Chapter 10

The first rays of dawn on Saturday morning saw Dean sprawled out on the couch, fully clothed and fast asleep, with the TV still on and the remote resting on his chest.

When he sat down on the couch the night before to watch Letterman, Dean had intended to be awake and sitting right there beside his little brother when he woke up. And he tried - he really did. But despite his best efforts, the Sandman won the battle sometime during the overnight infomercials. Even after years of experimentation with sugar, caffeine and loud rock music, Dean had yet to work out how to repel that particular monster.

Now that Sam wasn't sedated anymore, Dean was giving his brother more morphine, more regularly - he'd even set an alarm on his phone wake him if he was asleep. That, on top of the minimal shuteye he'd had ever since he'd left Clinton, South Carolina on Sunday, meant that Dean was dead to the world when Sam started to stir.

Waking up after drug-induced unconsciousness isn't an instant thing. Much like coming around after a general anaesthetic, you don't open your eyes with your brain functioning at 100% and see everything around you in perfect clarity. It takes a little while for your brain to warm up.

When he came to, the first thing Sam noticed was that it was almost completely dark. The sun hadn't started to rise just yet, so the only illumination in the room came from a lamp to his right - which he knew only because he could see a hazy, vaguely lamp-shaped object out of the corner of his eye - and a dim, yellowish light that originated somewhere in the dimness to his left. He didn't know it, but the yellow glow was the motel's porch lights sneaking in through a gap in the curtains.

Sam blinked a few times, and despite the fact they were gritty and the lids felt like they weighed a ton, his eyes started picking out details in the room - fuzzy at first, then sharper as his vision started to clear. He discovered he was lying in a bed with a cheap laminate headboard, there was a mass-produced print on the wall to his left, and the paint on the ceiling above him was starting to flake and peel in places.

It that was all the information Sam needed to work out where he was - he'd stayed in enough motel rooms in his life to recognise one when he saw it. He also knew that this wasn't his room in Blue Springs (that had more peeling paint on the ceiling), but that's as far as his understanding went. He didn't have a clue where this anonymous motel room was, much less how he'd wound up there.

Just as he had the day before, Sam moved to push himself into a sitting position. He let out a dry, strangled cry as pain blossomed in his arms and chest, radiating in waves down through his fractured pelvis and into his legs. His head started spinning as soon as he lifted it off the pillow, and he immediately sank back down onto the bed as big orange dots pulsed in his vision in time with a sudden, pounding headache.

As he lay there, very still and trying to breathe without aggravating what felt like a chest-ful of broken ribs, he heard movement beyond the foot of his bed. Clothes rustled against the cushions of a couch, then there was a thud as Dean leapt to his feet and the remote fell to the floor, followed by a muttered obscenity as his shin smashed into a piece of furniture. He'd almost fallen over the coffee table in his rush to get to his little brother's side.

The next thing Sam knew Dean was standing over him. He felt a warm, strong hand press down on the front of his left shoulder and heard Dean's distant-sounding voice telling him to 'keep still, for God's sake' - as if he needed to be told. He couldn't move if he wanted to.

The couple of minutes it took for his ribs to settle down and the spots to clear from his vision seemed like forever. There's nothing like an atomic bomb going off inside your bones to kick your brain into gear, and there were a few important questions Sam really wanted answers to.

As soon as he could get enough breath to speak he tried to ask Dean where they were, but what came out of his mouth didn't sound anything like the sentence he'd intended to say. Actually, it didn't sound like words at all - his mouth was as dry as the Sahara, and it was like trying to talk through a mouthful of crackers.

"Here." Dean, guessing what the problem was, picked a glass of water up off the nightstand and held the straw to Sam's lips. He tried to take a mouthful, choked, and immediately began coughing and spluttering.

Dean swore and slammed the glass down on the nightstand, then carefully grabbed Sam around the shoulders and pulled him up into a semi-sitting position. Nice one, Dean. Your brother finally wakes up, and you manage to almost drown him! He held Sam there, trying not to remember him gasping like that in the back seat of the Impala, and wishing he'd had some ice chips ready instead.

There was a very good reason for Sam to be gasping for breath - coughing hurt. It felt like there were strands of barbed wire wrapped around his ribs, and if he could've heard it, Dean would have been impressed at the string of curses and obscenities running through Sam's head for the fifteen seconds it took him to catch his breath.

