A/N: Thanks to the usual suspects, Angela and Rhiannon, for the usual amazing and wonderful beta/comments/poking/suggestions/help with Sam not acting like Sam, and for keeping me from being too lazy. And thanks to Kati for answers to my questions.

Just to re-cap a bit, what with all the pov shifts and playing "meanwhile back at the ranch." Our last sight of Dean, poor boy, was that of him falling into a rather annoying state of possible unconsciousness at the end of chapter 6 with Paige and Rosa looking on; it was early in the morning right after our kindly neighborhood psycho-kidnapper went to tell Sam that his brother was killed in the accident.

We left off with Sam in chapter 4, later that same day, having spent the afternoon locked in his room for being bad. After learning from his friendly kidnapper that Dean is dead, Sam is now told that Dean is actually still alive. If said psycho, er, friendly kidnapper can be believed at this point.

Everybody clear? Okay.

Then it's back to our story, where we once again join Sam.

xxxxx

Chapter 7

Sam's hands tightened into fists. He stared at Father. "All you've done is lie from the beginning," he spat. "I want proof you have him, that he's . . . alive. I want to see Dean. And if you've hurt him . . . ." He had to take a deep breath before he could go on, seeing only Dean, bleeding and unconscious in the Impala's front seat. "If you've hurt him," he said coldly, "don't count on me showing you any mercy."

"Oh, he's alive, Samuel. Just not very . . . lively at the moment." Father smiled. "As far as hurting him – well, a little late for that. And really, you boys sound like a broken record with the way you both make threats. Dear, dear me." He clucked his tongue as though amused. "What a pair you are."

"What have you done?" Sam demanded, moving toward Father, crowding and actually forcing the man back a step with his greater height and build. He thought a trace of unease flashed briefly in the old man's pale eyes for the first time. "What did you do to my brother, dammit?"

"Please, Samuel. Language." Without turning away from Sam, Father said in a louder tone, "Paige, my dear, why don't you wait outside. Samuel and I have a few things to discuss in private."

"Yes, Father," came the subdued reply.

Sam glanced over, but Paige didn't meet his eyes as she slipped out the door and shut it quietly behind her.

"Now, Samuel," Father admonished, raising an eyebrow and putting a hand up in front of Sam. "Don't forget who holds all the cards here. You want to see Dean?" His voice turned ugly. "You play things my way, boy. Otherwise I'll turn right around and lock you back up in this room. Then I'll go have some fun with Dean while you sit here and wonder what I'm doing to him. With him." A vicious leer twisted the old man's face. "He's really quite pretty, even under all that blood. As you know, I would never . . . harm the children in any way . . . certainly not . . . that way. But a man has appetites, you understand, and sometimes I must satisfy those where I can." He leaned closer to Sam, taunting and malicious. "Would you prefer that scenario? Dean isn't special like you, Samuel," he whispered. "I might as well get some use out of him. Maybe you'd even like to watch?"

Sam backed up a step, then another, sickened and unable to hide the horror he felt from showing on his face. "Don't touch him," he said. "You bastard, don't –"

"Oh, really, Samuel. Your naiveté is showing. Stop glaring at me as though I'm some sort of Victorian melodrama villain. It's not as if I'm about to ravish some innocent maiden. Dean is neither maiden nor hardly innocent, is he? He might even enjoy it, did you ever think of that?"

"Shut up!" Sam said between clenched teeth. "Let me see him. Prove to me you've got him."

With a chuckle, Father gestured at the door. "By all means. Let's collect the children and go visit Dean. I'm sure he'll be very glad to see you. Well, if he's awake, that is."

Sam stalked past him without a word and wrenched open the door, letting it bang into the wall as he swept into the hallway, nearly running over Paige. Father still laughed quietly behind him, and he found his hands curled into fists once again. Aching to throw a punch and pummel Father's face until it was a broken, bloody mess.

But he couldn't let this sick bastard get to him. More head games. That's all it was.

Sam drew in a ragged breath. Suddenly his hands began to shake, and tears threatened.

The old man had said Dean was alive. Alive.

He hardly dared to hope, to believe. To ignore the evidence of his vision, of Dean taken away from him in the dark, consumed by fire. Sam blinked his burning eyes.

But a flare of anger pushed fragile joy and relief aside for the moment.

"Where is he?" Sam said over his shoulder as he emerged from the hallway into the living room. He thought about the rooms he'd seen so far in the rustic cabin, and his instincts told him Dean would not be found here. "He's not in the house, is he," Sam stated as he turned around to stare at Father. "Where have you got him?"

