"Sammy, Please." Dean pleaded, eyes clouded over in thought, watching the taller male disappear into the black mustang, tossing one last look of compassion his way, before he sighed and stood, holding the top of the door. "Dean," Sam started,
"Don't 'Dean' me you son of a bitch!" The brunette hissed, tears daring to fall, "Why am I always chosen last!" He couldn't stop himself, the tears fell, stinging against his frail skin, sliding down his slender neck. Sam stood there, shock evident on his graceful features.
"Well, aren't you the noble man." Sam murmured, and turning elegantly, stepped into the car without hesitation.
"Sammy!" Dean shouted after the car disappearing into the thick mist. "Come on, Sam!" He screamed, collapsing to his knee's, slamming his fist into the hard ground, moonlight lighting his face, revealing the tears which were sparkling down through his fingers and onto his white, clenched knuckles.
"Sammy…" he breathed, "Sammy, I'm sorry," He repeated rubbing his head side to side in his palm.
Sam sat there, hurt hearing Dean's cry from behind him, driving down the weathered road, his movement was slow and edgy, revealing his mind wasn't in the right mental state. What was he doing?
"Come one," Sam groaned and rubbed his eyes, he loved Dean more than anything, yet he's turning back when he needs him the most? "Dean," He sighed and turned into the upcoming corner.
Once he'd driven on the drive and looked Jess in the face he relaxed, changing his mind, he smiled sadly at her and reversed, driving off back down the street.
He started practicing what he was going to say to Jess when he eventually came back. He was so caught up in the musings of his own distant thoughts that he failed to notice the shadow in the back of the car; cold, dark hands slowly curving over the car seat to caress the tall male's cheeks. As he felt the contact, he freaked, hand shooting up to grab the gun in his front pocket, before everything turned black.
Sam awoke with a throbbing sensation at the back of his head, a cold, wet substance dripping around the base of his bruised neck. He was suddenly aware that someone else was present in the room, tensing as he heard a deep chuckle before him.
"Well, it seems Moose has awakened," Sam was capable of making out, before something crushed into his upper torso, and with a startled cry he went flying into the nearest wall; skin grazing upon contact. Slumping down, Sam let out a disorientated groan, pain throbbing dully throughout his entire body.
"C-Crowley?" Sam managed to breathe out amidst the pain in his abdomen, clutching at his lower belly as blood came rushing up his throat, coughing roughly in order to dispel the crimson liquid, metallic tang sharp on his tongue as it splattered the floor beneath him, a deep laugh that represented the King of Hell responded; he was pleased with this response.
"You know," he chuckled, "You might just be my best toy yet"
A smirk adorned his features, eyes full of mischief, glittering with amusement at the lifeless form, quivering before him, cowed into silence by the pain washing through him; it made the older male feel powerful.
"I don't want you making a scene," he growled as Sam tried to hurt him by tossing a handful of rock salt, which, of course, didn't do much harm at all.
"Silly boy," he sneered, ignoring the slight burn that lashed over his skin from the coarse grains of salt.
He sighed and walked forward to grab a hold of the brunette's face, ensuring eye contact was made. "I do hope you last longer than my last torture buddy." He whispered coldly into the tall male's neck, sending a shiver through Sam's body at the coldness of the breeze.
"Play nice." He purred with a smile, before he vanished through the door.
Once Crowley had left, Sam gave an experimental tug on his chains; a hoarse growl rumbling in the depths of throat as the hard metal spikes of the chain links dug into his skin.
He sighed and decided it wasn't best for him to act too soon, as he wasn't in the best position, he would play nice until he gained trust, then strike. After all, what more could the King of Hell want than a torture pet?
It's not like he meant sexual right?
Snorting with laughter at the mere thought of his own comment, Sam closed his eyes to rest. Then his eyes snapped back open,
Dean?!
"Come on Sammy, answer your god damn phone," Dean grumbled to himself. It was unlike Sam to ignore people when they called, as it could have very easily been an emergency, but recognizing the situation, it seemed he would have to wait till tomorrow. With a sigh, Dean snapped his phone shut and drove to a near by inn to settle down for the night, deciding a good nights sleep, or attempted sleep anyway, would aid him in thinking more clearly.
As he made his way up the worn out stairway, careful to be slow, he glanced over his shoulder, before unlocking the door and heading inside his selected room. Making his way straight over to the bed, Dean allowed his body to fall forward, landing with a slight huff. Laying flat on the black silk sheets, the man unbuttoned his shirt and let it slide from his broad shoulders, urging the tension to flee him in favor of sleep.
Dean wasn't really one to worry when someone went missing for a bit, but after five whole days of no answer, he was worried about his little brother. What if something got him? He had heard about Jessica's death the day Sam left to go back to her, but no one had seen Sam near the house.
Thoughts started provoking him, coaxing him to ponder at strange conclusions, things like 'what if someone picked him up off the street?' or 'what if it was a demon?'
What if a demon has Sam in its clutches?!
With that in mind, he wasted no time in running down the stairs and straight to his car; Dad would have to wait.
Sam sat there; futile tugs at heavy, rusted chains having long since ceased. Dark shadows ringed his eyes, speaking of exhaustion, highlighting glazed, unfocused gaze, obscured every now and then by limp locks of greasy brown hair whenever he shifted his head. Black and blue littered his skin, patterns of bruises patching sliced, ivory flesh, crusted with dried blood.
Frankly speaking, he looked terrible. But that was to be expected from the rough treatment he had been receiving from this realm; the place mortals called Hell. He was being experimented with, toyed to test new techniques, things unknown to mankind. Millions, if not thousands, of unheard torture methods, so grotesque it was mortifying.
Silently, Sam craned his head back, taking care not to jostle his aching body as he glanced up at the only source of light in the dank, dark cell. Taking a slow, deep breath, the battered man let his head tip back, resting idly upon the rotting wall behind him.
Please, no more. God, no more.
Crowley looked down at him, disgust evident in the piercing depth of dark eyes.
Sam blinked, letting his head fall forward, submission pouring from every pore as he hunched his shoulders, attempting to be as small as possible as he cowered back against the wall, afraid. If Dean could save him now. Sam didn't want to be back here. He didn't want to see Lucifer again. It was bad enough in Lucifer's Cage, but this as well?