"You okay, Sammy?" Dean asked, anxiously. He lowered Sam gently back down onto the mattress, trying not to aggravate the lattice of wounds across his back, and sat down on the edge of the armchair next to the bed. He'd realised very early on that a kitchen chair just wasn't going to cut it, so he'd dragged the comfortable, well-padded lounge chair across the room to his brother's bedside instead.

"Will be," Sam wheezed, slightly pale and his forehead beaded with sweat.

"Want some ice chips instead? We've got ice in the freezer." Dean offered, but Sam shook his head a little. He wanted liquid water - it felt like he hadn't had a drop to drink for a week.

Dean didn't argue, and held the glass for Sam while he took a few smaller, more cautious sips - this time, without almost choking to death. That small, simple action brought a smile to Sam's cracked lips - that water was heaven. Cool, clear Nirvana. He didn't even care that he could taste the rust in the motel pipes. The only problem was, now that his mouth wasn't bone dry, it felt like he hadn't picked up a toothbrush in days; his teeth were all furry with plaque and his tongue tasted like a dirty dishrag.

"Where are we?" Sam whispered, looking around the room a little. It was even more average than he first thought.

"Motel room in Columbia," Dean told him, putting the glass back on the nightstand. His heart rate was only just now coming down after Sam's coughing fit.

"Columbia, Missouri?" Sam frowned, surprised. That made no sense - what the hell was he doing in Columbia? Last thing he knew he was in Blue Springs, and that was halfway across the state-

"Are you in much pain?" Dean asked, interrupting Sam's train of thought. It wasn't a particularly fast train at the moment - his brain wasn't firing on all cylinders just yet.

"That's relative," Sam replied softly, with a little smile. As long as he kept still, he didn't feel too bad.

"I can't believe you're making jokes." Dean chuckled, even smiling a little himself.

Sam smiled wider, but it immediately turned into a wince as pain flared in his left cheek. He started to reach up to touch it with his right hand and winced again - Christ, everything hurt: his hand, his arm, his shoulder, that whole side of his chest and his face.

Well, the left side hurt - his right cheek just felt strange, like something was stuck to it. Sam didn't know it, but that was the adhesive tape holding his NG tube in place. He wanted to reach up and scratch it, but the minor sticky annoyance was infinitely preferable to the pain that had come from every attempted movement so far. He figured, sensibly, that it was probably best to stay still for the time being.

Sam let his hand rest back on the bedspread and looked up at Dean, whose smile had been replaced by that worried expression again. "Stop moving, okay?" Dean sounded worried as well, but Sam didn't quite understand why. I'm pretty sore, but that's not the end of the world…

A sudden wave of morphine-induced drowsiness washed over him, and he trailed off mid-thought as his eyes started to flutter closed.

"You okay there, Sam?" Dean's voice broke through the morphine fog and Sam blinked a couple of times, eyelids heavy. His big brother's face came back into focus, looming over him and looking anxious.

"'m okay. Just sleepy." Sam stifled a yawn - judging by recent events, yawning would hurt too.

Dean sat back in the chair, scrubbing a hand over his face the way he did when he was worried, and it was at this point that Sam noticed he looked absolutely exhausted. Not just been-out-on-a-hunt-all-night tired, but the kind of worn out you get when you haven't slept in days. His hair was a mess, there were dark circles under his tired, red eyes, and even a fading bruise over his left temple.

"You look like hell, Dean. What happened?" Sam asked, brow furrowed. Something was pretty badly wrong here. Whatever it was, it was serious, and had evidently only happened to him - Dean might look like ten miles of bad road, but he didn't appear to be as injured as Sam felt.

"You should go back to sleep, Sammy." Dean suggested, quite obviously trying to steer the conversation away from the reason he looked like one of the walking dead. Predictably, Sam ignored him.

"And while we're at it, why does it feel like I've been hit by a truck?" he went on, eyes narrowed slightly as he watched his older brother. Dean obviously didn't want to discuss it, and that sealed it for Sam - if Dean didn't want to talk about it, chances are it was something his little brother would definitely want to know.