"Patience, my dear boy."

"I'm not your 'dear boy,' you son of a bitch."

"Samuel, with that kind of attitude, I just might change my mind. Behave yourself, or I'll make you wait until tomorrow to see him. Is that really what you want, Samuel?"

Sam clamped down on his fury, forced his trembling fists to relax against his thighs. He could do this; he had to do this. "No," he managed to grate out quietly. "That's not what I want. I want to see my brother."

"I do believe, Samuel, that we have already discussed the fact that Dean is no longer your brother. Please stop referring to him as such. We're your family now, and the only brother you need concern yourself with is Brian." Father gave him a mocking smile. "Don't you mean to say, 'Please, Father, take me to see Dean.'"

A muscle tightened in Sam's jaw. "Please . . . Father," he said, after a moment, quieter still, quietly seething. "Take me to see –" he grit his teeth "– Dean."

"Good boy, Samuel," Father praised, beaming fondly at him. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"

Now what? Sam thought in disgust. A pat on the head and a dog biscuit?

"Yes," Father mused, "it was a good idea not to kill Dean right away after all. Look how well you behave knowing the consequences if you don't. We're going to get along much better now, aren't we, Samuel?"

Sam didn't bother to respond to that. He simply turned away again and took up a position leaning against the stone fireplace in the living room, arms crossed, shoulders slumped, and tried to ignore Father's obscenely cheerful voice calling for Brian and Rosa.

Let the old man enjoy his little game of taunts and manipulations. He just had to avoid falling into the trap of listening, of responding to those taunts and giving the old man more ammunition to use against him. He bit his lip. If Father had talked that way to Dean . . . . Dean wouldn't have shut up. At all. Dean would have smirked and smart-assed himself into trouble.

Father had had Dean in his twisted little clutches all day. Longer. Since last night, since the accident. The accident where Dean had been hurt. And that on top of twenty stitches and a cursed fever thanks to the revenant's tainted knife slashing his arm . . . .

But Dean's alive, he told himself fiercely. He's alive. Whatever else, you can deal with it.

"Come along, then, Samuel," Father called.

Sam looked up from his unfocused stare at the carpet. The old man had gathered the three children together, and all were now waiting by the front door. Brian's nasty little smile matched Father's.

"Let's go see how Dean's doing, shall we? See if he's fit for visitors."

The old man led the way out the door, the children following, and Sam quickly caught up in a couple of long strides. A glimpse of Paige's expression before she ducked her head again sent a frisson of fear crawling down his spine, and his mouth went dry.

Oh, God, Dean. What has he done to you?

xxxxx

Sam's first sight of the shed, set back a dozen yards or so, had him sprinting ahead. There. Dean was there. He knew it. So close, all this time. Heart pounding with more than mere exertion, he reached the door and tugged frantically, his scrabbling fingers useless on the chained padlock swinging there. With a hissed curse, he rattled it one more time and wished for Dean's handy set of lock picks.

"Dean!" he yelled, as he dropped the padlock to place his palms flat on the door. "Dean, it's Sam! Can you hear me?"

Hands and face pressed against the wood, he waited desperately for an answering shout. For Dean to tell him everything was okay. That he could stop crying like an emo little girl and where the hell had he been and was he all right . . . .

Nothing but silence.

"I guess that answers that question, eh, Samuel?" Father said, coming to stand to one side, idly flipping a key between his fingers. "Poor Dean must still be . . . asleep."

But then, drifting through the door, so low and soft it might have been his own wishful thinking. He held his breath, straining, and there it was again, no dream –

"Sammy?"

"Dean!" he hollered, unable to keep a quick grin under wraps as he sagged against the door. For some reason, his knees were suddenly too weak to hold him up. "I'm right here, Dean!" Sam straightened, turned to Father, and the grin fell away as he nailed the old man with a glare. "Let me in."

"Tsk, tsk, Samuel. Manners." But he twisted the key and the lock sprang open. Stuffing the key in his pocket, he gestured at the padlock and chain. "But I am feeling grandly munificent today, so as a gesture of my goodwill, I think I can allow you five minutes with him. He didn't appear at all well when I left him earlier this afternoon, but I'm sure he will appreciate your no doubt touching reunion."

Sam heard the words, heard the awful satisfaction in Father's tone, but ignored the old man in favor of getting to Dean. With a grimace, Sam at once removed both padlock and chain, dropped them on the ground, and reached for the door only to be brought to a halt with his hand a hair's-breadth away –

"However," Father went on, grasping Sam's elbow. "No tricks, Samuel. No funny business. Dean stays where he is, you understand? Or I'll hurt him. Hear me?"

