A/N: Gobs of thanks to those of you who have left me reviews, especially lelann37, ephiny63, becci, freedomfly, bhoney, PrincessOfHeartsNYP, and supernatfem76 for encouraging me through chapter 3! Love you guys!

A hard and unforgiving fist rips across Sam's face once again, snapping his head violently to the side.

"Where is he?" Vallis demands.

Despite himself, Sam groans, tasting blood in his mouth. He doesn't remember being dragged out for interrogation again, doesn't remember if the little girl came back to check on him after her brother left, hell, he's having a hard time remembering which way is up and which is down.

Half kneeling, half being held up by two strangers, Sam tries feverishly to stand on his own, to not depend on anything but his own steam, but his abused and depleted body is listening to him about as well as the guy delivering the punches.

The blow razes Sam's already helplessly flailing equilibrium and, as his head lolls drunkenly back to its original position, he's already mustering what's left of his strength to glare audaciously back at his captor. Even dazed a good deal of undignified vocabulary is coming to mind – Dean's vocabulary, he muses – but since he can't seem to catch his breath after being pummeled within an inch of his life, he settles for something quick and to the point.

The "Go to hell" he manages to get out is more sluggish and breathy than he would have liked, but it nonetheless has the same effect.

A curt nod from Vallis and the man on his right – Gruff – half turns and backhands Sam hard enough to have knocked him down had he and the kid not kept hold of his arms.

Another blow follows directly to the stomach and for Sam, it's like being hit by a battering ram. Reeling, Sam doubles over as far as the men holding him will allow. Their graciousness, however, has long since worn out and a hand snags his hair, wrenching his head back up and straining his neck.

"I can do this all day, Winchester. Where's your brother?"

He tries to answer, but his voice is strangled by the position. "W-wrong… guy… don' know…who 're…talkin'…bou…"

Frustration is evident in Vallis's face. He nods once and Sam's head is dropped. Sam does his best not to react, but the men at his sides choose that particular moment to let him go. He's kicked full-force across the face, the ferocity of the strike sending him staggering.

He hits his knees, hissing in pain.

Vallis delivers another devastating punch to the stomach, this one leaving Sam winded and struggling for air. "I've waited a long time to get even with your brother, Winchester." Another crack, this time to the jaw. "Spent a lotta time in the box thinkin' about all the things I was gonna do to him. All the ways I could break him like he tried to break me!"

Sam's brain scrambles to make sense of all this information. The kick to his side is followed by a heavy boot slamming into the back of his skull and, without his hands free, there's no way to break his fall. He pitches forward, the impact sending him sliding.

His collision with the concrete is hard, and hitting it is almost as bad as getting punted in the head; his cheek and jaw will no doubt be skinned. It makes him wonder what kind of face Dean will find when he gets here.

And he will get here. Sam's holding on to that.

His vision winks out and for a moment he can't breathe, can't see…and then they're talking above him.

"Calm down, 'V."

"Get off my back, damn it!"

Sam tries to listen, to concentrate, but the blows have done much more than rattle his senses. He hears, but doesn't understand. Something about Dean and prison and waiting. It doesn't make sense, and all he can do is lay there, breathless and dizzy and nauseous with pain.

"Boss?" an uncertain voice cuts through the haze surrounding him. The kid. "What if…you know…he's telling the truth?"

"He ain't tellin' the truth." As if to emphasize the point, a heel smashes into Sam's ribs, tearing a tortured cry from his already split and bleeding lips.

Sheer agony spears through him as more follow and Sam jerks his body with each spasm of pain. He squeezes his eyes shut, his muffled cries barely rising above the tumult. The onslaught continues until Vallis is panting.

Sam is close to blacking out now, warm blood trickling down his forehead and between his eyes to mix with sweat and grime. Vallis crouches next to him and this time, when he speaks, his voice is measured. "Haven't you had enough, kid?" he asks. "Just tell us where your brother is and you can go back to your motel room and never have to see our pretty faces ever again."

