The ropes were too tight. Sam Winchester knew this kind of tight, the kind that spoke of professional intent, not panic. The coarse fibers bit into his wrists with every twist, a familiar burn blooming against his skin. He forced himself still, breathing through the pain, the metallic taste of his own blood, just a scrape from the initial blow, coating his tongue.

The room was dark, smelling of damp earth, old wood, and something else… something chemical and sharp. A basement. His head throbbed in time with his heartbeat, a dull, insistent drum against his temple. Memories surfaced in jagged pieces: the crunch of gravel under his boots, the shadow detaching itself from the deeper blackness of the alley, the brief, brutal efficiency of the attack. No grunt, no taunt. Just impact, then nothing.

Demon blood.

The thought was a cold stone in his gut. It was always the demon blood. The thing inside him, the legacy Azazel left pumping through his veins. It had been years since he’d fed on it, years since he’d let that power surface, but the stain of it was permanent. To some creatures, he smelled like a threat. To others, he smelled like a prize.

He tested the bonds again, not with frantic struggle, but with deliberate pressure. They held fast, anchored to something solid behind the heavy wooden chair. His ankles were secured too, the rope wound tight around the legs of the chair and his own boots. Professional. Thorough.

“Who’s there?” he called out, his voice rough but steady. It echoed slightly in the empty space. No answer. Only the drip of water from a corner and the low hum of a distant furnace.

This wasn’t a demon. Demons preferred dramatics, taunts, gloating, and the flash of black smoke. This was quieter. Colder. Human, maybe? A hunter who’d discovered his secret? A witch who wanted his tainted blood for a spell? The possibilities were numerous and equally unpleasant.

He closed his eyes, reaching inward. Not for the demonic power—he wouldn’t, he couldn’t go there, but for the other training, the older lessons. Assess. Adapt. Bobby’s voice, gruff in his memory. Panic gets you dead.

His fingers, bound at the wrists, strained to feel the knot. A double-column tie. Survivable. If he had a paperclip, a shard of glass, time… His eyes scanned the gloom. A sliver of grey light outlined a door at the top of a short set of stairs. To his left, shelves held dusty jars with unidentifiable contents. To his right, a workbench was littered with tools.

Tools.

His gaze locked onto the edge of the metal workbench, about ten feet away. A sharp, unfinished weld gleamed dully in the faint light. If he could get to it, he could saw through the ropes. But the chair was heavy, solid oak. Moving it would be a feat of strength and noise.

Sam took a deep breath, the musty air filling his lungs. The demon blood was a curse, a constant shadow. But right now, it wasn’t about the power he’d once wielded. It was about the resilience it had forced him to build. The pain in his wrists was just a sensation. The fear was just a signal. He was Sam Winchester, raised by a hunter, trained by the best. He’d been in worse binds, literal and figurative.

He planted his boots flat on the stone floor, the ropes creaking in protest. With a grunt of effort, he began to rock the chair, inch by torturous inch, toward that sharp metal edge. Each small hop sent a jolt of pain up his spine, but his focus was absolute. The sound seemed deafening in the silence, a declaration of his defiance.

Whoever had taken him, whatever they wanted from the blood that marked him, they had made one critical mistake.

They’d left him alive. And Sam Winchester, demon blood or not, was very, very hard to keep.