Dean sighed - deep down, he'd known Sam wouldn't let him off that easy. He'd been running through this scenario in his mind since Wednesday morning: if Sam didn't remember what had happened to him, whether he had amnesia or had just blocked it out or whatever, how much should Dean tell him?

The short answer was that he didn't want to tell him anything at all. If he didn't remember what happened after Owen and Ray took him, Dean wasn't keen to remind Sam he'd been hanging like a side of beef from the rafters of some cold, isolated warehouse while two psychopaths with an axe to grind punished him for something he hadn't meant to do.

"What do you remember?" Dean had his best poker face on, so it didn't look like it, but he was praying like mad that maybe this time they'd get lucky. Maybe Sam wouldn't remember his own little slice of Hell. Hey, the Universe had to cut them a break sometime… right?

Dean tried not to think about how many times the Universe had screwed them and withheld said breaks while he watched Sam, forehead creased with concentration, as he attempted to remember what had happened.

Sam could remember the last time he saw Dean, just outside River Pass. He remembered hitching a ride in a pickup to Blue Springs, his motel room, his job at Johnny Blue's - everything, up until a couple of days after Dean had called to say he was coming to town. Then everything went suddenly and maddeningly blank: it was like there was a barrier in his head, blocking out a chunk of his memory.

"Last thing I remember, I was at work," Sam said slowly, eyes unfocused as he stared off into the distance. He could see the scene at Johnny Blue's clearly in his mind. The bar was full of customers, laughing and talking and drinking - he could smell the limes he'd been cutting, and hear the altercation going on across the room.

He'd been behind the bar, and Kate had put a tray of empty beer bottles down in front of him… they'd talked, then he'd gone outside into the alley…

And there'd been two guys waiting for him.

Sam suddenly went pale, and Dean sat forward in his chair. "Sam? You okay?" he asked, concerned, but Sam went on like he hadn't spoken. His brain had shifted up a gear, and his memories were getting clearer. Things were coming back to him.

"I remember getting jumped in the alley behind the bar on Monday night. These two guys tied me up and put me in the back of a red pickup, then drove me to a warehouse... " He trailed off, a haunted look coming over his face. He glanced down at the dressings that covered his chest and arms, and a feeling of dread rolled over him in a cold, slimy wave.

"You've gotta tell me what happened." His voice was low and intense as he looked up at Dean with wide eyes. Dean frowned and bit his lip, obviously reluctant - he didn't want to put those thoughts into Sam's head. Hell, he wished he didn't have them in his own head.

"Dean, I've just woken up in some random motel room somewhere feeling like I got run over by a truck, and you look like you haven't slept in days. I need to know how this happened." Sam pressed, and Dean rubbed wearily at one tired eye, elbow resting on the arm of the chair. How the hell was he supposed to tell Sam that Owen and Ray had tried to torture him to death? And that they'd very nearly succeeded?

It's not like he's going to let it go. Better just get it over with.

"Those two guys were hunters. Ray Beauchamp and Owen Wilkinson," he started, sitting back in the chair. Sam watched him intently, waiting.

He was doing a good job of hiding it, but he was terrified to hear whatever Dean was about to tell him. Ever since he'd opened the door for Lucifer, Sam couldn't help but imagine what other hunters might do if they ever found out - for a while, he'd even had nightmares about it. He was reasonably sure that when Dean was done talking, his subconscious would have all kinds of new horrors to play with at night.

"Owen and Ray were friends of Gordon Walker's. He told them about the thing with the Devil's Gate, so when they heard you let Lucifer out of his cage, they decided they needed to… put you down." Dean went on, reluctantly.

Sam's heart skipped a beat when he heard the name 'Gordon Walker'. He knew all too well what sort of nut jobs that psychopath had hung around with. "And they decided to hand out a little punishment first?" he asked, quietly.

"Pretty much, yeah."

Sam winced as he shifted his position slightly. He was starting to understand why he was so sore. "Anything serious?"

"You're not missing any limbs or anything, but…" Dean rubbed at the bridge of his nose, thinking carefully about his words. "They broke some ribs, and some bones in your hands and feet - left wrist, too. And they..." He paused again.

How do you tell someone they're covered in knife wounds and burns that are going to leave awful scars?

