When Dean finds him, Sammy is hanging from an exposed pipe, his wrists raw and bleeding, rope tuffs splintered in the battered skin. It's been two days, two hellish days, and those days were a damned repeat of when the Benders took his brother. It hasn't even been two months since that night, and if this is the norm, if things in the night can just grab his brother from him, then Dean's seriously got a problem with the guy upstairs.
Sammy's eyes are closed—he's out for the count. His hands are tied together, his limp body hanging from the pipe. His feet and calves skim the floor, telling Dean that his brother was conscious when he'd originally been tied up. Dean shutters and tightens his fists at the very idea of what's been done to Sam. He growls, angry and terrified in the way that only Sammy can make him.
And Sammy isn't out cold after all, because he reacts. He struggles to move his legs, to support his weight, only Dean realizes that Sammy isn't going to be able to get himself to his feet. His legs buckle from under him, causing the rope to swing a little, sending Sam back to his almost knees with a strangled cry.
That cry breaks Dean from his paralysis and he lunges for his brother with a speed he'd have thought himself incapable of. But he always was faster, stronger, braver, when it came to Sammy.
"Sammy, it's okay, it's me. Sammy." Dean's heart is stammering and he cups Sammy's cheek.
Sam pries open one eye with what appears to be great effort. "Dean?" God, he sounds awful.
"The one and only," Dean tries to joke, fishing his pocket-knife out of his pocket.
"Sure am… glad to see you," Sam whispers, his head lulling against his chest. Dean splays his hands out across Sam's chest, needing to feel that heartbeat.
"Listen, Sam—I'm gonna cut you lose, okay? I'm gonna cut you lose. Don't fight it, just let yourself fall, okay? Let yourself fall, I've gotcha. I've gotcha," Dean coos as he cuts Sam's first wrist free. Sam immediately falls, but Dean's got him. Sam tries not to cry, but Dean can feel his every fiber tense.
"It's okay, it's okay," he whispers as he cuts the other binding. Sam is going down now, and Dean eases him down.
He keeps his hand on Sammy's head, cradling his precious burden. He can't carry his brother fireman style, doesn't know what kind of abuse his body's been privy to. What he does know is that the air in here is stale, is suffocating, and as much as he wants to tear this house apart, he needs to get Sammy back to the motel, needs to fix him up. Only after he's certain that Sammy is okay can he can have the revenge he craves.
Carefully, he secures his arm under Sam's knees, cradling his baby brother's head in the nook of shoulder and neck. Sam whimpers as he's hoisted up, and that sound has all of Dean's big-brother instincts swelling in his chest, tightening. "Shhh, you're okay," he murmurs. "I'm here. You're okay."
* * *
Sam's a fighter; he's a Winchester, and Winchester instinct demands ingenuity, determination, and a deep fight. He's foggy on the details of how he came to be here, just remembers splitting up with Dean at the museum to gather information. Did he even make it to the entrance? He thinks the last thing he saw was Dean's back, watching Dean swagger to the door in a cocky way that let Sam knew that Dean knew he was being watched. Sam remembers smiling.
Everything fades away at that point, and he can only remember this room, being questioned, being sneered at, mocked. "The Boy King," the demons had taunted. "Some Boy King you are, too weak to fight. Too weak to do anything, just waiting on big brother Dean to rescue you."
Boy King?
At first, Sam hadn't been sure what hurt worse, the physical abuse or the mental. The taunting, crude remarks about Jess, sweet Jess, burning because of him. The warnings that Dean would be next. A few times, Sam had goaded his captors into violence, needing the words to stop, needing silence that only oblivion could bring him. He'd tried to escape, he really had, but he was just a man. The searing fire in his veins told him that he was being drugged, made weak, made incapable. Some Boy King you are, Sammy. Burn. Burn, burn, burn!
Eventually, his body had begun to shut down. All he knew was pain, was hate. The callous fists, the callous taunts of The Boy King, letting those he loved burn, burn, burn circling his consciousness and following him into the darkness that he slipped into…
And then Dean was there.
Dean is carrying him up the stairs, his breath rapid with six-plus feet of Sam in his arms. Dean's always been one for crude remarks, for a solid Winchester approach to "no chickflick moments", and yet Sam has never felt so cherished, so safe, as he does in this moment. These past.. days -How long as it been?- have been some of the worst of Sam's life, and to be held so dearly, to be spoken to so lovingly, to be cared for so openly.. something inside Sam breaks, and he sobs. Dean has never been anything but tender with him. Dean carried him from the fire on the night his mother died. Dean pulled him from the flames that consumed Jess. Dean saves him, Dean loves him, and Sam sobs.
