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Dean woke up slowly. His headache had intensified overnight, and he brought a hand to his face to squeeze the bridge of his nose, straightening in the chair and stretching his back. Dean let his eyes drift to the floor and land on Sam. He got to his feet and took a second to let the vertigo pass before stumbling over to Sam and kneeling beside him.
"Sammy." He said, shaking his brother's shoulder gently.
Sam made a small noise and turned his head to the side.
"Come on, Sam." Dean encouraged, tapping lightly on Sam's less injured cheek.
Sam scrunched his eyes tightly and then blinked up at Dean.
"Dean?" Sam asked. He grunted as he tried to sit up, and Dean put a hand behind his back to help him. His forehead creased as he looked around the small room. "Where are we?"
"Jack's basement." Dean answered, handing him the water bottle and letting Sam's memory fill in the rest of the blanks.
Sam brought a hand up to his cheek and winced when his fingers brushed across the bruised skin. "What the hell is going on, Dean?"
Dean sighed and stood, looking up to the ceiling where the trap door had appeared the night before. If Dean looked very closely, he could see the outline of the door. If he stood on the rocking chair, he could probably just reach the ceiling, but there was no doubt that Jack had the door locked up tight. They weren't going to be able to just push it open and crawl out.
"We're going to get out of this, Sam." Dean said, avoiding the question.
Sam frowned and narrowed his eyes at Dean, a look that said he wasn't fooled. He knew Dean was hiding something, and he wanted to know what it was right now.
"Sam–" Dean started again, but Sam cut him off.
"Don't, Dean." He said sternly. "Just tell me what you know."
Dean sighed again and met his brother's eyes. "Jack is... well, he had a brother."
"Okay." Sam said, not understanding. "And?"
"And we knew him, and... it was Marcus."
Sam blinked, his expression blank. "Marcus?" He repeated quietly.
"I know. I should have checked out his living family members. I'm sorry, Sam, but I promise you–"
Sam cut him off again. "It's not your fault."
Sam–"
"No." Sam shook his head at the floor. "No, you're right. We'll get out of here." He brought his head up to look at Dean and nodded.
Dean nodded back, watching Sam's expression carefully. He didn't see any of the fear he had been expecting – only determination. "Yeah." He said, suddenly feeling confident. "Yeah we will." He pointed at the ceiling. "Jack dropped you through a trap door up there last night. Maybe we could get it open."
Sam nodded, getting to his feet, an arm wrapped protectively around his injured chest. He took a deep breath and winced.
"You okay?" Dean asked.
"Mmm." Sam replied. "Baseball bat."
Dean didn't know what to say to that, so he didn't say anything. He grabbed the rocking chair and dragged it across the floor until it was directly under the trap door. He did a few quick calculations in his head and decided that he would probably just be tall enough to brush the ceiling with his fingertips. Sam would be a better option, but with his broken ribs it would be difficult for him. Dean would try first.
He climbed up onto the chair and it rocked under his weight. Sam steadied the it as Dean reached for the ceiling. His calculations were right. He wasn't tall enough. Determined, he climbed onto the one remaining chair arm. At that height, he could press his palm flat against the trap door, and even have a little bit of room left over for pushing. He took a breath and pushed up against the door. Instead of the door opening, like Dean had hoped, the chair arm broke and Dean tumbled back to the cement floor, landing on his shoulder with a crash.
"Dean!" Sam said, kneeling beside him. "Are you okay?"
"M'fine." Dean said, brushing Sam off and rubbing at his sore shoulder. He looked back up to the ceiling. "Damn it." He muttered.
Sam stood and followed Dean's gaze to the ceiling. "Hold the chair." He said.
"Sam, your ribs." Dean protested.
"Look, I'm not really seeing any other option here."