"They... look, you've got some really nasty cuts, and some burns too," he said eventually, and his mind flashed back to the clinic on Tuesday night. 'Some nasty cuts and burns' doesn't do it justice.

Sam chewed on his bottom lip a little, thinking that over. "So I'll have some scars, huh?" he asked, and Dean nodded.

"You can talk to Brad about that when he comes over today. He offered to refer you to a plastic surgeon he knows." He knew that was the wrong thing to say as soon as the words left his lips.

Sam's heart rate skyrocketed, and his stomach twisted itself up into painful knots as he thought back to some of the horrible things he'd seen hunters do to monsters. What the hell had Owen and Ray done to him if the doctor thought he might need plastic surgery down the line? He looked down at the cast, the splint, the various bandages, wounds, bruises…

What the hell is under those dressings?

"Um - so, what is all this?" he asked, clearing his throat and looking pointedly down at the tubes and bandages. "Have you been taking first aid courses I don't know about?" It looked like a pretty professional job and, while Dean was fairly adept with a penknife and dental floss, Sam couldn't see him doing work like this.

Dean narrowed his eyes slightly as he regarded his brother. He knew full well Sam was trying to change the subject, but he didn't call him on it. He understood what it was like to have someone pushing you to talk about things you didn't even want to think about, so he cut Sam a break and let him get away with it.

And let's face it, he learned it from you.

"Do you remember Brad Sinclair? The ER doc being haunted by a vengeful spirit last year?" As far as Dean was concerned, this topic was no better than the last one. But he'd had three days to think about how to answer this question without telling Sam he'd almost died - another conversation he really didn't want to have - and he thought he'd figured it out.

Sam thought for a moment, then realisation dawned on his face as he remembered his brief return from the Land of Nod yesterday evening. "He was here earlier, right? With the syringe?" He didn't remember much from yesterday, but the image of that syringe was sure as hell stuck in his mind.

"Right." Dean was somewhat surprised Sam remembered anything from their 60-second conversation - he'd barely been conscious. "Well, you were in pretty bad shape when I found you, and I called him as soon as I got you into the Impala. We met him at a clinic near here and he spent Tuesday night patching you up. He's even been coming by every day to check up on you." Dean said, as succinctly as he thought he could get away with.

"So that's where the cast and the stitches and all this other stuff came from?" Sam asked, and Dean nodded again. So far, so good.

"And morphine, right?" Sam looked at his IV.

"Yeah. Is it not killing the pain?" Dean asked, concerned, and Sam smiled a little.

"It's doing a pretty good job, actually." His smile faltered as he briefly imagined what sorts of injuries the morphine might be camouflaging.

"So what then?"

Sam hesitated, considering his response before he answered. No matter how I say this, he's probably going to think I have a head injury.

"Come on, Sam - spit it out." Dean leaned forward expectantly in his chair, elbows resting on his quads.

"Well... for one, the walls are waterfalls of lava," Sam said slowly, contemplating the wall to his left before his gaze settled back on Dean. "And you have little yellow birds flying all around you leaving glittering rainbow contrails."

At first Dean just stared at him, and Sam was sure he was going to call Dr. Sinclair and demand that he come and check on his baby brother. But Dean didn't run for the phone - instead, his face broke into a wide smile and he started laughing.

"Morphine hallucinations, huh Sammy?" He grinned, and Sam gave a relieved little smile back.

"I guess so, yeah. I know they're not real, but Christ, they look like it." His eyes tracked non-existent canaries orbiting Dean's head and shoulders as he spoke. They were about the size of sparrows, with glossy sunflower-yellow feathers and bright blue eyes, and they were leaving sparkling multicoloured trails in the air behind them, chirping as they went. The whole effect was rather pretty, and Sam kind of wished Dean could see them.

"You know, I think your brain might be swimming in enough already, but how's the pain relief working? If you're too sore I've got plenty more Miss Emma right here." Dean pointed to a sealed plastic bag containing their supply of the clear liquid.

"I'm okay, Dean. Really." Sam assured him, and Dean quirked a sceptical eyebrow.

"Don't be a martyr, Sam." He didn't want his baby brother in any more pain than absolutely necessary, and he could see the way Sam was laying perfectly still and taking shallow breaths. He was obviously not okay.