He's lying, Sam knows. He's seen their definitely-not-pretty faces and, although humans tend to have less of a pattern than their normal hunts, one thing he knows for certain is that humans like to be caught even less than the things that go bump in the night. They'll find Dean, kill him, and then kill Sam just to cover their tracks.

It takes everything in him to open his eyes. He'll defend Dean with his last breath if that's what it comes down to, so little by little, every breath an acid-sharp jolt of suppressed agony, he moves his mouth enough to stutter, "Not…ly...lying. No…no…br'thr."

Sam barely registers the kick that follows. Or the voices that are now talking over him.

"…Maggi?"

"…told 'er I'd pick 'er up…showed…waited…"

"…gone wrong."

"…might'a got her?"

"…we need to…outta here."

"…Not 'til I…"

"…forget this guy…"

"…you're killing him…"

"…shut the…up Kid…message…"

"…company…"

"…Winchester…"

"…get this guy up."

The last order is barked and Sam is pulled upright and forced to his knees.

Is this it? he thinks distantly. Will they kill him now?

"I'm gonna ask you one more time, Winchester. Where's your brother?"

Ironically enough, Sam's getting really tired of hearing that question.

"Don'…have…don' hav…broth'r…"

Dean glances up and down the street. It's deserted, but that only makes it that much more unnerving. The SUV he's followed here, the one sent to pick up Maggi, had entered into a rusty, roll-down garage and disappeared, leaving him to make his way, calculating and silent, along the side of the warehouse to find another way in.

What he discovers in his trek is that the abandoned and forgotten warehouse he's been led to is not so abandoned and forgotten. From a distance, Dean watches as a pickup pulls into a small parking lot already littered with vacant cars and the men inside enter into a steel door beneath a single caged light bulb.

For the barest instant when the door opens, Dean hears voices shouting and cheering, the sounds of a bar or a party in full swing. There's a bouncer standing just inside and Dean sees him exchange a few words with the men before the door shuts behind them.

Options are few here and Dean has to take a breath to quell the anxiety that keeps creeping up on him. He can't afford to mess up, to make a wrong decision, to go a wrong direction. He has no idea if this is the right place, if Sam is even here. There's still too much he doesn't know, too much out of his control. He's treading on thin ice and he can't help but feel that sooner or later he'll slip up. And when he slips the ice will crack and when it cracks someone will die.

And that someone, he's afraid, will be Sam.

He can't let that happen. He can't let Sam down. Now that their father is basically AWOL, Sam is the one person he can't bear to let down. To lose.

No, he can't let that happen. Won't let that happen. So he sets his teeth and mentally reviews his options. Spend valuable time searching the premises to find another way inside…or try the old fashioned way?

The door opens again and out steps the bouncer, leaning his considerable bulk against the side of the building and lights up a cigarette.

All right. Old fashioned it is…

There are cigarette butts and dirty longneck bottles littering the lot Dean strides openly and deliberately through. The bouncer, a thick, beefy man with a bald, tattooed head, only raises it when the crunching of Dean's boots is practically on top of him. He eyes Dean warily, but admits him nonetheless when Dean slides him a few bills.

The atmosphere inside the warehouse is sharply different than that of the outside. It looks like a normal bar, with low lighting, dirty tables, and neon signs that barely cut through the smoke-filled room. A few pools tables are scattered in front of a surprisingly well-stocked bar and a jukebox blares from a corner, although the music can barely be heard over the raucous shouts and cheering.

Illegal activity is written all over this place, from the drugs being dealt openly to the large arena in the center of the crowded room where pit bulls are viciously tearing at each other for the sport of their onlookers.

Dean wrinkles his nose. The place reeks of blood and alcohol, sweat, and…and wet dog. It's hot too, the absence of an air conditioner doing nothing for the too many smells and too many bodies stuffed into a too small of an area.