Sam feels Dean's grip tighten on Sam. "What's wrong? What's wrong, Sammy?"
Sam shakes his head, lacking strength for much else. He feels himself being eased to the ground.
Questioningly, he looks up at Dean. Dean raises a finger to his own lips, glancing out at the kitchen. They aren't alone. His captures… they're there.
Sam wants to help Dean, needs to help his brother… blinks and it's all over. Dean is panting in the kitchen, bloody knife in hand. Sam realizes he's lost time.
Dean looks pained as he drops the knife to the ground with a clatter. He rushes back to his brother, still out of breath.
"Dean?"
"I'm okay, Sammy." But Sam sees the way Dean's left arm hangs at his side. Hurt.
Dean bites his lip and makes to pick Sam up again.
"No," Sam whispers. "H-Hurt.."
"What's wrong? Where? What?" Dean is crouched in front of Sam now, his eyes wide in his face, and it's rare to see Dean look so young, so frazzled. Dean doesn't panic unless it comes to Sam, but even then, for him not to even try to hide it… it must be bad. Belatedly, Sam wonders how bad off he is, how bad it looks.
"Not me.. your arm."
Dean makes to protest but knows he can't. The fight with the demons left him relatively unscathed… with the exception of his arm. One of the demons had twisted it, and he's certain that he's dislocated his left shoulder. He can't carry Sam.
"Can… I can walk…" Sam huffs, easing his legs closer to him. He still feels the effects of the drugs in his sluggish body, feels the pain blossoming from within, but remains silent. He is aware of Dean helping him to stand, is aware of a raw pain unlike anything he's ever felt, and he screams, truly screams.
* * *
Dean is angry. Nobody fucks with his brother. And so he comes unglued, fighting with a rage he's never felt before. There are a few moments of pain, but he's so pumped on adrenaline that he doesn't even notice. He glances to Sam once, watches his brother pass out. In that moment of distraction, he feels a tug on his left shoulder and is sent to his knees with a yelp. With his right hand, he thrusts the knife full-force into the demon, not even caring about the human host. He knows he should, but all he can think about right now is his brother.
It's over.
He walks to Sam, Sam who realizes Dean is hurt before Dean even does. Sam who nearly gives Dean a heart attack when he says "hurt," leaving Dean to think that he's missed something, that Sam is dying or something.
Dean watches as Sammy's face screws up in pain; Sammy should never look this way.
He eases Sam's arm across his right shoulder, locks his arm around the younger man's waist. He sees Sam's face go white, his eyes go wide, and he screams, honest to God screams, and starts to drop to the ground.
"No, no, no," Dean encourages, readjusting and keeping Sam up.
"Stay with me, Sam."
Sam is huffing and puffing and is dragging his feet to the best of his ability, stumbling. Dean's carrying most of Sam's weight, and Sam is still barely walking. Dean feels sick. This is bad. This is really, really bad, and Sam's going down again. Dean readjusts, ignoring the tears pricking at his eyes. Suddenly, he feels incredibly young and overwhelmed. He wants John, wants his dad to help him take care of Sammy.
They're back at the impala, both men sweaty and exhausted. "Gotta… p-pass out," Sam says, and Sam's unconscious before Dean even gets the seatbelt over him. Dean drives the car to the motel, stealing glances to Sam's prone form the entire drive home. Sammy doesn't react to Dean's voice, doesn't move, and when they pull up to the motel, it's all Dean can do not to cry in frustration.
Dean tries to walk Sammy inside, ends up dragging him mostly, and eases him to the bed closest to the door. Normally, that's Dean's bed, but Dean is exhausted from hauling Sammy inside and can't go on much further. He drops to his knees and fishes the first-aid kit out of the nightstand, using only his right hand.
He needs to set his left shoulder, but he can't do it without help.
Seeming to sense his brother's distress, Sammy groggily comes to. Dean doesn't notice at first, is trying to figure out the best way to patch himself up so that he can help his brother. He takes a shaky breath and sits on the bed next to Sam and- fuck that hurts! His eyes dart to Sam. Sam is curled on his side, his hands dropping from Dean's shoulder. The little fucker managed to set Dean's shoulder. Dean feels such pride as he looks at the kid.
"You 'kay?" he asks.
"Yeah, Sammy. And you're gonna be."
He begins to patch his brother up.