Sam had to fight to keep his temper in check.

"Speak up, Samuel."

"I hear you," he said, seething quietly.

"Very well. Behave or else."

Then Sam could move again, and without another thought he flung open the door and ducked inside. And there –

Dean.

Tied to a chair at wrists and ankles, blinking in the sudden wash of daylight and squinting up at Sam, frozen in the doorway.

Dean. Alive.

"Sammy?" Dean croaked. "Hey, 'bout freakin' time . . . you got here."

Sam shook off his momentary paralysis and surged forward into the shed, his nose wrinkling at the unpleasantly familiar odors of blood, sweat, and a fainter underlying smell of sour vomit.

"Dean," he said, words faltering, throat tightening. Sam reached Dean's side and met his eyes, seeing his own intense relief mirrored there. He stared down at his brother's face, pale and bloodied, and as the lingering dark knot of grief finally unraveled from his chest, he thought he'd probably never seen anything quite so welcome in his life. "Oh, man . . . ." The words were little more than a breathy sigh. "You're not dead." Sam put out a hand that might've trembled, just a bit, to settle on Dean's shoulder and grip him tight.

"Says . . . the brilliant college boy." Dean gave him a somewhat lopsided, not-quite-there grin, followed by that familiar, assessing head-to-toes glance, the look in his eyes one Sam had known for as long as he could remember, and the next words were no surprise.

"You all right, Sammy?"

"I'm okay, Dean, but you're not looking so great," Sam said, wincing. He gave Dean a quick once-over of his own. New bruising, ugly and discolored, blossomed on his cheek and jaw, along with what might be a faint flush of fever. Blood still crusted his hair and face from where his head had met the Impala's dashboard. His lower lip was cut and swollen. Fine lines of pain pinched his eyes and mouth, and a fresh bloodstain darkened his right sleeve. Where Sam had stitched the wound from the revenant's blade. The very visible evidence of his brother's injuries at the hands of their captor sent a spike of fury though him. After a quick squeeze, he released Dean's shoulder and crouched down to begin working on the knots around Dean's right wrist. "Let's get you outta these, huh?"

And out of this damn shed, and far, far away from here.

The overhead light flipped on. A shadow fell across the floor.

"Not so fast, Samuel."

Only Sam caught the swiftly hidden flicker of despair in Dean's eyes before Dean raised his head and awkwardly straightened up as best he could.

"Aw, Sammy," Dean groaned, rolling his eyes. "What the hell . . . did ya have to bring Gomer along for? I've seen enough of . . . that old bastard today." He looked over at the doorway. "Hear me, Pops? I got nothin' to say to you."

Gomer? Pops?

The cocky bravado was there, and it would've fooled anyone else. But the exhaustion that lay beneath the words, the effort it took to keep up that careless façade, was all too readily apparent to Sam.

"Sorry, Dean," he murmured, briefly stilling his hand on top of Dean's. He looked at those torn wrists, grimacing at the obvious signs of Dean having tried to free himself. "Not quite a rescue yet."

Footsteps behind him signaled Father's presence at his back.

Sam didn't turn around. "I want to get my brother out of these ropes," he said evenly, pulling carefully at the knots again, "and then I'm going to see how badly you've hurt him." He was pushing it; he knew that, but God . . . . Dean needed to get out of here. Sam would fall down on his knees and beg if he had to.

"Sammy," Dean said, his voice barely a whisper. A warning.

"Shhh," Sam whispered back.

The last knot on Dean's wrist reluctantly gave way to Sam's dogged persistence and practiced fingers. As he gently lifted the rope away and saw the state of the lacerated flesh beneath, a number of vicious and virulent Latin curses ran through his mind. He would've preferred spitting them out loud – at Father, with all the appropriate accompanying ritual.

Dean didn't make a sound, scarcely even a hitched breath, but his fingers spasmed against Sam's light grip when Sam started to rub them in an effort to warm them, to ease the stiffness and pain of returning circulation. Sam was surprised and even a little apprehensive when Dean made none of his typical protests or tried to pull away.

"Samuel, I have been exceedingly lenient with you just now, allowing you to see Dean, but don't trifle with me. He stays here, and he stays tied up."

"Hey, Gomer," Dean said in a remarkably steady voice above Sam's head. "Sam hates being called 'Samuel' even more than 'Sammy,' didja know that?" Dean shook his head and sighed. "Guess not. So much for that . . . amazing gift of yours, huh? Psychic bullshit, seeing the light in the dark . . . powers of the mind, blah, blah, blah. What a load of crap."

