Author's Note: I won't lie. I read a story dealing with a similar method of torture and was inspired to write one of my own, though hopefully with a twist that you haven't seen before. Anyway, I hope you enjoy and please review!

Breathing was agony. Each breath was like thousands of knives stabbing into his chest, twisting and turning, bringing a pain of new and interesting sorts. His body was heavy, each pound of muscle that he had worked so hard to maintain adding pressure to the already unbearable load. Normally, numbness was something to be avoided—a sign of nerve damage—but now, it couldn't come fast enough.

Dean Winchester didn't want to die—he had died once before and found that it was entirely and uncomfortable experience—but right now, death seemed like a damn good out. He didn't want to leave Sam here alone—especially given what he was going through with the whole Lucifer-wants-to-borrow-his-meat-suit thing—but he wasn't sure that he could hold on much longer, and he wasn't sure that he wanted to. He just wanted it to stop—the physical pain, and the overwhelming burden of knowing that somehow he was supposed to save the world—so that he could rest for a moment.

But there was no rest for the weary. Just as he would let his eyes slip closed, they would poke him—quite painfully, with a white-hot poker—until he opened his eyes once again. He tried to grit his teeth and endure the pain, but he just couldn't manage it—mostly because pain radiated from his jaw where several teeth had been broken or knocked loose. This son of a bitch sure as hell knew what he was doing; he knew just the right amount of pain to inflict, and how to do so, in order to get the information that he wanted. Dean stared at his tormentor, hatred in his eyes.

"Dean, you've been up there for hours now, and it's going to last much longer than this. Tell me what I want to know, and I promise I will let you down," the voice said, cold and calculating. He stared up at the bloody figure of Dean Winchester that was nailed to the cross, blood flowing freely from the nails in his arm. They had taken great care with those nails, making sure that they slid right between the two bones in his arms. Dean hadn't wanted to scream, but he couldn't seem to stop himself.

"That's alright…I was just getting comfortable," he answered, barely able to keep from gasping at the pain of speaking. Blood trickled from his lips as he spoke.

"Don't you understand, Dean? I know that you think you're saving your brother by holding out like this, but you're not. I'm going to find him one way or another, and when I do—"

"Shut your pie hole, you sonofa—"

"Don't get me wrong, I find your loyalty touching. Well, as touching as I can, anyway. But the fact of the matter is, you have to let it go. You have to understand that—"

"No," Dean gasped. "You gotta understand…I'm not selling out my brother."

"That is a shame. I had hoped that some time on the cross would make you more agreeable. Perhaps if I—" But he never finished his sentence. Instead, he pulled a club seemingly from thin air and took a good swing at Dean's legs. Again, Dean gasped in pain and a strangled scream crossed his lips. Then his tormentor stood still, admiring his handiwork.

"That was just a warm up. I didn't even break your legs, so you can imagine what that would feel like," he taunted. "Just tell me where Sam is, and I'll make it stop."

Dean stared at him in stony silence, refusing to tell him where Sam was. Sam was too important, and he wasn't going to give him up. He had tucked him safely away in a five-star hotel, complete with great security—against humans, anyway—paid for courtesy of Nanno Himmelfarb's credit card. They had taken great pains—literally, now—to keep him safe, and Dean wasn't about to betray him now. Not when so much depended on it.

"You know, I have to give you credit…you're much stronger than I had thought. But then, Michael's vessel couldn't be weak, so I suppose I shouldn't be too surprised. But you are human, and all humans have a breaking point…Perhaps I'm taking the wrong approach…" Zachariah paused in thought and then smiled wickedly—ironic, given his angelic status. "If you tell me where Sam is, I'll end him quickly and painlessly. He won't even know what happened. He'll have no time to feel the fear that comes with knowing that you're going to die. He won't have to feel his actual passing. But if you don't…I promise I'll make it last. He'll be awake and screaming, feeling his life fade away. You don't want that for him, do you?"

Dean continued to hang there, thinking of Sam, trying to ignore Zachariah's words. Sam smiling and happy once all this was over. Sam being able to settle down and live the life that he had wanted—that normal life where he was married with a dog and the average 2.3 kids, living in a suburban home, complete with white picket fence. Boring, sure, but it was normal. Normal people didn't get tortured on a seemingly daily basis, and that was enough for him.

But even dreaming of Sammy in his normal life wasn't enough to stop him from screaming in pain when the club struck him in the ribs—just hard enough to knock the already scant breath from his lungs. He wanted to beg and plead for it to stop, but he wasn't going to give the son of a bitch that pleasure. So instead, he continued to hang there, staring down at the blood that was dripping from the nail holes in his feet.

"I've never quite had this much fun with this before—"

"Glad I've…got some en-entertainment…value," Dean choked out, trying to wittily respond, but the quip fell flat. Nothing like trouble breathing to kill a smart-ass remark.

" –and I've never gotten this far with anyone before, either."

"Clearly…you've never tor…t-tortured a Winchester, then."

Clearly, Dean was right. In all his years of existence and servitude, Zachariah had never had the pleasure or torturing someone as stubborn or strong as Dean Winchester. He was stubborn because he was strong enough to take it. Or perhaps it was vice versa. Perhaps his strength came from the fact that he was so damn stubborn. But whatever the reason, Dean wasn't crack as he had hoped, and he needed that information.

