesn't even know. He hardly cares.

The Soldier's eyes gleam, and Sam drops his head, frowning into his glass, wetting his lips and going cold all over again, despite the alcohol-fused warmth racing through his veins.

Is your brother like you?

"No," Sam says quietly. "No. He's not."

And that's true on every single level. He's pure where Sam is tainted. He's strong where Sam is weak. He's a badass where Sam is a thinker.

Sam suddenly misses Dean so badly that he could cry, but he bottles it, draining the glass of Vodka. He assumes, really, what Yasha means is 'can Dean do the things you do' and that's certainly a no.

He wants to beg them to leave his brother alone too. His brother and Fred, two fulcrums that can be used to endlessly jerk him around, like rolling a boulder up and down a hill with ease.

Winter Soldier has posed:
No, Sam answers. No, he's not.

The Winter Soldier's demeanor suffers a sea change. His silence stretches on, the thunderous sort of silence that accompanies encroaching storm clouds. Little of it shows on his face, however. His expression is empty and bland as a snowfield, though his eyes still rest heavily on Sam's, studying his reactions closely with that predatory patience.

His cigarette burns on. Its trailing smoke is the only thing about him that moves.

"Pity," he says eventually, and there is no kindness left in his voice. It is hard-edged and merciless as a guillotine blade hanging over the back of the neck, ready to descend. "If he is not, then he's no use. He is disposable. Good to know."

He stands up, quite suddenly. He isn't anywhere near Sam's personal space, but somehow the gesture still feels invasive, aggressive. His lifted head, blue eyes staring narrowly down at Sam through his lashes, might contribute to the impression.

"Good talk," he says, an ironic smile playing at the corner of his mouth, and he turns to straight-up leave.

Sam Winchester has posed:
When they'd threatened Fred in that particular way, Sam had been subdued.

And perhaps the threat to his brother is meant to make Sam leap up and attack. Maybe it's a trap. Maybe it's meant to hit Sam with despair. Maybe it's just meant to see what he does.

What he does, is start laughing.

It's a low, rich, hard laugh. It's not a drunken one, though he is, truthfully, a little buzzed. It's not hysterical or insane. His grin is hard edged, cold, the grin of a killer. Because Sam is one. He has killed things that have walked, talked, and interacted like humans, and if they're all monsters he's still got the instinct. He may be a baby killer compared to the man now leaving his cell...

But it's in there.

He's protective of his brother, oh yes, but there's something more.

"I'd bet on my brother over any of you any day. Even you, Yasha. He's not like me."

A pause. A beat. Shoulders still shaking with cold, angry laughter.

"He's //better//. Me?" He scoffs. "Him? He'll make you all start to really wish you'd never heard the name Winchester. You think it's counterproductive to kill me? Wait to you see what it looks like to go after //him//."

Winter Soldier has posed:
Whatever such a tactic was meant for, Sam's reaction seems to yield what the Winter Soldier was seeking. It certainly halts him in his progress to the door. His head turns, and facelessly he appraises Sam Winchester's reaction.

Then the Winter Soldier moves, and especially a little buzzed as Sam is, it is hard to track him or parse that he is approaching until he has already closed the distance. It's not that he moves quickly-- there is no hurry to the way he steps in close-- but he moves with fluidity, viperlike in the way he simply shifts positions and comes to stand over Sam.

His left hand moves with similar serpentine speed, its metal and mechanical internals grinding their machine hum as it moves to close on Sam's jaw. To jerk his head up to force him to meet eyes.

The harsh handling should come with some kind of anger in the Winter Soldier's demeanor. But there is none there. His eyes are indifferent and calculating, disinterested in Sam's defiance or confidence or stirred-up spirit-- disinterested in anything, really, except what Sam's behavior seems to confirm for him.

"Interesting," he muses. A comfortable, humoring smile crosses his face, a Cheshire cat expression that suggests a great deal and tells nothing at all. "Well, it's good for a man to look up to his brother," he offers, politely.

He lets go, and turns to leave without another word.

Sam Winchester has posed:
He grits his teeth, nostrils flaring as the Soldier grips him with that metal hand. The whites of his eyes show. Super senses might pick up the acceleration in his heartbeat, the roar in his ears. Yasha isn't angry, but abruptly Sam is, allowing himself an emotion he's steadfastly been fighting since that one, dire, terrible threat. But on behalf of his brother, he's abruptly furious, and on behalf of himself. The rage erupts, and it has nowhere to go at all. All he can do is remain in that grip and stare, his eyes meeting Yasha's dead on but his whole body shaking.

The reaction chills him again, and when Yasha lets him go he continues to pant as if he'd just run 100 miles in bare feet. He doesn't try to stop the man, though part of him is tensed. He wants to leap on him. He wants to beat the ever loving shit out of him, though he's weak and hurting and wouldn't stand a chance, though he knows he can't escape and knows Fred might suffer.

So he stays still, a curled, coiled ball of misery in the corner of his cell.

The cell door clangs shut, and after a moment he hauls himself to the cot. He realizes Yasha left the bottle of Vodka. He scoffs, whether at himself or at Yasha or at all of it he doesn't know. He drinks directly from it, getting as much of it into his system as he possibly can, sedating himself.

It doesn't take him very long to pass out.

But it's not a restive sleep. Not a restorative one. Because soon the nightmare is upon him, so real that he believes it's happening with every fiber of his being.

The cell door clangs open.

Something wet and massive lands on the floor. Something that reeks. Sam looks up, and it's his brother. In chunks, in pieces, torn apart, riddled with bullet holes, his head barely attached to his body.

And Yasha whispers, 'You can't fight us, Samoshka. We will take everything you have left to fight for, and then we'll take even his memory. And he died because he came for you. Remember that.'

His own scream of anguish wakes him, harsher and more heart-felt than any scream he's let out while feeling fists slam into his body again and again. He subsides, but tears stream down his face as he finally breaks down, and weeps.