Death's Daughter | Supernatural, D.W.

Poughkeepsie

The jail cell is a desolate place. I haven't seen anyone for a long time. I don't know how long I've been here, but I think my boredom makes the time drag.

I've tried praying to Cas. It's basically all I've done since I've been put in here. Begging for help, repeating my situation, angling for any type of response.

Above everything, though, I'm concerned for Sam and Dean. By now they'd know that I'm missing. But if my father basically pulverized the djinn they were after, they've got no leads, and no way to know what happened to me.

I think about the hallucination. About Dean holding me, telling me he loved me. It brings me some artificial comfort, but it's short lived, because I know it was fake. I also know that if I don't get back to Dean, I'll never hear him say those words truthfully.

My train of thought is derailed a noise comes from behind me. It sounds like my cell door being opened. I hold my breath, expecting my father, but I'm surprised by my company.

"Sigrid? What are you doing here?" I ask. She looks guilty, almost remorseful.

"I'm a guard here. I'm really sorry, Mallory." Her voice testers on a fragile ledge of emotion. I start to feel nervous.

"I-it's okay, but what exactly are you sorry about?"

Without answering, Sigrid works quietly undoing my binds. My freedom is still limited by chains and cuffs, but she tells me to stand up.

"I need you to come with me," she says.

"Why? Sigrid, what's going on?" I pry.

"I can't tell you," she mumbles. "But I do apologize. I hope you know that if it were up to me, I would let you go."

I feel bad for her. I know that she's being honest. I make a mental note to help her leave if I ever get the chance.

Sigrid leads the way to a stark white room with an examination table. A thousand thoughts happen across my mind when I wonder of the possibilities of what could be happening.

"Sit on the table."

I do as she tells me to. A few minutes later, four men dressed in lab coats enter the room. One is toting a rolling table full of instruments on it.

"Hold still," one man commands. I do the opposite, and flinch away from him.

"What the hell?" He's holding a syringe. "What is that?"

"You need this," he says. Without another warning, he quickly plunges the needle into my bicep and injects me with God knows what.

It only takes a few moments, but my body begins to fail me as my muscles go weak. The four doctors reposition me, easing me into a position on my stomach. The table is uncomfortable. I want to speak, to protest them, but not even my own voice will work. I'm paralyzed.

They cut my shirt and bra off me, leaving me feeling somewhat exposed, but at least I'm still laying on my stomach. A few moments go past; I feel them wiping my back down with something extremely cold. My guess is a sterilizer for whatever they're about to do.

Then it really starts. All four of them begin carving things into the midline of my back, and they carve deep. I can't tense, I can't yell or scream, but all of the cutting at once feels excruciating. My eyes flood with tears that I can't blink away.

The carving stops. I feel grateful for a few seconds before my brain is quite literally fried by a burning hot pain. I smell something weird, and then learn that it's my own flesh being seared. Burnt. Branded, like an animal.

When it's finally over, the white-coated men apply some cooling medicine to my back, and tell me to stay put if the drugs wear off. As if I could even try to move, given the amount of pain I'm in.

Sigrid comes back to the room. I hadn't noticed her leaving.

"Are you okay?" She asks. I can't answer. "Oh, the drugs. You can't speak. I'm guessing they didn't tell you what they did."

No, but I'm horrified to learn.

"This is what I was apologizing for," she explains sadly. "They carved sigils into your skin and sealed them with holy fire. Your line of communication with any being is done for now."

My stomach drops. I can't contact Cas. That was the one thing that kept me holding on. That kept me hopeful.

"I'll make sure to sneak you extra pain meds over these next few weeks. You'll need them while those burns heal up. I don't know why they don't just put you to sleep. I guess just an extra measure of revenge."

I lay there for a few more hours. The drugs wear off, but I don't move. Finally, the doctors come back. They administer more medicine to my burns.

"Sit up," one tells me.

"I'm half naked, and I don't know any of you. Get me some clothes."

They don't oblige to me. Instead, they all four grab onto me and force me into an upright position. I let out a wail of agony; the wounds on my back are stretched and pulled by their harsh grips. I fold my arms over my chest, even though it hurts my back even more.

One of the men hands me what seems to be a hospital gown. They all watch me as I struggle to put it on and tie the strings. I feel like I could throw up, but I'm not sure if it's from pain, or from being stared at by men that aren't Dean.

They help me (barely) into a wheelchair and escort me back to my cell, where I'm placed back in my binds. The back of the chair rubs against my injuries, creating a massive amount of discomfort.

I try to distract myself by thinking some more about Dean. What he's doing, where he is, and what he would do if he were here. Right now, he's probably working himself into the ground to figure out where I am. I hope he's with Sam. Sam would keep him straightened out, in line. One thing I do know for sure is that if Dean were here, he would have gutted all four of those lab coat men in ten seconds flat.

My cell door opens. Sigrid comes to stand in front of me.

"Hey. I got you a bunch of drugs. You should take them," she advises.

"Thank you."

I can't use my hands, so Sigrid dumps a cocktail of pills into my mouth, then holds a straw to my lips. I drink the water and swallow the pills, grateful that I at least have her.

"Listen, I know that you were trying to get ahold of Castiel to help you out of here," Sigrid sighs. "You can't do that now, but I think I might be able to help you out of here."

"Can't they hear your thoughts? Just like they heard mine? Sigrid, they'll kill you just for talking about this, you should stop."

She pulls up the sleeve to her shirt, revealing a scar of a sigil burnt into her forearm. "I cut my line of communication with the reapers a long time ago. They never found out. I'm safe."

"So what's your plan?" I ask.

"When I'm not on guard, I'll go find Castiel and the Winchesters. I'll explain what's going on, and hopefully they'll help me without killing me first."

"Poughkeepsie," I tell her.

"What?"

"Tell them that I said Poughkeepsie. It means I'm in trouble. They'll know you're telling the truth. Sam and Dean live in Lebanon, Kansas. In a bunker, just outside the northern city limits. You might not be able to get in because of the warding, but if you can find the door, just knock on it. It has an old Men of Letters symbol on it."

Sigrid laughs a little. "It's been a long time since I've heard about the Men of Letters. But lucky for us, I know where to find a map of all the Men of Letters' bunkers. I'll find them in no time." She pauses. "For now, though, I need to gather supplies and weapons if I need them. If you want to make it out of here alive, I recommend you comply with anyone that comes in this cell while I'm gone. Okay?"

"Okay."