CHAPTER 2

Dean's eyes were darting back and forth from the forest to the road, watching for any threat that dared to consider approaching. His feet were shuffling restlessly as he waited for Bobby to pick up the phone at the other end of the line. He stole a glance at Sam, still lying unconscious on the pavement beside the Impala, and Dean silently pleaded for someone to answer.

"C'mon, c'mon, c'mon..." he muttered as the phone rang a third time. Then a click sounded on the other end.

"Hello?"

"Bobby, it's Dean." Whether by the sound of Dean's voice or from his intuitive hunting nature, Booby seemed to know something was wrong.

"What happened?"

"We went after the Cave Witch, but she did something to Sam-"

"Did you kill her?"

"What - no, she got away-"

"Oh no...where's Sam?"

"He's right next to me. I don't know what happened, he couldn't breath and then he was screaming and wouldn't stop. He passed out so I-I got him out of the forest, but I don't know wh-what's wrong with him..."

"Dean, Dean, calm down. You need to listen to me okay? That witch got Sam pretty good, but he'll be okay, alright? He's gonna be okay."

"What's the matter with him?"

"I'll explain, but you need to get him in the car now and start driving. Fast."

Dean moved as quickly as possible, holding the phone between his chin and shoulder as he lugged Sam into the back seat before running to the driver's side and starting the car. As he pulled onto the still empty highway, Dean glanced at Sam's form in the rearview mirror, thoroughly uncomfortable with not knowing what was up.

"Okay, I'm driving." Dean heard Bobby inhale on the other end.

"Alright, you said you were in Colorado, right?"

"Yeah."

"How far from Boulder?"

"I'd guess twenty minutes."

"Make it ten, Dean. There's a cabin out there you can stay in. I'd have you bring him to my place, but no way you're gonna be able to travel with him."

"Bobby what's wrong with Sam?" Dean was really freaking out now. If Bobby was so concerned then it had to be bad. If he was avoiding explaining it had to be worse.

"Okay, look. I told you Me and your dad faced one of these things before - well, same thing happened to us as what's happened with you guys, 'cept it was me in Sam's place. The good news is he'll be just fine in about six days."

"Six-!"

"Bad news is that he'll be going through a living hell the whole time and you're gonna have to take care of him Dean, and I'm telling you it's not gonna be easy." Dean's mouth gaped as his mind contemplated what could possibly ail his brother for almost a whole week.

"Of course I'll take care of him. What do I need to do?"

"Get to that cabin, and tie him to the bed."

"What?!"

"Dean, that screaming was nothing. Sam'll probably scream for three days straight, unless his voice goes out. He'll try to hurt himself, hit, scratch, thrash - anything his subconscious can think of to get rid of the pain."

"Three-!"

"Then he'll kind of come to, and he'll talk some and probably stop acting as crazy, but he's gonna say and try some awful things."

"What do you mean?"

"He'll probably ask you to kill him for a while, then he'll try to do it himself when you refuse."

"Bobby-"

"Dean, when it happened to me, it was the most terrible, painful thing I've ever felt, and I begged John to kill me. I cried and yelled and hollered, and then I tried to shoot myself-"

"You what?!"

"Twice."

The older brother sat, wide eyed and speechless. He let Bobby give him some more instructions and direction to the cabin. They had to be away from any nearby towns so that passerby wouldnt hear Sam screaming. Dean exhaled, glancing fearfully at Sam, wondering what the next six days would hold for them both.

Sam awoke to the sound of his own sobs. Even sobbing he managed to cry out, screaming like he'd never screamed in his life. His back was on fire. His chest was being torn open. His arms and legs were being ripped from his body, his head was splitting in two, three, ten parts. His eyes were rolling, and he mentally begged God, Satan, anyone to just let him die. Death would be a kind reprieve. Unless he was already dead. This could easily be hell. Knives were stabbing him everywhere, his fleshing was being shredded, every bone within him was surely broken. He couldn't see, couldn't tell whether he was moving or lying still, totally clueless as to where he was.

