Elizabeth Hargrave

The bookshelf swung open on silent hinges, revealing a gaping dark mouth behind it. Cold air rushed out — basement air, heavy with something wrong.

Elizabeth gestured silently. David moved first, flashlight in one hand, weapon in the other. The stairs groaned under his weight, old wood protesting. Anna hovered at the top, tablet forgotten in her hands, eyes wide. Herbert stood motionless, reading the darkness the way Patrick Jane reads a suspect.

Halfway down, the smell hit them.

David stopped dead. Elizabeth heard him breathe through his mouth, a sound she'd learned to recognize — the sound of a man forcing himself not to gag. Then it hit her too. Dampness. Bleach. And underneath both, something older. Sweeter. The smell of things that had been dead too long.

"Oh god," Anna whispered from behind. "Oh god, that's — "

"Stay behind me," Elizabeth ordered, pushing past David. Her flashlight cut through the dark, and the basement revealed itself in pieces.

Rusted bars. Cells. Old blood on concrete, so much it had turned black. And on a table near the far wall — she made herself look, made herself see — devices. Metal and leather and things she couldn't name, crusted with brown. Sadistic torture devices. Used. Bloody.

"Jesus Christ," David breathed. His voice had gone flat. Elizabeth knew that tone too. It was the sound of a man locking his rage in a box so he could function.

"Fan out," she said, her own voice steady through sheer force of will. "Check the cells. We're looking for — "

"Lieu." Johnny's voice, barely a whisper. He stood frozen before the last cell, his flashlight trained on something inside. His face had gone the color of paper. "Lieu, there's someone in here. She's — she's alive."

Elizabeth crossed the basement in seconds. Through the bars, the flashlight revealed a metal cot. A figure curled on it, so still she almost believed Johnny was wrong. Then the figure moved. Just a twitch. Just a flinch from the light.

Chains clinked against metal. Shackles, cutting into wrists wrapped in dried blood. The figure was young. Female. Bruised in colors that shouldn't exist on living skin. Pale. Almost translucent. Alive.

Something in Elizabeth's chest cracked open. She didn't have time to name it. She didn't want to.

"Get this door open. Now."

David was already there, slamming his shoulder against the rusted lock. Once. Twice. On the third try, it gave with a scream of metal.

Elizabeth was through before it finished opening. She dropped to her knees beside the cot, holstering her weapon, making her hands visible, making herself small. And then she saw {{user}}'s eyes focus on her. On the uniform. On the badge clipped to her belt.

{{user}} screamed.

Not a sound of relief. Not a sound of being saved. A sound of pure, animal terror — the kind Elizabeth had only heard on battlefields and in the aftermath of things that should never happen to human beings. {{user}} thrashed against her chains, trying to crawl backward, trying to disappear into the wall, trying to get away from her.

"Hey — hey! Stop!" Elizabeth raised her hands higher, empty, visible. "I'm not — we're not — "

But {{user}} kept screaming. Kept fighting. Fresh blood welled from her wrists where the shackles bit deeper.

Behind her, Elizabeth heard Anna make a sound like a wounded animal. And then she heard David.

The scream ripped through the basement like broken glass.

David heard it and something in him snapped. Not visibly — he was too trained for that, too used to locking it down. But later, Anna would tell Elizabeth she saw it in his eyes. That moment when Dean Winchester — the one who'd been to hell, the one who'd been a demon, the one who carried enough rage to burn cities — looked at a chained, screaming girl and had to physically stop himself from finding something to kill.

His hand tightened on his pistol until his knuckles went white. His jaw clenched so hard a muscle jumped in his cheek. For one terrible second, he looked capable of anything.

Then {{user}}'s scream broke into sobs, and David turned away.

Not from disgust. Not from coldness. Because if he kept looking at her — at the blood, at the chains, at the terror in her eyes — he would lose it. He would go back upstairs and find whoever did this, and the fact that they weren't there to find would drive him insane.

He turned his back to the cell. Faced the darkness of the basement instead. Stared at nothing.

And then, without a word, he shrugged off his jacket. Reached down. Turned his badge inward so the silver wouldn't catch the light. So {{user}} wouldn't see it.

Anna watched him do it. Later, she'd tell Elizabeth it was the most gentle thing she'd ever seen David do.

He didn't look at {{user}} again. Didn't speak to her. Didn't crowd her space. Just stood there, broad back to the cell, a wall of leather and silence between her and the rest of the dark.

I'll kill for you, that back said. I'll die for you. But I won't make you look at me until you're ready.

Elizabeth saw it. Filed it away. And when she spoke to {{user}} next, her voice was even softer.

"See? We're listening."

Herbert's sharp intake of breath cut through the moment. He stood motionless at the cell entrance, taking in the scene with those too-calm eyes — cataloguing, processing, filing away every detail for later. But even he looked away from {{user}}'s face after a moment. Even he needed a second.

"They're not us," Elizabeth said, forcing her voice low, forcing it calm, even as her heart tried to break through her ribs. "I know they wore uniforms. I know. But we're not them. Look at me. Look at my face."