Dean huffed stubbornly, but he knew Sam was right. Sam's broken ribs would be nothing compared to what Jack was going to do to him if they didn't escape. Dean held the chair with both hands as Sam climbed onto it. He watched Sam carefully, ready to catch him if the weak wood gave out under Sam's weight. Sam lifted an arm slowly above his head, wincing at the pull on his ribs. His broken arm remained wrapped around his chest. Dean held his breath while Sam pushed against the trap door, but the thing didn't budge. After a moment, Sam dropped his arm back to his side, breathing heavily.
"It's not moving." He said quietly.
"It's alright." Dean said, grabbing Sam's elbow and helping him off the chair. "Jack has to come in here sooner or later, right? He's not going to just leave us here." He hoped, anyway. "When he opens the door, we'll knock him out and get the hell outta here."
Sam nodded. Dean sat on the floor and rested the back of his head against the wall. His headache was pounding behind his eyes, making it difficult to concentrate on much else. His stomach growled loudly and Sam shot him a look.
"Man, I'm starving." Dean complained. "Have you eaten?"
"Not since dinner night before last." Sam answered, rubbing his stomach absent-mindedly. Then, as an afterthought, added, "You think he's gonna let us starve?"
Dean didn't know. It was possible. "No." He said. "Besides, we'll be out of here before then."
An hour passed, maybe two. At some point, Dean made another attempt at breaking through the thick glass paneling of the window. It felt wrong to just be sitting there doing nothing as they waited, especially when Sam was on the other end of the room clutching his chest and taking shallow breaths to prevent his ribs from causing him too much pain. How long would Jack make them wait? Hours? Days? Until they were too weak to put up a fight?
"Give it up, Dean." Sam said from the floor. "You're not breaking that glass."
"Damn it." Dean cursed, frustrated. "What the hell am I supposed to do, just sit here?"
"Yeah." Sam said matter-of-factly. "Save your strength for when Jack comes through that door."
It was a good suggestion, Dean had to admit. As much as he didn't like the thought of just waiting, he was going to need his strength. Besides, banging on the glass was doing nothing for his headache. He slid to the floor across from Sam, screwing off the cap of the water bottle and taking a small sip.
"Yeah, alright."
There was a noise above his head and Dean looked up. The trap door in the ceiling swung open and Jack stared down at them. For a moment, Dean was sure that Jack had a way to get Sam back up through the trap door. He scrambled to where Sam was sitting. If Jack was going to magically beam Sam up to him, Dean was coming, too.
"Why don't you come down here and face us like a man?" Dean taunted. "Sam will even sit out just to make it fair."
Jack's face remained emotionless. "Hope you boys are hungry." He said.
Dean's stomach growled in response.
Jack disappeared and then reappeared a second later holding a sealed tupperware container. He dropped the container into the room, followed by two bottles of water, then slammed the door closed.
Dean approached the container of food cautiously. Hell, for all he knew it was a bomb disguised as lunch. He pulled off the lid and looked inside. Two sandwiches with all the fixings stared back at him. He picked up one of the sandwiches and took a bite before sliding the container to Sam.
"Ham and cheese." He said, stuffing another bite into his mouth.
While Sam was finishing his sandwich, Dean leaned against the wall by the door. Jack had to come through sooner or later, and Dean was going to be ready. He yawned and rubbed his eyes, suddenly feeling tired.
A thought occurred to him suddenly. Sure, it was entirely possible that he was just tired, but it was just as likely that Jack put something in their food again. He mentally kicked himself for not being more cautious, and for letting his stomach do his thinking.
He pushed away from the wall, and sure enough, the sudden movement threw him off balance. He fell to his knees.
"Dean?" Sam's concerned voice sounded far off.
"No, no, no." Dean chanted, climbing back to his feet. "Sam. The food." He managed to mutter with a mouth that was refusing to work right.
He heard Sam curse and he tried stepping toward his brother, but the room was spinning and he couldn't focus. He blinked and he was on the floor again, Sam above him. He couldn't really remember why he was on the floor, but by the look on Sam's face, it probably wasn't a good thing.
"Dean." Sam was saying his name. "Dean!"
Dean closed his eyes and let his mind drift away.