Though wanting to smack Dean into shutting up, Sam settled for a warning squeeze of Dean's stiff fingers before placing his brother's freed hand on his leg. Sam then hovered uncertainly over the thick knots encircling Dean's other wrist, wanting only to release him, but hesitant when it came to Father's temper and those earlier threats of violence. He settled for taking Dean's curled fingers between his hands, straightening them, rubbing them as far as the rope would allow and disregarding Dean's twitching efforts to stop him.

Sam threw a look over his shoulder at Father. "Please," he said quietly. "It's not like he's in any shape to try anything. He's hurt. I just want to check him out."

"I will not tolerate this disobedience, Samuel." The footsteps started up again, slowly pacing a circle around them. "I have warned you of the consequences of such behavior. Or have I overestimated your intelligence?"

"Well, just so you know, Gomer, Sammy's always been stubborn. Even as a baby. Never wanted to go to sleep . . . or eat his mashed peas, and the older he got," Dean shrugged, taking a shallow breath, "the worse he got. So telling him to do something . . . just isn't gonna work if he doesn't wanna do it. I can't remember how many times I had to – "

"Dean," Father said from behind Sam, his circuit complete. "That is quite enough."

Sam gave Dean's knee a sharp poke with his elbow.

Shut up, shut up, just please shut up. I would really prefer to have both of us in one piece, thank you very much, when we make a break for it. Whenever that is. So stop pissing the guy off already.

"Yeah, sure, whatever . . . you say there, Pops," Dean snorted. Then his breath caught on a wincing cough. "'Cause you're . . . runnin' the show . . . right? Not like there'd be a show to run . . . though, without . . . the kids."

Sam didn't need to see the sardonic half-smile on Dean's face or the upward quirk of his eyebrows; he could hear it in his brother's voice. But that slightly uneven breathing, and the breaks in Dean's speech – that he could hear as well, and it worried him. He gave the fingers he was rubbing a little more vigorous squeeze.

Shut up, dammit! Just this once! Quit pushing the psycho's buttons. And you call me stubborn? You idiot.

Two of Dean's fingers pressed weakly into Sam's, and Sam wasn't sure if that meant, Gotcha, Sammy or Shut up and let me play it my way. He flicked his eyes up, but Dean was watching Father.

"Yes, speaking of stubborn, Samuel," Father said, unwittingly echoing Sam's thoughts. The pacing continued. "Dean has twice now managed to free himself. It would be quite an admirable trait were it not so . . . annoying. And inconvenient."

"Aw, come on, Gomer!" Dean protested. "Like I said, that . . . second time I only needed to take a leak. You've had me tied . . . up in here for hours. My ass went to sleep. What d'you expect? It's not like I tried to bust . . . the chair. Just tipped it over. Jesus, give a guy a break."

"I don't think so. You seem unable to learn from your mistakes. But perhaps you can assist Samuel in learning from his."

The twitching hand that Sam was engaged in massaging at once went still and tense beneath his. The lightly jeering tone in Dean's voice vanished, and there was no pause for breath in his next words. "You touch Sam and I will fucking kill you, Gomer. You hear me?"

"Yes, Dean, so you keep saying. Your ire is duly noted. Really, you have become quite tedious with those remarks."

"Yeah, and your . . . line of bullshit got real old . . . real fast, Gomer. Hey, Sammy." The mocking lilt had returned, but Sam could still feel the tautness in his brother's hand and arm. "Did ol' Gomer here tell ya that he used to be a shrink? At least until they . . . kicked him out 'cause he was, you know, crazy." Dean let out a scratchy, cackling laugh. "Gomer, dude, you don't know a doc named . . . Ellicott, do ya? You two could start a club for . . . buckets o' crazy shrinks."

"Silence!"

Concentrating on Dean's bound hand, the sudden and unmistakable sound of a sharp slap, followed by a barely audible hiss of breath, had Sam's head snapping up. Dean wore a faint ironic smirk as he lightly touched his mouth with his free hand. Father stared coldly down at him, flexing his fingers.

"Dammit, what –" Sam glared at Father, then proceeded to forget about him, instead reaching up to Dean's face, but Dean feebly batted his hand away.

"It's okay, Sammy," was all he said, both words and intonation cautioning Sam against making a big deal out of it.

Sam bit his tongue as he watched Dean wipe blood from the corner of his lip with his thumb.

"He hits . . . even more like a girl . . . than you do," Dean finished with a milder version of his usual full-blown smirk.