"All right, so maybe 'okay' isn't the right word," Sam conceded, "but it's bearable if I don't move. Plus, I don't want to spend the next two weeks in a drug-induced stupor," he explained, stifling another yawn. No matter how cool the hallucinations were, Sam didn't enjoy the drowsiness that came along with the morphine. He was finding it hard to keep his eyes open.

"Anyway, it feels like I've slept long enough." Sam ran his tongue over his furry teeth - he'd give anything for a toothbrush. And even more for a working arm to use it with. "How long have I been out, anyway?" he asked, conversationally. Dean hesitated for half a second, and even drugged to the eyeballs as he was, Sam caught it.

"Dean, what day is it?" he pressed, narrowing his eyes.

"Sam…" Dean sighed, but he knew it was too late now. "It's Saturday," he replied reluctantly, and it was Sam's turn to stare.

"Saturday?" he repeated, and paused to think that through. "I've been out for four days?"

"Well, it's Saturday morning, so it's really only three and a half…" Dean began, but trailed off when Sam fixed him with a glare more intense than he had any right to muster in his condition. "Yeah - I know." Dean held up both hands in a placating gesture. "Look, the doc wanted to keep you sedated for a few days and give your body a chance to start healing. You needed the rest, man."

"Now I know why my mouth tastes like the bottom of a trash can," Sam grumbled. Christ - nearly four days. What the hell did they do to me?

"Look, I'm sorry I didn't get to you sooner, Sam." Dean didn't make eye contact with Sam as he spoke, his gaze downcast as he scratched at his forearm. Sam frowned a little, temporarily confused, but he knew how Dean's mind worked and it only took him a few seconds to realise what was going on. Well, part of it, anyway: Dean was blaming himself for Owen and Ray having him for so long. As usual, he was shouldering the responsibility for something completely out of his control.

"I was only gone for 24 hours, Dean. And you couldn't even have known I was missing until 12 hours after they took me," Sam pointed out, but Dean's forlorn expression didn't change. "It's okay, really. I know you pulled out all the stops." Sam insisted - he didn't even have to ask what Dean had been doing all day Tuesday. He knew his big brother must have moved Heaven and Earth to get to him - Dean always moved Heaven and Earth for Sammy. This time, it had just taken a little while.

That should have made Dean feel better, but the total faith Sam had in him made him want to cry. And, if he was honest, it wasn't just the delay in finding Sam that was eating at him.

"I never should've left you alone in the first place. If I'd been there with you…" he trailed off, sitting back in his chair with a frustrated sigh, but Sam knew what he was going to say: If I'd been there with you, this never would've happened.

He looked over at Dean, who was staring into space as he absently rubbed at his bruised temple. He was blaming himself not just for taking so long to get to his baby brother, but also for letting Sam go off on his own all those months ago in Colorado.

"Dean, this isn't your fault. I needed to go - I had to take a break. If I'd stayed, I'd have gotten one or both of us killed," Sam told him, but Dean just sniffed. He appreciated the sentiment, but the words didn't make it hurt any less.

"It's my job to look after you, Sam. I'm supposed to keep you safe - like from raving psychopaths that want to kill you!"

Sam almost smiled at that. "I'm a big boy, Dean - I don't need 24-hour supervision. Owen and Ray were so organised and hell-bent on their plan that they'd have found a way to get me, whether I was with you or not." Sam didn't need to add that Ray probably would have just shot Dean and then continued on his merry way. There was no doubt in his mind that, had he been there, Owen and Ray would only ever have been able to take him over Dean's dead body.

Dean looked up at Sam, brow furrowed slightly. "How did they get you, Sammy?" He'd been wondering about that pretty much ever since he discovered Sam was gone. There had been two of those bastards, yeah, but Sam had dozens of pounds and a handful of inches on both of them, and no way would he have gone quietly. When he'd broken into the warehouse, Dean had fully expected to see battle scars on the guys that had managed to subdue and kidnap his baby brother.

"I didn't even get five steps into the alley." Sam began, stifling yet another yawn. "By the time I knew he was there, Ray already had his revolver trained on me. Next thing I know, Owen comes up behind me and injects something into my neck. I went down pretty quick after that." Sam couldn't help but shudder a little as he remembered Ray's revolver, with the business end of the barrel only inches from his face. Why couldn't I have forgotten that too?

