Summary: A new gang in Los Angeles tries to make a name for itself by capturing and torturing Callen and Sam. MAJOR CALLEN WHUMP. Hurt/comfort, angst, drama.

Everything That Can Go Wrong

PenPatronus

Chapter 1 of 5

Something Shiny

A single drop of cold water bounced off of Sam Hanna's swollen eyelid. Sam flinched. He opened his eye part way and regretted it immediately when a second drop dove from a rusty pipe and hit his pupil. Groaning, Sam tried to turn over and fall back to sleep. His SEAL-self warned him to stay awake. Something was wrong, but fighting his way back to consciousness was like swimming through quicksand. However, when rolling over enflamed the burns on the back of his neck, Sam's own yelp of pain became his alarm clock.

"Shit - shit!" Sam growled through clenched teeth. He dug his heels into the dirty cement floor and backed himself against the wall until he was sitting up. Someone had handcuffed his left wrist to a leaky, waist-level iron pipe. Sam blinked away water, sweat and stars and studied his surroundings. The cell was relatively large - about the size of the NCIS bullpen. Chilly, windowless, lit only by one dim light bulb swaying from the ceiling, the prison smelled of rust and mildew. And, except for Sam, it was empty.

"Careful, dumbass!" a voice bellowed. Sam looked to his right and saw shadows approaching the cell. "If you keep dropping him on his head then Papa will lock us up, too!"

"What's it matter?" a higher-pitched voice grunted. "So many bumps on his skull they won't know if it's from us or their boots! Jake, come on, not so fast!"

Sam stood as three figures came into view. Two teenage African American boys carried a limp body between them. As they passed under a flickering bulb, Sam recognized the pale face of his partner and best friend, G Callen. Sam started yanking on the handcuffs like a dog on a leash. "Who the hell are you?" he bellowed. "What did you do to my partner?"

Startled, the older, taller boy, dropped Callen's feet. "Thought you said they drugged this cop, Darren!"

"They did!" Younger, shorter Darren struggled to keep his grip under G's armpits. "Look at him, man! He's huge - like a bull!"

"Hey!" Sam barked. "I'm talking to you! We're federal agents – do you have any idea what kind of trouble you're asking for? Who's in charge around here?"

Jake fumbled in his pockets and withdrew a key. "You ain't so tough," he said to Sam. The slight tremble in the boy's hand as he unlocked the cell door betrayed his anxiety. To Darren he said, "He's half the size Dad was. Dad was nine, ten feet tall!"

Darren's eyes widened. "You lie," he declared. A hint of hope tinted his voice.

"Shit, what do you know? You were six!"

The iron cell door squeaked open. Sam opened his mouth to speak again but couldn't summon a coherent question. A closer look at Callen's injuries took his breath away. Far, far away.

"My arms hurt!" Darren whined.

"Pain in the ass - here, just roll him. See? Like this." Jake helped Darren lower G to the damp cement floor. He slid two fingers through G's belt loops, lifted, then kicked. Half a dozen rolls later, Jake and Darren finally got G to the center of the floor where they left him lying spread-eagled and face down. The two boys kept bickering as they locked the cell and ambled back down the corridor, but Sam had all but blocked them out.

Sam didn't intend to whisper but couldn't seem to help it. "G?" Straining against the handcuffs, Sam stretched his hand out as far as he could but still fell two feet short of touching Callen's shoulder. "Come on, G, come on, man," he said. "Wake up. Wake up!" Sam started counting the wounds he could see. Blood stained the left half of the back of G's pale blue, button-down shirt. He was burned, and his jeans were ripped in half a dozen places, revealing half a dozen shallow knife wounds. To his horror, Sam recognized the burns on G's wrists as jumper cable clamps.

Five minutes of statements like "G, you better wake up before I beat your ass" later, Callen rotated his head snail-slow and blinked drowsily at Sam. "You can't even reach my ass," G slurred. He licked his lips, winced, and then closed his eyes.

"G!" Sam wasn't whispering anymore. "Stay awake. Talk to me."

G's eyes slid open half-way. "Sam, I had the strangest dream that you wore a top hat on a stakeout," he joked. "And you had the neck of a giraffe."

"G, where are we?" Sam, all business, demanded.