"Enough, Samuel," Father said, now behind Sam. "I believe your five minutes are up. And you are more than trying my patience with your current attitude. You appear to have been contaminated with some of Dean's more infuriatingly bad habits."

Hands fell on his shoulders then, fingers digging into his shirt in an attempt to haul him roughly to his feet. He easily twisted away from the smaller man, turning and standing to face Father, one leg brushing against Dean's knee.

"Please come in, children," Father called, backing up a bit toward the door, those cold, furious eyes never leaving Sam's. "Your assistance is required."

Brian, as Sam was darkly unsurprised to note, bounded in first, ready, willing, and eager as he took up a position next to Father. It might have been endearing under any other circumstances. Paige and Rosa slipped in together, their reluctance all the more obvious in the face of Brian's outright glee.

"Move away from Dean, Samuel."

Sam crossed his arms in front of his chest and shook his head. "No."

From behind him, very quietly, "Sammy . . . ."

Just one word, but rife with meaning. Be careful. Don't be stupid. Get out if you can, and don't worry about me. Sam snorted to himself and flicked a glance at his brother. As if.

Dean plucked with clumsy fingers at Sam's sleeve, then dropped his uncooperative hand with an annoyed grunt of frustration.

"Very well, Samuel." Father's arm settled around Brian's shoulder. "I'm through being nice. I won't warn you again."

"No," Sam repeated.

"You're not helping Dean with this display, Samuel. I trust you haven't forgotten our earlier conversation," Father said, that thin, taunting smile back on his face.

Sam wavered. He was tired of being bullied. He wanted to stand up to the old man, but he couldn't risk Dean, not with Dean tied up, hurt . . . .

"Out of time, Samuel." Father shrugged. "Brian, let's give Samuel a nudge, shall we?"

Sam moved before he even thought about it. His one frantic idea in that instant was to keep Father and Brian physically apart, to stop them from somehow combining their psychic strength to use against him. But his forward lunge got him no farther than two steps before he was stopped dead in his tracks, stiff as a statue.

Then suddenly jerked backwards on stumbling legs no longer under his control, halting only when he struck a wall and narrowly missing an aging bicycle propped there. Neither his raging shouts at Father nor his inward struggles did anything to break the power that held him there like a helpless animal caught in a trap.

He fought to regain the use of his limbs, to push against Brian's power. Crap, he thought despairingly, breathing hard, flashing back to that moment in the cabin's hallway when Brian had him pinned to the floor. Déjà vu all over again . . . .

Over Brian's familiar laugh, he heard Dean yelling, cussing up a storm and flinging some very formidable and creative vocabulary at Father before his voice slipped away into a dry cough. The old man raised an eyebrow at Dean's verbal onslaught before his gaze slid back to focus again on Sam.

"Samuel, I do believe you are quite as irritatingly persistent as Dean," Father said. "I would've thought our little lesson back at the house had worked. This . . . attempt was very foolish, my boy. Very foolish indeed. I expected better of you. Really I did." He shook his head. "I am most unhappy with you, Samuel."

"Leave Sam alone, you bastard," Dean said, each word bitten off with quiet precision despite his ragged breathing.

"Oh, never fear, Dean," Father said. "I keep telling you I would never hurt the children, and that includes Samuel. Why won't you believe that? No, instead you will pay the price for Samuel's disobedience. Are you familiar with the concept of the whipping boy? Hmm?" Leaving Brian, hands now clasped behind his back, Father began to pace the small room as he lectured. "A whipping boy served the purpose of taking the beatings meant for a prince or young man of nobility if said young man misbehaved. Because someone of rank, naturally, could not be punished physically by someone from a lower social class." Father turned a beaming smile in Sam's direction. "So, you see, Samuel, think of Dean next time you try something foolish."

"No, please," Sam said, swallowing hard. "I'm sorry. It won't happen again. Please don't hurt him. It's my fault. I –"

"Sam, shut the hell up already," Dean growled, yanking on the ropes on his wrist. "I can take . . . whatever this old bastard dishes out."

"Dean –"

"Boys, that's enough. And Dean, your efforts to untie yourself have become quite distracting."

Dean let out a quick yelp of surprise as his loose hand suddenly smacked down hard on the arm of the chair to remain there, frozen, unmoving – along with the rest of him.

"Yes, thank you, Brian." The familiar beaming smile appeared. "Well done."

"Dammit," Dean muttered. "Gettin' sick of this, Gomer."

Great, Sam thought, still straining uselessly, unable to do much more than blink. Now we're both trapped.

"Paige, my dear. Come to me, please."

