Intro: I'm not really sure how far this one is going yet, but I'm rating it "M" just in case. There will definitely be torture, and gore, and pain for the Winchester brothers. I might bring in some other victims too, not sure yet. I'm working on a separate original work, and I need a place to flex my writing in the gruesome without compromising that project. To that end, I decided to put our two favorite boys through some of what's planned for my other characters, just to test things out. Read at your own risk!

If you don't like reading about the brothers in pain, this is not the story for you.

Feel free to leave comments and reviews. Please keep in mind that this is just a writing exercise for me and may not really go anywhere. Thanks!

-Zy

*TRIGGER WARNING! Blood & Torture*

Pain

The first thing he felt was pain. It was everywhere, like fire under his skin. He breathed deeply, slowly, trying to bring the world back into focus as he had been taught. Breathe through it. He ordered himself, and the pain receded. Not all the way, not enough, but he could think again. He tried to remember what had happened before the pain, before he woke, and as things came rushing back terror filled his mind and a single name escaped his lips. "Sammy!"

Sam Winchester woke on the floor of the seedy motel room to the smell of blood and charred fabric. Nausea overwhelmed him and he rolled over and retched. His head was pounding and his vision blurred. He felt his head and his fingers came back sticky and warm. He tried to stand but only managed to be sick again on the filthy carpet. Once his stomach was empty and the heaving settled, he managed to push himself into a seated position, leaning against the grimy dresser that took up one wall of the room. "Dean?"

There was no answer to his call. He forced himself up and surveyed the room. Both beds were charred, still letting off rancid black smoke. The bed Dean had chosen, closest to the door, was soaked in sticky crimson. There was no sign of his brother anywhere. "Dean!" Sam cried out again, but no answer came from the empty room.

Fire bloomed in Sam's side, causing him to double over and retch again. He spat the bile onto the carpet and gingerly checked himself over. He estimated three broken ribs, under a palm-width sized gash in his side, a three inch gash on his head, a concussion, and possibly two broken fingers. Nothing he hadn't suffered through before, both brothers had been through worse. He moved to the bathroom, finding it untouched. He splashed some water on his face and looked in the mirror; mentally he added a blackened right eye and a gash over the same that would need stitches to his list of injuries. He needed to find Dean, but first he had to clean his wounds and try to remember what had attacked them.

The first aid kit was already open on the bathroom counter, that struck Sam as strange but he was thankful it had survived the attack. With practiced hands he stripped off his soiled shirt and set to cleaning and stitching his wounds. The head wound was the hardest, he couldn't see it, and he dared not take anything for the pain that might cloud his mind. Instead he relied on the breathing exercises his father and brother had taught him. Breathe through the pain Sammy, slow breaths, like me. He could hear his brother's voice in his head.

Once he was stitched, bandaged, and clean, he moved back into the destroyed motel room and looked around for his duffel and laptop. Miraculously, both were still intact where he'd tossed them on the table. He found a clean shirt and tugged it over his head. Grabbing his phone from a jacket pocket, he hit speed dial for Dean's phone.

It rang once, and then a familiar voice recording played. "Hey, you've reached Dean. I'm not here right now, but leave a message and I'll get back to ya."

Sam felt fear swell in his chest. He hit "end" and then tapped the screen to redial. "Hey, you've reached Dean. I'm not here right now, but leave a message and I'll get back to ya."

Sam cussed under his breath and left a message. "Dean, if you get this call me back ok. I'm worried man."

His eyes slid back to Dean's bed, to the blood. There was so much blood. His chest felt like there was a heavy weight on it. He grabbed his duffel and tossed the books and papers off the table and into it. His laptop he slid into its case. Gotta find Dean. Was the only thought running through his mind. He shouldered the bag and the laptop and gripped the door handle, stopping short when he noticed Dean's duffel resting on the floor between his bed and the wall. He snagged the old, worn out, army duffel and shouldered it as well, then walked out into the bright sunlight. No trace was left of the brothers but Dean's blood soaking the bed closest to the door.