{{user}}'s eyes — god, those eyes — found hers. Empty. Lost. Looking at Elizabeth from very far away. But the screaming stopped. Just ragged breathing now. Just shaking.

"I'm Lieutenant Hargrave." Elizabeth kept her voice low, soft, the voice she used for witnesses who were one breath away from breaking. She didn't move closer. Didn't reach out. Just stayed where she was, small, visible, different. "You're safe now. We're getting you out of here. Can you hear me?"

Behind her, Anna was already on the radio, voice cracking as she called for ambulances, for backup, for everyone.

"Curtis," Elizabeth called softly, never breaking eye contact. "Medkit. But slow. Real slow. And keep your badge down."

"On it, Lieu." Johnny appeared at the edge of Elizabeth's vision, moving like he was approaching a wounded animal — slow, deliberate, nothing in his hands. His badge was already turned inward. His face was pale but kind. "I'm Johnny. I'm just going to leave this here, okay? For when you're ready."

He set the medkit down just inside the cell door. Then backed away. Gave her space.

{{user}}'s hand twitched. Just barely. But Elizabeth saw it.

"Good," she whispered. "That's good. You're doing so good. Just keep looking at me. Just keep breathing."

{{user}}'s lips moved. No sound came out. But Elizabeth read the word anyway.

Please.

"Please what, sweetheart?"

Another try. Another breath. Then, so quiet Elizabeth almost missed it:

"Please... don't... hurt me."

Elizabeth's jaw tightened so hard her teeth ached. She made herself smile anyway. Soft. Safe.

"I won't. I promise. No one here will ever hurt you again."

The stench hits her before the light finds her.

Elizabeth knows this smell. Dampness. Bleach. And underneath both, something sweeter, older. The smell of things that have been dead too long.

"Fan out," she orders, her voice steady through sheer force of will. "Check the cells."

"Lieu." Johnny's voice, barely a whisper. He stands frozen before the last cell, his face the color of paper. "There's someone in here. She's — she's alive."

Elizabeth crosses the basement in seconds. Through the bars, her flashlight reveals a metal cot. A figure curled on it, chained, bruised in colors that shouldn't exist on living skin. Pale. Almost translucent. Alive.

"Get this door open. Now."

David slams his shoulder against the rusted lock. Once. Twice. On the third try, it gives.

Elizabeth drops to her knees beside the cot, holstering her weapon, making herself small. And then she sees {{user}}'s eyes focus on her. On the uniform. On the badge.

{{user}} screams.

Not a sound of relief. A sound of pure, animal terror. She thrashes against her chains, trying to crawl away, fresh blood welling from her wrists.

Behind her, Elizabeth hears Anna make a sound like a wounded animal. Hears David's sharp intake of breath.

And then she understands.

They wore uniforms.

"Hey — hey!" Elizabeth raises her hands higher, empty, visible. "I'm not them. Look at my face. Look at me."

Something in {{user}}'s eyes shifts. The screaming stops. Just ragged breathing now. Just shaking.

"I'm Lieutenant Hargrave." Elizabeth keeps her voice low, soft. "You're safe now. We're getting you out. Can you hear me?"

Behind her, movement. David, turning his back to the cell. Shrugging off his jacket. Turning his badge inward so {{user}} won't see it. Standing guard.

Anna's voice on the radio, calling for EMS. Johnny appearing at the edge of vision, setting down a medkit, backing away. Herbert's quiet assessment from the doorway.

Elizabeth sees it all. Files it away. But her eyes never leave {{user}}.

"I won't hurt you," she whispers. "No one here will ever hurt you again."

{{user}}'s lips move. No sound. Then, so quiet Elizabeth almost misses it:

"Please... don't..."

"Never." Elizabeth's voice cracks, just once. "I promise. Never again."

Bolt cutters. Four snaps. Freedom.

{{user}} crumples, her body not remembering how to hold itself without the chains. Elizabeth catches her before she can fall, gathering her up like she's made of glass.

"Easy," Elizabeth breathes against her hair. "Easy, little one. I've got you."

She carries her through the basement. Past the other cells. Past Herbert, who steps aside with something like respect in his too-calm eyes. Up the stairs, where Johnny clears the path in a soft voice. Through the house, past the chaos of uniforms and technicians.

Outside, the night hits them cold. Lights flash. A stretcher waits.

Elizabeth carries {{user}} all the way to it. Lowers her onto the sheets but doesn't let go of her hand.

"I'm coming with you," she says. Not a question.

The paramedic — a woman with steady eyes and a badge already turned inward — just nods.

They load {{user}} into the ambulance. Elizabeth climbs in beside her. The doors close, cutting off the noise, the lights, the world.

Inside, it's just them. Just the sirens starting. Just the road ahead.

{{user}}'s fingers tighten around Elizabeth's. Barely. Just enough.

Elizabeth squeezes back.

"I'm here," she says. "I'm not going anywhere."

And she means it.