G's unfocused eyes scanned the rusty pipes going up the beige wall behind Sam's head. "I can tell you where we're not," he offered. "This place definitely isn't a Chuck E' Cheese. It's not Dodger Stadium or the BMV. There. I've narrowed it... narrowed it down..." G grimaced and sighed. His eyelids started to sink.

Sam yanked so hard on the handcuffs that the metal breached his skin and blood slid down his arm. "I have to stop all that red stuff, G. You gotta crawl to me so I can patch you up."

G frowned. "But it's so comfortable here." He groaned as he shifted his weight and attempted to raise his head. "Dammit, I think I left my gym bag in the boatshed…"

Sam reached out his hand, palm up. "Just come towards me, G, about a foot. Stretch your arm out and I'll pull you the rest of the way."

"I'll move for a sandwich. Preferably a ham sandwich."

"How about a knuckle sandwich?"

"As long as there's mustard." Callen folded his arms under his chest and did a push up. As he shimmied forward he left a puddle of ever-darkening blood in his wake. G moved about six inches when his trembling knees suddenly slid on his own blood and he ended up flat on the floor once again. "When… you've been… tortured," G mumbled, "shouldn't you just pass out… at some point? Shouldn't the body just… just shut down from the pain?"

Sam turned his back on G. He studied the wall, the pipe, the water. Rust caught his attention. The leaky pipe soaked the handcuffs.

"I need a distraction. Know what would be fun right now?" G asked. "Let's play a game of I Spy."

Sam wrapped his right hand around his left wrist and yanked. Rust flaked off of the chain.

"All right, all right, I'll go first," G mumbled.

Sam braced one boot against the wall, then the other. Sweat dribbled down his nose.

"I spy with my little eye something... something...shiny..." Suddenly the right side of Callen's bottom lip was stained with fresh blood. He coughed again and more blood slipped past his teeth. That strained something – or maybe everything – and Callen cried out in pain. For the first time since getting dumped into the cell his voice, expression and body language were stripped of all levity and sarcasm. He trembled. His fear and agony revealed, G dropped all attempts at looking "macho," reached out for his partner and whispered his name.

"I'm coming, G. I'm coming."

"S-Sam…"

"Almost - got it!" The rusty chain linking the handcuffs split apart and Sam landed on his backside. He quickly rolled to his knees and crawled over. With a rush of deja vu that caused a funny taste in his mouth and a stinging sensation behind his eyes, Sam gently lifted G into his arms and cradled him like an infant. Callen's back arched. A quick intake of breath communicated to Sam that he was hurting more than helping, so he adjusted his grip so that the back of G's neck was braced against the soft inside part of his thigh.

"You good?" G whispered. His breaths sounded more like gasping than breathing.

Sam sniffed. "Once we get you to a hospital I'll be fine and dandy." Sam stripped off the thin, long-sleeved t-shirt he wore over a black tank. He started to wrap it around G's right forearm. "G, what happened? The last thing I remember was hearing an explosion."

"Someone tossed a grenade into the boatshed," G said. "You were knocked out by debris. I mean, you wet your pants and fainted."

"I did not." Sam noticed that G's left leg was bleeding heavier. He switched to the leg but the blood on G's stomach drew his attention. Frustration was released in the form of several curse words as the agent ripped his shirt into several bandages and started plugging up each hole one by one, starting with a shallow stab wound under the sternum.

"Watch your language. There are kids here," G said, cocking his chin at the cell door.

"How many bad guys?" G didn't respond. Sam turned his attention away from his first aid and saw his partner's eyes close. "Come on, G. I need you to talk to me." He jumped when G suddenly grabbed his hand. The weight of it pinned Sam's palm against his best friend's heart.

G's eyelids cracked. "Sam," he gulped, looking straight into his best friend's eyes, "Sam, answer me."

Sam cleared his throat but failed to loosen it. "Answer what?" he whispered.

"I said... I spied... something shiny," G wheezed. "What's your guess?"

Sam snorted. He wore that fond smile he always tried but failed to hide around G's antics. Tears hovered in his eyes. "G, I'm not going to play some dumbass game while you bleed to death," he declared. Quietly, he added, "Handcuffs. The handcuffs are shiny."

Callen grinned. "Nope," he said, and made a buzzing sound deep in his dry throat, "try again."

Sam didn't have a chance to. His elbow accidentally landed on a cracked rib. G screamed. Before Sam could say "sorry," Callen passed out in his arms.

To Be Continued