a/n: Some warning is advised; in the next two chapters there is going to be allot of Dean Damage—so brace yourselves.

SGA - SPN
7 42 - 7 76

They ran, that was the only thing that they could do; they were out numbered. There was only the four of them against a group of at least a dozen and maybe even a little extra. The inhabitants of the planet may not have advanced technology, but Dean realized not too long after he joined the Stargate Program that in order for you to be dangerous you didn't need advanced weaponry.

Sean was in the front, one hand griping his P90 as the other one held onto the front of Patrick's vest, pulling the other man along. Patrick ran along side Sean, keeping perfect strides despite the fact that he had been struck in the head by a projectile from one of the inhabitants of the planet. Lorne wasn't too far behind the two, uninjured like Sean but sweat covering his brow just the same. And lastly was Dean; he was on Lorne's heals and like Patrick he was injured. It was nothing caused by the mob after them, but by his own doing. At the initial start of the run from the group, Dean had miscalculated the jump of a fallen tree. It was either slow down and climb over it, or keep running the speed he was at and vault over it. He had actually jumped over it, but his foot had caught on a hidden branch on the other side; he was sure that he twisted it.

Dean was also sure that he was also falling behind, breathing very heavily and his lungs aching because he may not be as fully recovered as he had thought. His lungs burned and the gate wasn't in sight, he tried to run faster as he glanced over his shoulder and saw that the mob was drawing closer—this uneven ground was doing hell to his ankle.

They were nearing the split in paths; the left one would take them to the gate which was just over a hill, and Dean had no idea where the other one lead too. But he made a split decision and veered to the right as the others stayed left; they didn't notice his absence until they were at the gate and it was too late by then to go back for him. Dean knew that John would be pissed when they came and got him, but the other man was just going to have to deal; this was Dean's fault any way.

He had slipped away from the others to take a leak, and accidentally pissed on Sacred Ground—the locals spoke English so that much he was sure of. So he knew that most of them would take the right and come after him, and only a few would go left after the others. Dean let out a hiss as the trail suddenly went downward and his feet slipped in the loose ground. He could hear the shouts and cusses of the mob behind him; they were much too close for his liking.

He was distracted for a moment as he ducked under a low hanging branch that he didn't notice the sudden drop that came after it. The fall was short, probably only about five feet, but it hurt like hell and Dean knew that it would leave him covered in bruises—though that was the least of his problems. He had landed on a rock bed, covered in shallow water.

Dean just got his hands under him when the shouts were on top of him; splashes surrounded him as the men jumped from the ledge. He turned his head just in time to see something fly towards his face, and then there was nothing.

7 42 - 7 76

"If anything happens to him, "John shouted, "Not only will I have your ass, but General O'Neill will too!"

Lorne tried not to cringe under John's treats, and it wasn't easy in the least. He knew that back there on the planet that he should have kept Dean in front of him, should have kept an eye on him. Lorne knew that the locals were after Dean; after all, he pissed on their Sacred Land. Lorne knew that he could quite possibly get dishonorably discharged for this, but at the moment getting reamed at in front of Sean and Patrick was worse enough. But he let none of that show on his face.

"John!" Weir shouted, and John's mouth snapped shut, his shoulders tense as hell. "Yelling at the Major is not helping," John opened his to comment on the fact that he wasn't yelling, but having a simple conversation—but Weir talked over him, her voice hard. "If you want to be on this rescue mission, I suggest that you step in line." he said nothing as he gave her a hard stare. "Major Lorne will be leading; I suggest that you listen to him, Colonel."

7 42 - 7 76

The next time Dean opened his eyes, he found himself suspended three feet into the air. His hands were bound on two beams on either side of him, his feet hanging free—and if it wasn't to most painful thing Dean had experienced yet. The thin bands were cutting into his wrists, a small trickle of blood slowly running down his arms. The ach of all his weight hanging from his arms like this was tremendous. His gaze was blurry and he could feel the tingle of a cut on his brow, and the stiffness of dried blood. His head was throbbing and he wasn't sure if it was from the hit to the head, or the ach of hanging for god knows how long.

He looked through squinted eyes at his surroundings, and found a tickle in the back of his mind about the fact that this place looked vaguely familiar. He was in an empty court yard looking place, and across the yard he could vaguely see a column. He tried to look behind himself, painfully trying to twist his neck, but it was no use. From the corner of his eye though, he could see something that did seem familiar now—a familiar something that he pissed on.

Shit! He cursed and when he turned back around he found himself staring at a few dozen locals all standing around him. Dean was actually surprised that he wasn't full of bloody holes right now; from all of the dagger stares that he was getting. He cringed as he felt a breeze and realized belatedly that he was very much naked. And it wasn't like he was embarrassed about his body—Dean knew that he was gorgeous, just like a God—but in his current situation he would have preferred to be clothed.