It's definitely the seediest looking crowd Dean's been a part of for a while. There's blatant aggression and impatience practically permeating the air and everyone around is either drunk, amped up on something, or jaded-enough looking to be left alone. Dean hardens his expression and hopes that he falls into that final category.

It isn't difficult to act the part at the moment.

There's a door marked Do Not Enter behind the arena and Dean knows that's as good a place as any to start. Just as he's reaching for the door, however, the heavy weight of a restraining hand falls on his shoulder. Dean tenses and spins, his own hand immediately going for the knife tucked in his belt.

"Easy, easy" Jim whispers, reading the surprise and hostility on Dean's face.

Dean curses under his breath, dropping his hand. Jim's dressed in civilian clothes, an odd sight for the younger man. He doesn't bother asking how Jim got inside after their split, and he doesn't care. "Everything ready to go?"

"Taken care of. You find anything?"

"Not yet."

"Then we better move. We won't have long."

No one has taken notice of their exchange and the pair wordlessly traverse the door and into an unlit stairwell. It's dark and empty and Dean's reaching for his gun before the door has even had time to click shut behind them.

He hears a gun magazine being ejected, then reseated as Jim checks his own firearm. It reminds Dean, once again, how grateful he is for his friend.

Grateful for Jim's loyalty, grateful for his support, but most of all, for being his anchor; someone to hold on to when Dean's own anchor had gone and there was nothing else to keep him grounded.

In the whole slew of emotions he's experienced since Sam's disappearance, fear and anger and worry being at the top of that list, gratitude and thanks, he knows, have been poorly expressed. The Winchesters have few friends, even fewer who would be willing to risk their lives to come to their aide.

But thanks will have to wait. Dean raises his gun in front of him, then meets the Pastor's eyes. Jim indicates over his shoulder toward the stairway behind them. Dean nods and, without a word, moves to take point.

The stairs go down only one floor, and Dean melts into the shadows, Jim ghosting silently behind him.

The air is stale here, a mixture of rust and old wood, of boxes and dust. It's a far cry from the lively atmosphere upstairs, but that will work to their advantage. Sound will carry in the echoing gloom, give them a few seconds warning if anyone is in their immediate vicinity, and not even fifty feet into the maze of pallets and crates Dean can hear the click of hard heels against concrete.

Dean holds his breath, listening, pressing himself against the cover of the metal shelving at his back. The gun is solid in his grip, a familiar weight, a comfort.

It won't take much for someone to figure out they're here. They'll have to make quick work of this.

There's only one set of footsteps Dean can detect and as the guy passes, Jim moves so quickly that when Dean strikes, using the butt of his gun to knock the man out, the Pastor's there to catch the body before it can hit the floor. He won't be out for long, so as Jim lowers the unconscious stranger to the floor, Dean searches him quickly and confiscates his gun. Sam will need it, he tells himself. He'll need it when I find him.

No one's heard the scuffle, but it won't go unnoticed. Someone will be coming soon and it's too dangerous to stay in one place for long.

Dean tucks the stolen firearm in his pants and stalks on, stopping only to listen for any sounds from Sam or his captors. Soon though, the path splits and Jim taps Dean's shoulder. A brief nod and Dean understands.

Quick and efficient in opposite directions; no wasted words or moves, Jim going left, Dean going right. They'll cover more ground this way, double their chances of finding Sam.

Dean has to move slower now, listen for sounds of his discovery.

It's then he hears it - the distinctive sounds of violence that threaten to throw all thoughts of stealth to wind. Dean concentrates his trained hearing, unable to ignore the sickening sounds of hostility, of flesh and blood being pummeled on by both solid knuckles and heavy boots.

Oh god, no. It isn't the sound of a few good punches; it's the sound of some poor bastard being beaten within and inch of his life.

…Please don't let that be...

The pain-filled gasp that reaches Dean's ear is familiar, as easily recognizable as his own. "Not…ly...lying. No…no…br'thr."

…Sam!

In an instant everything disappears. There's no warehouse, no sound, no weapon in his hand, nothing, and the all-consuming need that climbs up his throat has every sense focused on finding a way to get to that voice.