Somewhere in the distance, someone was talking. Dean couldn't quite make it out, though, and it was so far away. Maybe he was dreaming.
The noise came again. The talking. Only it wasn't really talking – that wasn't the best word to describe it. It was more like shouting. Yelling. Maybe even screaming. And it sounded familiar, but it was behind some sort of thick blanket that Dean couldn't find his way out from under.
Dean focused on the sound, held on to it and let it lead him out of the darkness. As it became more clear, he recognized the voice, and he listened harder. He couldn't make out actual words, but it was Sam. That bit of knowledge pulled him the rest of the way back to consciousness. He opened his eyes and reality came crashing down on him.
He was in the room. The same sectioned off piece of basement he had been trapped in for the past two days. He scrambled to his feet, ignoring the soft black spots that still lingered on the edge of his vision. The slot on the door was open, and Dean could hear Sam on the other side. Whatever was going on, Dean was pretty sure he didn't want to see it. He didn't have a choice, though, and he staggered toward the door, using the wall for support.
"Sam." He called hoarsely before even reaching the door. There was no break in the commotion in the other room. "Sammy?" He tried again as his fingers brushed against the wood of the door. He pressed his face against it and peered out through the small opening.
Sam was sitting in a chair in the same spot as before – directly in front of the door Dean was behind. It was intentional, meant to torture both of them simultaneously. Sam, physically; and Dean, emotionally.
Sam was shirtless, his arms tied around the back of his chair, exposing his bare chest. The skin there was red and swollen, bleeding in some places. Jack held a metal rod, the tip of it red hot. As Dean watched, Jack pressed the rod to Sam's chest, and Sam threw his head back and tried to muffle a scream.
"Stop!" Dean shouted.
Jack turned sharply to face Dean, while Sam's head rolled lazily forward, his eyes unfocused and landing on nothing in particular.
"Dean?" Sam panted.
"Good of you to join us." Jack said, turning his attention back to Sam. He pressed the bar again to Sam's chest, and Sam's face twisted in agony.
"Jack, please." Dean begged, wrapping his fingers around the edge of the small window and squeezing until his knuckles were white, silently praying that by some miracle the wood would crumble under the pressure and Dean would be able to get to Sam.
It didn't, though, and Jack ignored him as well.
Jack didn't leave the red-hot metal on Sam's skin for long before he pulled it away. Usually just long enough to leave a really nasty looking blister that would undoubtedly cause pain and problems in the near future, but for time being wasn't life threatening. Once in a while, though, he pressed too hard or left the hot metal against Sam's skin too long and left open, bleeding sores.
Dean knew some of the risks involved with burns, infection being the most worrisome. Would Jack at least wrap Sam's chest in a sterile bandage when he was done? It was possible, but Dean kind of doubted it.
He watched his brother closely. Sam was out of it, hardly even struggling any more. His head lolled from side to side as his brain tried to signal that he was in pain but his body was too exhausted to do anything more about it. He would lose consciousness soon. Dean could only hope that Jack would stop once he did.
Throughout it all, Dean varied between trying to comfort Sam, pleading for Jack to stop, and yelling threats and profanities when he was ignored. He was always ignored. Jack didn't even shift his eyes toward Dean, and it was infuriating.
Finally, Sam's head dropped to his chest and remained motionless. Dean watched worriedly as Jack grabbed on to Sam's hair and pulled his head back. He studied Sam for a long moment, as if trying to decide if Sam was really unconscious or if he was just faking it. Maybe trying to determine if he was even still alive. Dean swallowed hard at the thought and focused on Sam's chest. Sam was breathing – he was alive.
Jack let Sam's head fall back to his chest and he finally turned to face Dean.
"Did you enjoy the show?" He asked with a blank, emotionless stare.
"I'm going to kill you." Dean snarled.
Jack shrugged and walked toward Dean until they were face to face, just the thick wood of the door separating them.
"We'll see." He said, and slid the cover back in place over the slot.