He had no idea that his brother was beside him in a small Colorado cabin, staring horrified at Sam pulling harshly at the ropes that held his arms and legs to respective bedposts. He had no inkling that there was a piece wood being held in his mouth to keep him from biting his own tongue off. He couldnt tell that Dean had his head in his free hand as he listened to Sam's anguished cries until the younger Winchester's body gave up for the second time, choosing to shut off temporarily rather than endure any more suffering.

He had no idea that Dean cried as he dressed Sam's newly injured wrists, cut and bleeding from pulling against the rope.

Dean had made it to the cabin in eight minutes. He'd had to run two red lights, four stop signs, and almost hit a rabbit to do it, but he had made it in eight minutes.

It still wasn't quick enough.

He'd pulled up roughly to the small, wooden cabin, seeing the two small windows, the big, thick door, and the three steps leading to it. He'd rushed to the backseat, silently thanking god, or whoever, that Sam was still out of it. Of course, those thanks were swiftly retracted. As Dean pulled his brother's body out of the Impala, groaning under the his weight, Sam began to stir.

Dean froze just momentarily, trying his best to prepare himself for what he knew would come, attempting to convince himself that he could handle it, that he would handle it, that knowing it was only temporary was enough, that knowing Sam would be alright in one short week was all that mattered.

His little brother's voice sounded, verbalizing in wordless screams of obvious agony the truth to Dean.

This was going to be the longest, most horrible week of his existence.

Dean cringed at the sound of Sam's whimpers, hating the grating quality of each scream that began with a gasp and ended only when more air was needed. He dragged his thrashing and jerking brother to the steps, fighting to pull Sam as quickly as possible into the cabin and keep him from injuring himself as well.

"C'mon Sammy!" Sam pushed away the hands that tried to scratched Sam's face, blocked the punches that his younger brother threw at himself. Dean managed to drag Sam, who was shaking and crying, halfway through the door.

It was destroying Dean to see Sammy this way.

He continued to maneuver, but between dragging Sam's weight and halting his self-violations, he was having a tremendously hard time of it.

"Augh, Sam, Sam stop! Stay with me man - Sam? Wait, Sam NO!" Sam ripped himself from Dean's grasp, and proceeded to slam his own head down onto the hard floor of the cabin, connecting with a loud thud. Dean's heart stopped when Sam stopped moving, and he immediately knelt beside his brother, silently berating himself for not being able to do this adequately.

"Dangit Sammy, if you give yourself a concussion…" the unheard threat died on his lips when he realized that Sam probably wouldn't even notice a head injury.

He was relieved to find that his younger sibling had only knocked himself out, which in fact made it much easier for Dean to hoist Sam onto the surprisingly large bed. Dean didn't stop to catch his breath. He rapidly set about tying Sam's arms and legs to respective bedpost, remembering to grab a bottle of water and all of their first aid supplies from the Impala before settling himself into a chair beside the bed in the dimly lit cabin. Only one small gas lamp provided a way for Dean to see the huge gashes in Sam's forearms. Only that small light allowed him to dress the wounds inflicted by the witch. And when Sam awoke screaming for the third time that night, it was that small flame that showed Sam's eyes rolling back in his head and revealed how harshly he was pulling on the ropes that held him in place.

It was by that lamp that Dean was forced to watch helplessly as Sam endured pain beyond pain. , and as Sam fell into unconsciousness only minutes later, Dean felt the tears sting in his eyes when he remembered that this was all his fault. He sensed the warm wetness rolling down his cheeks while he dressed Sam's new cuts, knowing that he could've prevented this suffering.

Dean wept for the guilt. He wept for having to see Sam hurting so badly. He wept because he couldn't take Sam's place, fight the pain away, or stop it from happening, now.

He wept - because he could do nothing else.

Sam's voice went out at about three o'clock the next afternoon. He'd screamed and shouted, unintelligible as far as words were concerned. He hadn't passed out again, but remained conscious throughout the entire night, crying out and shedding tears as Dean watched with an indescribable expression of horror, sadness, guilt, and shame.