Every muscle in his body tensed as people in the crowd moved aside as a trio made their way up to the front. An older man was in front, he was probably in his fifties with a cloud white beard and balding head, clad in a cloak—more than likely he was the leader. On his left and slightly behind him was a younger man, probably Dean's age, and he was huge, his clothes bulging from the muscles underneath, he looked tough as hell—maybe even more scary than Ronon. And to the older man's right was a scrawny looking kid that was probably only fifteen if Dean had to take a guess, he was hunched in on himself and carried a brown bag in his arms.

They stopped just before the platform that Dean was on, not even sparing him a look as the turned, the older man and the huge guy as one, but the kid fumbled and stumbled. And despite the fact that Dean was tied up and some shit was going down, he felt kind of bad for the kid, stumbling around in front of everyone like that—on apparent Holy ground.

"This Demon has trespassed on our Sacred Grounds," the old guy started, addressing the crowd. "Has come into our town and invaded our homes. It spoiled our God by spreading Its unwanted poison on our Land, contaminating them with Evil. It has come from the Devil's Portal and taken our appearance, trying to turn us. But we will not turn!" he shouted and the crowd shouted back their agreement.

Dean really couldn't believe that he was dealing with religious freaks; how the hell was he supposed to know that this was Sacred Ground? He had to piss and the place had actually looked abandoned—God, he couldn't believe that a mob had come after him and he was tied naked to a couple of pole. And God knows what they were going to do to him—and he really had to stop saying God and God only knows in his current predicament.

"It must be punished," the old guy was saying and Dean's eyes snapped to the back of his head. "It must pay for the crime It had done onto our God and savior!" Dean winced at that. "It wears the colour of our Land, and he will bleed until the Hell's Fire leaves Its flesh!"

Dean paled at that, but the crowd had a difference of opinion as they cheered. Dean's emerald eyes tract the burley man as he turned and walked around behind him, the kid scrambling after. Dean tried to turn his head, to see if what was happening behind him—and wishing for just a second that he was an owl so that he could see what was happening behind him and what was in the bag.

Dean turned back, his breath coming heavy in his sudden panic as he struggled against the binds. The thin strips cut sharply into his flesh, and fresh blood ran down his strained arms. John better get here, Dean thought, and he better get here right now! Dean was breathing like a pregnant women, every muscle tense in his body; this place was old fashioned, their clothes, their belief, everything—he had seen Robin Hood and it was interesting to see their punishment back then on TV, but it experiencing it in real life and being on the receiving end?

"Fuck!" Dean yelled as the first one came, the crowd gasped in shock and he felt a few stones pelt him. It was the lash from a leather whip, with more than one band by the feel of it. The guy didn't hold back either, as the strips of leather tore through the flesh of his back as if it were melted butter; Dean could feel the warmth of blood as it ran down the small of his back, over his round cheeks and the back of his things before it dripped from the tip of his toes to the platform beneath him.

Dean didn't know how many lashes he was given, or for how long, but he had stopped screaming a while back; not having the strength to do much more than grunt, gasp and sob. He was soaked in the redness of him own blood, as blood leaked from open gashes in the back of his arms, his shoulders, his back and the top of his ass. Running blood covered his legs, and pooled onto the platform underneath him. Dean had thought that hanging there had hurt, but this was just down right the most painful thing he had ever experienced in his life.

He couldn't believe that he was going to go out this way; naked, tied down, sobbing with tears running down his deathly pale face, his back looking like a thing of ground beef and covered in his own blood—he was sure that if he hadn't all ready gone piss, he would be covered in that too. Dean was a usually very proud man, but that pride went along with the blood.

Every time a lash was administered, Dean would let out a croak of pain and a sob, and the crowd would cheer. And sometimes, when Dean had the strength, he'd yell at them, telling them that he was a Demon and that the others would come back for him and they would be killed and cursed and all Hell would be brought down on them—and he really didn't give a shit that he wasn't a Demon and there was no such thing, in this moment he wanted these people to die, painfully just like he was slowly bleeding out in what would be his eventual painful death.

"Johnny!" he sobbed out as an especially painful stroke. He was never going to see John again; the man that he loved, the man that he—despite the fact that because of their career was never going to happen—he wanted to marry and live with and have children with and grow old with. He knew that it was stupid, and mundane, and that even if he did live through this it was never going to happen—but it was what he really wanted.

"I'm sorry," it left his mouth in a single breath before his eyes slipped closed and head went slack; the blood trailing down his back and dripping from his toes.

note: Enjoyed this chapter, or hated me cause I'm being so mean to Dean—Well then Review and tell me, I wanna know what you think!