Sam had forgotten all about the two girls. He rather had the feeling they had done their best to be forgotten, to hide away from Father's notice. With his inability to move anything except his eyes, he couldn't see them from his vantage, but he could hear a quiet whimper and shuffling footsteps.

"Aw, c'mon, Gomer," Dean wheedled. "Leave them . . . out of this. You keep makin' 'em cry, and I . . . just don't handle crying little girls well at all."

"I think not, Dean. I think we all need to share in this. And speaking for myself," he said and smiled before continuing, "I want to enjoy the experience fully, and with Paige's help it will be most delightful. Now if you insist on talking, Dean, I will have Brian keep you quiet."

His uneasiness growing in leaps and bounds, Sam tried again. "Please, stop," he said. "I'm sorry. You don't have to do this."

"Too late, Samuel." The smile dropped away to reveal a cold anger. "You defied me in the house, and you came close to physically striking me. You then attempted to escape while under Brian's supervision, and you defied me yet again when Paige and I came to have our little . . . chat. Too many times, Samuel. And so Dean must pay a price for your thoughtless disobedience."

"Then punish me," he said desperately. "I'm the one who disobeyed, who did those things, not Dean."

"You are being punished, Samuel. Please do not be so obtuse." With a frown, Father snapped his fingers in irritation. "Come, come, girls. We have things to do, my dears. No time to waste."

Sam could now see Paige, with Rosa trailing, gripping the older girl by the back of her sweatshirt. They came to stand slightly behind and to one side of Father, barely within his reach. And Father, who was once again beside Brian, had an arm draped over the boy's shoulder.

"Ah, yes, now we're all together. Samuel, this is for you." Father produced a knife from his pocket. An ordinary kitchen paring knife, with a blade about four inches long. Father traded a long look with Brian, and the boy nodded in understanding before turning his head to stare at Sam.

The expression on the boy's face was one of gleeful and smug superiority.

Uneasiness turned into a cold lump of fear in Sam's stomach, and his mouth went even drier.

"Catch, Samuel."

Dean yelled Sam's name as Father tossed the knife carelessly in Sam's direction. With mesmerized fascination, Sam watched the knife rise in an arc to tumble through the air, and he fatalistically wondered where it would hit.

And then his right hand was free and flinging itself up, the knife slowed its spinning descent and stopped in front of his hand, the handle slapping neatly into his open palm. His fingers forcibly curled around it, tight enough to make his hand ache.

He looked at Father in dawning horror.

"There we are, boys and girls. Everyone in their places, yes?" Father gathered a shrinking Paige in with his other arm. "Very well. Let's begin."

Like a magnet, Sam's gaze was drawn inexorably back to the knife in his hand.

"Gomer, you twisted sonuvabitch, stop this crazy shit! Leave Sam alone, dammit!"

Sam lifted his eyes from the knife and met Dean's anguished stare.

"Samuel has his part to play, Dean. He needs to be taught a lesson. I don't think he's been taking all of this as seriously as he should. But I believe this demonstration should clear up a few things, yes I do."

Father smiled at Sam as though sharing a secret.

"I had some plans of my own for you, Dean," Father went on, still looking at Sam. "But Samuel seemed to object to those." He sighed regretfully. "Ah, well. Maybe later, hmm?"

"Shut up," Sam ground out.

Father ignored him, and turned thoughtfully to Dean. "You really are too pretty for your own good. You know that, don't you?" He cocked his head. "Yes, indeed. Very, very pretty."

"Yeah, yeah," Dean drawled, sounding bored.

But Sam could hear the growing fatigue in his voice, the fact that Dean was working harder to mask it. His features had paled even further, which hardly seemed possible, the pallor of his skin contrasting frighteningly with his wide dark eyes and the bruises along his jaw.

"So ya think . . . I'm pretty. Well, hey, personally, I . . . think I've had . . . better days. But you know what?" Dean flashed the old man a derisive smile. "Even if you weren't a crazy psycho sonuvabitch . . . you're still not my type, Pops."

"A glib tongue and a pretty face," Father said lazily, not rising to the insult. "What would you do without one or the other, hmm? Or both? Should I have dear Rosa burn and scar you with her fire? Or I could put a knife in your hand, and make you do it yourself." His voice went flat and cold. "How about that, pretty boy? Should I put that knife –" he nodded in Sam's direction – "in your hand and let dear Samuel watch as you put out one of those pretty green eyes of yours? Should I make you carve up those perfect cheekbones, all the while knowing there's nothing you can do? I can do it, and you know I can."