He doesn't have far to go. He follows the crashing blows and noises of pain until they fall silent. And then Dean stops breathing.

His brother's on the floor, curled on his side, the mop of dark hair slick with sweat and blood. He's bound, beat to hell, barely conscious, and when a final, vicious kick is delivered to his battered body, Dean feels it in his very core.

It doesn't take long for Dean to search out the one responsible, and whatever doubts Dean may have had in his head about to whom the attack at their motel had been directed at and why vanishes when he sees him.

Vallis. The man is bending over Sam, saying something in a quiet voice. There are others in the open area surrounding him - four men, two of them unfamiliar.

Hatred burns hot in his chest, almost trumping the relief he feels at seeing his brother alive, and dim, unwanted memories unwillingly crowd Dean's mind. Charred corpses and closets - men, women, children, all burned alive, their fingers mangled, scoured to the bone, their faces horror-frozen in death.

But he can't afford to stop and think about the cruelty he's seen or the sheer evil of the un-supernatural. Sam hasn't moved now for several minutes and Dean's still waiting to breathe. A great deal of blood is spattered on the cement floor around him, nearly all of it belonging to his brother, and Dean can feel his body tremble with ire.

It's the skinwalker all over again, with Dean bursting into an already demolished living room to find a freaking shapeshifter wearing his face and about to choke the life out of his little brother.

The thought makes Dean dizzy. Will he ever stop being a danger to Sam?

The dizziness is getting worse; Dean's head a bright red blur of rage and frustration. His view is strained, partially blocked by the large piece of machinery he's crouched behind, but he's close enough to hear every word.

"Where's Maggi?" Vallis demands, and Dean's lip curls upward knowingly.

"I called 'er jus' like you said, 'V," Shriv replies, "and told 'er I'd pick 'er up, but she never showed. I waited at the Bunkhouse for 'n hour."

"Something must have gone wrong."

"You think the cops might'a got her?"

"Boss, I got a bad feelin' 'bout this," Tex cuts in. "I think we need to get outta here."

"Not a chance," Vallis turns on him, "Not 'til I do what I came here to do."

"This is crazy! Can't you forget Winchester?" Dean shakes his head; only Tex would have the nerve to talk to Vallis like that.

But Vallis is issuing orders like his old friend hasn't even spoken. "Shriv, find Maggi. Check the Bunkhouse, swing by her apartment. Break the door down if you have to. But find her."

"Boss, you gotta stop," another, more hesitant, voice speaks up and Dean concentrates on the youngest of the group. A freaking teenager? The kid is squirming like he's about to wet himself, glancing at Sam with something akin to concern. "I mean, you're killing him."

"Shut the hell up, Kid," Vallis snaps. "Go take a message to Chuck. Tell him to clear the place and shut down the fights. We're closin' up shop."

As the kid turns to leave, the other man with whom Dean is unfamiliar asks, "Why?"

"We're gonna have company."

"Winchester?"

Dean doesn't have to see his face to know Vallis is smiling. "That's right. Now get this guy up."

Dean watches as Sam is pulled upright, forced to his knees, and for the first time he gets a good look at his brother's face. It's enough to make Dean's finger tense on the trigger and more than enough to make him want to break his cover and open fire, the line between defending the victim and the-sonuvabitches-had-it-coming be damned. But the sight of Sam's chest rising and falling, breathing, stops him.

"I'm gonna ask you one more time, Winchester," Vallis's voice is clear, menacing. "Where's your brother?"

Dean barely registers Shrivey and the kid's departure; all his senses are focused on the bowed and bleeding form of his brother. He's not expecting an answer, wonders if Vallis just likes hearing himself monologue because there's no way anyone can take that kind of beating without passing out. Dean's already gauging Sam's condition and possible injuries when, unbelievably, Sam's abused body stirs. It has to be through sheer determination or the trademark Winchester stubbornness that he manages, "Don'…have…don' hav…broth'r…"