Dean could see Sam didn't like thinking about it, but for him the scariest part was the fact that if Owen and Ray hadn't wanted to hand out a little punishment, they might have just shot Sam then and there in the alley behind Johnny Blue's. The thought of rolling into town and finding his baby brother in the morgue scared the hell out of him.

When did this situation get so messed up that 24 hours of torture is the best-case scenario...?

"So, did your vacation help any?" Dean asked, in an effort to change the subject. Sam just looked at him blankly for a second.

"What, do I still want demon blood?" he asked, and Dean nodded. Sam shifted slightly in the bed, wincing as his broken ribs stabbed him, considering his answer.

"Honestly, I think I'll always want it," he said slowly, and Dean blinked.

"That wasn't exactly what I was hoping to hear, you know."

"What do you want me to say, Dean? That time heals everything and I can look at demon blood without remembering the thrill and the power it gave me?" Sam asked, wearily. "I'll always remember that. But it's not all I think about anymore. The... thirst... isn't constant like it used to be. I don't want to go back down that road." He'd done some real soul-searching on this subject while he'd been in Blue Springs, but never had the opportunity to discuss it before. It was actually kind of nice to say the words out loud.

"And if it could, say, stop Lucifer?" Dean asked, raising his eyebrows a little. This was good - Sam was being honest with him, and for once the news wasn't terrible. The kid had made progress while he'd been on his own, and Dean was actually kind of impressed.

"I know nothing good is going to come out of me using those abilities. I may have a saved a few people, but overall… it's only ever made things worse." Sam sighed and pursed his lips. "I killed Lilith and started the Apocalypse. The angels threatened to smite me after I used my abilities on Samhain. And you know what I had to do before I could take Alastair." Sam let out a short laugh, but there was no mirth in it. The thought of drinking Ruby's blood like a freaking vampire… it made him feel sick.

"I let Ruby get one over on me, Dean. The demon blood drove a wedge between us and I shouldn't have let it. I should've known nothing good was going to come from it, and this," he motioned to the various bandages and dressings that covered his body, "is just the latest consequence of those stupid decisions." Tears welled up in Sam's eyes as he spoke, not quite able to meet his brother's gaze. "If this is anybody's fault, it's mine," he added, softly. There was a little catch in his voice that broke Dean's heart.

"It's not your fault they tried to torture you to death, Sam," Dean told him, just as quietly, and Sam tried to blink back the tears. The splint and cast on his arms made it hard to wipe them away.

"They did it because I let Lucifer out. I'd say that's on me."

No matter how much Dean would like to be able to say otherwise, he knew it was true. Sam had set Lucifer free, whether he'd meant to or not, and that had cost a more than a few hunters their lives. Opening the Cage would put Sam on a lot of hunters' hit lists, and just the thought that there might be more raving lunatics out there with a bone to pick made Dean's chest tighten. But, as he looked at Sam lying hurt and miserable in the motel bed, he just couldn't bring himself to point that out. The kid had suffered enough for one day.

Dean took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and dealt with this complex emotional situation the only way he knew how. He looked at Sam, a forced and slightly shaky little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"You still look like death warmed up. You should go back to sleep," he advised, and Sam rolled his eyes.

Typical Dean - making jokes to cover the pain. Sam didn't mind, though - the mood desperately needed lightening, and he was grateful for the effort at least. Actually, he was impressed Dean had lasted this long without making a smartass comment of some kind.

"Have you seen yourself lately, Dean? People in glass houses shouldn't throw stones," he retorted, but Dean just smiled at him. It was nice to hear Sam throw a smartass comment straight back - he'd actually kind of missed it.

"That was an insult, you know." Sam pointed out, arching his right eyebrow slightly.

"I know." Dean replied, still smiling as he got up to put on some coffee. Sam could call him whatever took his fancy; Dean was just glad he was still here to do it.

Firstly, thanks to my mate Cori for giving me the idea for the morphine hallucinations - everything Sam saw came from her first-hand experience. That conversation was an eye-opener...!

Secondly, I owe my muse a headslap for giving me so much Goddamn TALKING! I don't mind the finished product - I do enjoy some angst! - and the talking had to be done, so I can only hope it hasn't put you all to sleep or anything. ;) Don't forget to review and let me know!