The twisted pleasure in the old man's voice made Sam's stomach clench.

"You sure . . . talk too much, Gomer," Dean said.

Watching him, listening to the stubborn defiance in that weakening voice, Sam was damn sure Dean's head was still up only because of Brian's power holding it there.

"Maybe you're right, Dean. Less talk, more action, hm?"

And Sam fell away from the wall, only to be jerked upright and tugged slowly forward, one shuffling step at a time. He couldn't make himself stop, he couldn't lose his death grip on the knife in his hand, and he was another step closer to Dean.

"I can't . . . I can't stop," he said, meeting Dean's eyes. His own were wide with horror and foreboding.

Even as he tried to resist the relentless pull of Brian's power, Father's voice oozed viscously into his thoughts. Like something dark that crawled out from under a rock.

That's right, Samuel. Go over to Dean and put that knife into his flesh. Drive it deep and make it hurt. I want to his blood to spill on the floor. Can you do that for me, Samuel?

"Sammy!" Dean shouted, cutting through the malicious whisper for an instant. "Fight him, Sam! Don't let the old bastard win!"

"Dean! Oh, God." Sam's voice rose. Another inevitable step and he stood over Dean, his brother as trapped and powerless within his body as Sam was, unable to avoid the blow that was to come. The knife quivered in Sam's hand, poised to tear violently into his brother's flesh. "Dean . . . ."

"Not . . . your fault, Sammy," Dean said. Beads of sweat had gathered at his hairline, his face and voice both showing the strain of fighting his own inner battle. "Hear me? It's not you."

Oh, yes, Samuel. It is you. The knife is in your hand.

Get out of my head! Sam screamed back, trying frantically to conjure those mental barricades of iron and oak and salt once again even as he wondered if the image had worked the first time. Mocking laughter met his efforts. "Dean, I can't – he's too strong. I'm sorry . . . ." His throat closed up.

All Sam saw in his brother's eyes was forgiveness.

And a heartbeat later, a glint of surprise just as quickly followed by focused determination. Dean's eyebrows rose imperceptibly.

His big brother had an idea.

You don't need him, Samuel. He doesn't matter to you anymore. He's nothing, do you hear me? Now do what I say.

"No!"

But his traitorous hand shifted, and the knife began to move. A brutal downward thrust, it would strike Dean in the left shoulder, ripping through skin and muscle and sinew, scraping against bone –

Yes, Samuel. Now. Do it now.

Then Dean blinked, a mere flicker of an eyelid.

"Hey, Gomer," Dean said hoarsely, his voice little more than sheer will at this point. His eyes left Sam's to narrow with feverish intensity on Father's. "Why don't ya tell Sammy . . . all about Irene?"

Father's vivid shock and anger blazed in Sam's mind, and he gasped at the split-second flare of white agony. Even in that instant Sam simply shoved with everything he had in him. The fear and horror and fury of what Father was forcing him to do, the pain and grief that swallowed him when Father had told him that Dean was dead. He took it all and threw it out in a roiling rage.

And Father's power faltered.

Sam abruptly broke loose, toppling forward, his knees buckling and bringing him closer to Dean.

His brother was suddenly moving, too, in that moment of freedom from Father's power, trying to lean away and out of range of the knife. But slower. Exhausted. Struggling against the physical bonds of the ropes that still held him, his free hand trying to deflect the blow that was already in motion.

Unable to let the knife go as it continued its descending arc, Sam threw himself desperately, clumsily sideways, only to feel the blade meet resistance, snagging in fabric and then skin before he managed to roll away, knife in hand.

A smothered grunt of pain tore at his heart.

"Dean!" he screamed, scrambling to his feet. The knife in his hand glinted red, slick with Dean's blood. He staggered over to his brother's side, dimly aware of a confused welter of voices behind him, crying, shouting, but he shut it out, ignoring all of it.

Finally able to shake the knife from his hand, it fell to the floor with an ugly, discordant clang. Dean's head had sagged forward, lolling. Sam put a hand against Dean's neck, feeling skin too warm, too dry, and a slightly fast but steady pulse beneath his fingers.

"I've got you, Dean," he said, raising his brother's face between his hands.

"'S'll right, Sammy," Dean breathed, eyes opening. "'M okay."

"I know," he said quietly. "But let me look anyway, all right?"

When Dean nodded, he gently tilted his brother's head back and let go with a pat on his cheek. Looking down, he winced as he saw Dean's hand pressing against his lower left side. Crouching to get a better view, he eased the bloodied fingers away, and lifted Dean's shirt to probe carefully at the edges of the wound. The wound that he'd put there himself.