When his voice finally gave out, Sam merely twisted and jerked on the bed, pulling at the ropes, whimpering and gasping in obvious pain. Dean kept adjusting – adjusting the small piece of wood keeping Sam from biting into his tongue, adjusting the ropes so that they wouldn't rub against Sam's bandaged arms, adjusting himself to make sure he could keep a hold on his twitching brother, keeping him as still as possible, and adjusting his eyes to the growing light that came through the window as the sun rose.

Staying awake hadn't been a problem. It's kinda hard to sleep when your brother is suffering through unending torture, screaming continuously, and thrashing roughly in torment. Not to mention the fact that Dean was beating himself up brutally for letting this happen at all. He truly hated himself, cursed himself for not taking point in the forest, for not heeding the instructions Sam had drilled him with, for not being more careful, more cautious, more…period. He should have been faster, he should have been smarter, he should have known better than to let any stupid hunt get the best of him. It should be me, he thought with a pang of self-aimed disgust, it should be me on that bed, not Sam…not Sammy…never Sammy. Dean fervently wished for some way, any kind of way to make this better, to help his brother. Seeing Sam like this – seeing him in agony, completely under the spell of this anguish, thoroughly hurting – it was more than he could take.

And so, it was with care that Dean wrapped his arms around Sammy, cradling his shaking head in his embrace, holding close what he could reach of his sibling's tense and trembling body. It was with desperation that he spoke words of comfort and assurance softly throughout the dark of the nighttime, offering the only kind of comfort he could give, unsure if he was even heard. It was with loyalty that he never moved from his brother's side, willing and wishing away whatever spell it was that was so ailing Sam. And it was with total, utter detestation that he regarded himself, wondering whether he even deserved to be so close to the one who would always be a boy in his eyes. Dean wondered if he should be allowed to be so near to this person whom he was so devoted to, who was so afflicted because of him. He wondered how great of a punishment his failure to protect was worthy of…surely he shouldn't be allowed to remain in the company of the only one he'd ever wanted to always have fighting beside him. But Dean never let go, not wanting to commit a greater crime by abandoning his brother, not daring to stray even a mere minute for fear of losing what was so nearly lost in the Colorado forest. He was afraid for his brother, he was afraid for himself, and he was afraid of the daunting trial that he knew awaited him in the coming days. As the second day, and then the second night, passed unbearably slow, Dean prepared himself as best as he was able for what Bobby had warned him of.

Keep him tied up. No matter what he says, don't let him loose. He's gonna start improvising, and you know how smart he is. He'll beg and beg Dean, but when he realizes that you won't kill him, he's gonna try to end it any way he can. There's no reasoning with him, and there's no stopping what's hurting him. And he probably won't want to eat, but you have to make him take something - at least try. He might be able to go a week without food, but not without water.

Just watch out for him Dean, and I mean really, because he could still go into shock or even cardiac arrest if he doesn't stay under control. You need to keep him calm – it'll be practically impossible, but you have to keep telling him it'll be over soon, it'll stop, it won't stay like this, or he'll just snap. Insanity is not an impossibility here, and you're the only anchor he's gonna have. Keep him with ya, Dean. Keep him anchored. Keep him strong.

Keep him strong…keep him strong. It was the only thing Dean could tell himself, the only way he could ready his mind and his will for what lay ahead. He had to keep Sammy sane. He had to keep Sammy safe. He had to keep Sammy strong.

As the sun rose on the third day, a slight question itched in the back of his mind. It sat there, ignored and unanswered, but not invisible. The question nudged and nibbled, trying to break through what was left of Dean's emotional barriers, attempting to force him to recall the fear he had placed into the deep recesses of himself. The question remained in the dark, waiting to be acknowledged.

Dean needed to keep Sam strong. He needed to be strong for Sam. He needed to stay strong for him. He had to keep Sammy strong.

The question burned. Was Dean strong enough?