"Dean, you have to understand. This is bigger than just you and Sam. We're talking about the fate of the world, of humanity. You can save them all if you would just tell us where Sam is. I know you don't like this, but his death is the only way. It's the only option that we have left, because you're not going to let Michael in. This is your doing, Dean."

Still, Dean maintained his silence, fascinated by the puddle of his blood congealing on the floor.

"Fine. You give me no other choice. I think you forget that while I can tear you apart, I can also put you back together so that we can do this all over again until you tell me what I want to know," he said. "And once you tell me, I'll put you back together so that you can live with the consequences. Because, who knows. Maybe you will relent and let Michael in."

Memories of his time in Hell flashed through Dean's mind, but his body was too weak to shudder. Instead, he let his eyes slip closed and tried to let go. He tried to lose consciousness, to let oblivion take over, to watch the world fade to black…to die. Anything for the security of Sam's life, and for a respite from the pain.

He heard a loud, thundering sound and felt the cross shake, sending waves of nauseating, excruciating pain through him. Maybe if he just left his eyes closed, he wouldn't feel it. Maybe he could escape this new torture…

"Dean!"

The voice was muffled, as though he were hearing it from far away. This didn't make it any less recognizable, though. He knew that voice, and knew that it belonged to the last person who could or would be there. His mind had finally managed to take him away, to take him somewhere that Zachariah couldn't touch. He was hallucinating, and he was damn grateful for it.

"Dean! C'mon man! Open your eyes. Cass, we've got to…"

There was more shaking, and more pain. So much for being taken away. He felt the cross moving again, but he was too disoriented to really tell how it was moving. Someone was touching him—more pain, but less than expected—running their hands over his naked body.

"Zachariah took care with the nails. They are placed carefully, so he won't bleed to death." This voice is also muted but familiar. Gruff and strangely lacking in expression. Cass…?

Then there was agony as the nails slid simultaneously out of his arms. A few seconds later, they slid from his feet, and he was a limp, quivering mess on the cross. Finally, he pulled his eyes open. Two all too familiar faces were above him, staring down. On the wall behind them, he saw the bloody symbol that they had used to repel the angels.

"Sam…what the…fuck are you…doing here?"

"I couldn't leave you here with that bastard. Not after what he was doing to you. You've died for me too many times," Sam answered, assessing his brother. There was no easy way to transport him—not when he was in the condition he was in—but he was going to do his damndest to try to make him as comfortable as possible.

"H-how'd you—"

"Stop talking, man. We tracked the GPS in your cell phone. Cass, do you think you could tele—"

Before the sentence was completely out of Sam's mouth, Cass tapped his fingers to Dean's forehead, and they were back in the hotel room. Too bad Dean was bleeding all over the pristine white carpet. But at least he was alive. He was alive and back.

"They won't be able to find you, but they can find me," Cass started. Sam nodded in understanding, and then Cass was gone, leaving the brothers alone in the room. Sam immediately sprung into action, grabbing towels and antiseptic, needle and thread, ice and plastic bags. Dean lay still the entire time, too exhausted to even flinch when the antiseptic stung his skin. After a few moments, his eyes slid closed.

"Dean? Dean? Wake up! C'mon, wake up you stubborn ass! You gotta stay awake," Sam shouted, petrified. He shook his brother, desperate to wake him, to see him open his eyes. He had worked too hard to get him back, and he wasn't going to lose him now. He wasn't going to lose his brother to the people who were supposed to be helping them save the world. He wasn't going to let Dean slip away.

When Dean opened his eyes, pain was obvious in every line of his face. Guilt tore through Sam, so sharp and present that it took his breath away. This was his fault. So many times Dean had taken up for him, had sacrificed for him, and this is how he repaid him. He had taken sides with a demon over his brother, freed Lucifer himself, and nearly gotten his brother tortured to death. He could see the sacrifices written on Dean's body: the scars on his arms from where he had sliced himself open giving blood for his brother, the tattoo on his chest, the bruises on his legs and ribs from the beating, the holes in his arms and feet…so much. He had been crucified for Christ's sake. Dean had given so much for him, and all he could do was clean him up afterwards.

Gently, he wiped away the blood, trying to work around the other damage. These, too, would scar. He iced the large bruises on Dean's body, though he didn't have enough ice for all of them. There wasn't much he could do for his eyes—both of which were practically swollen shut—aside from ice, but he knew that wasn't really enough.

"Sammy…I'm so tired…"

"Yeah, I know. Just stay awake while I get you cleaned up. None of that passing out on me. Then you can get some sleep."

"Promise?" The vulnerability in his brother's voice nearly killed Sam. He felt his heart break, and he was surprised his brother didn't hear it.

His only answer was to run his fingers gently through his brother's blood-matted hair, trying to soothe him any way he could. He needed to comfort his brother, to give him something to try to repay the debt he owed him. He watched as the tension eased from Dean's body when he realized that he was safe, that he wasn't going to be hurt anymore. He saw the trust in Dean's eyes, and longed to be worthy of it. He would be. He would fight tooth and nail to be worthy of his brother's trust.

"I promise."