"Knock it off," Dean said in a whisper. "Wasn't you."

"Shhh," Sam murmured. And let out a very quiet sigh of relief. The blade had caught in Dean's shirt and skated across his ribcage for four inches or so, leaving behind a bit of a mess, but thankfully it wasn't deep. Not that Dean could afford to lose any more blood, not with his collection of other injuries – and that didn't even take into account what Sam couldn't see.

Sam gnawed on his lip. He had to get Dean the hell out of there.

"Samuel."

His name fell into the sudden silence like a stone tossed into a pool.

Sam dropped Dean's shirt back into place. He stood, and turned slowly, one hand still resting on Dean's shoulder, to face Father.

The old man – or as Dean would say, "Gomer" – looked more than a little pissed off. Not to mention shaken and a bit pale.

Sam allowed himself to gloat for a moment. A crack, he thought. Definitely a crack in the old bastard's armor. We'll get him, Dean.

The children were ranged behind him, wide-eyed, their glances darting between Sam and Dean. Even Rosa. It was the first time Sam had actually seen her face. But as soon as she caught his startled eye, her head bent toward the floor once again.

"Come away, Samuel," Father said coldly, attempting to regain some authority in his voice and manner. "Time to go."

Sam considered that, then spoke, choosing his words with care. "I'll come with you, but let me take Dean out of here. Please. He's hurt, sick, and he'll just get sicker if you don't let me do something about his injuries."

"Shut up, Sam," Dean muttered. "Just go already."

"Yes, listen to Dean, Samuel," Father mocked, haughty demeanor firmly in place again. "He, at least, seems to have a grasp on the situation. Now tie down that hand you so rashly released earlier, and we'll be on our way."

"Or let me stay here with him," Sam said, a begging note creeping into his voice. "Just bring me some water, towels, any first-aid supplies you have. Please."

"Dear me, such devotion. But no." Father gestured at the loose rope lying on the floor by Dean's feet. "Tie him, Samuel. Now. Or I'll show you how Rosa and I have made Dean scream." He pitched his next words a little louder, but kept his gaze on Sam and smiled. "We've already found a couple of lovely ways, haven't we, Dean?" With a sad shake of his head he went on, talking only to Sam again. "Are you quite sure you want to be responsible for more of that?"

Sam swallowed heavily, his hand tightening on Dean's shoulder in apology and defeat. "No," he said, his mouth twisting. "No, I don't want that." He let go of Dean to stoop for the rope, stained with Dean's blood, and picked it up, his hands trembling with anger.

"It's okay, Sammy," Dean murmured, straightening in the chair with what had to be the last of his waning strength. "Do it."

"God, Dean . . . . I –" He shook his head, ground his teeth in frustration, and lifted Dean's unresisting limb to place it atop the arm of the chair. With a miserable sense of failure, of letting Dean down when it counted, he started to tie up his brother. Unwilling to cause more damage to the already torn skin, he carefully wrapped the rope higher, avoiding the imprint of bloody circles around Dean's wrist. "Sorry," he murmured, when he felt Dean's slight flinch from the pressure of the coarse rope. "Sorry, sorry."

"Tightly, Samuel. I will be checking when you are done."

"Control freak," Dean breathed, badly hiding a wince behind a grin when Sam secured the knots.

"Sorry," Sam murmured again, feeling sick, as he looked at his brother's bruised, weary face, meeting his pain-filled gaze. Oh, God. He had to leave him here. He had to turn around and just leave him in this place. Tied to that damn chair.

"It's done," Sam said dully, still gripping Dean's forearm. The muscles bunched under Sam's hand, and he held on a little tighter.

"Let me see." Father came to stand beside him, prodded fussily at the knots, and gave a grudging nod. "Well. Not exactly where I would have placed the rope, Samuel, but I can't fault you with the results. Now come along." He turned away, catching Sam's free arm. "It's time for a good, old-fashioned, sit-down family dinner. You and I and the children. Oh my yes. I am quite looking forward to it."

"Dean . . . ."

"Go, Sammy," Dean said, gesturing with a tilt of his chin. "It's all right. I'm okay."

"No, you're not," he replied quietly, despairingly.

"Sam. Go. I'll see ya later."

Sam just shook his head, hearing unspoken forgiveness, concern, and a promise that everything would be all right.

I'll get you out, Dean. I won't let him win. I won't.

His hand trailed away from Dean's arm as Father urged him on his way and out of the shed with the children following.

Leaving Dean behind in the dark as Father shut and locked the door.

TBC . . .