Everything was . . . it was fuzzy, somehow. Sam tried to swallow, but his mouth was too dry.

"Dee—" he slurred.

A voice muttered a curse—was it Dean?—and Sam felt a strange prick on his neck.

"No," he moaned, but it was too late, and everything slid away.

The ropes were good. Too good. Sam had been stripped of his outer shirt, his weapons, even the razor blades he kept sewn into the waistband of his jeans.

"Hello?" Sam tried, but everything was pitch black. The last thing he could remember was . . .

"You're awake."

Sam looked up, blinking at the sudden light. "Who's there?" he demanded.

""I think we both know that we're not going to play games," John said softly.

"Christo," Sam spat out.

John crossed his arms. "I'm sorry it has to be this way, Sam."

As his eyes adjusted to the light, Sam looked down to see he was in the middle of a devil's trap. "Dad?" he asked, voice trembling despite himself. "What are you doing?"

"It's for your own good, Sammy," John told him. He took a couple steps forward, and Sam flinched at the sight of the blade in his hand. "Your ability to read minds . . . you know it's not right. You're a freak."

Sam's breath caught in his throat, as his own father expressed his worst fears. His voice was weak as he whispered once more, "Dad?"

"I'll do everything I can to get rid of it, son," John pronounced. He didn't step into the devil's trap, but still, Sam could see the real emotion. Maybe . . . well, maybe Dad was right. Tentatively, Sam reached out with his telepathy, only to find his reactions and readings slow and fuzzy from the drugs.

"We'll try an exorcism first," John unfolded a piece of paper. "And then we'll see."

Sam's palms were sweaty, but he nodded anyway.

Sam could remember the hesitant way his father was talking to him as they had gotten into the truck together. John had asked about Jessica, and their conversation had eventually moved to Sam's powers. Sam had promised he wasn't using them without permission, and John had expressed gratitude for the respect of his privacy.

And then when Sam had bent down to rummage through his bag, he had caught a sudden surge of intention in his father's thoughts, only to turn and have a needle slide into his neck.

At this point, Sam just wished he had read his father like he had wanted to in the first place.

The icy-cold holy water splashed over him once more, and Sam shuddered. His father's voice droned in the background, long segments of latin text that were supposed to exorcise evil spirits.

"Where's Dean?" Sam suddenly asked. His father's intonations ground to a halt.

"Don't worry about it," he returned coolly. "It's better you don't know."

Terror shot through Sam's veins in a surge of adrenaline that allowed his head to clear. "Is he in trouble? Is he hurt?"

He could finally hear his father's thoughts and confirm what John said. "No."

"Why are you doing this?" Sam swallowed and added belatedly, "Dad."

"You know why. You're the reason they're dead."

Any thoughts Sam had of taking over John's mind vanished. "What?" he choked out.

His father circled around to stand in front of him. "You honestly never thought of it? Both in your room, both in fire. This starts and ends with you, Sam. And one way or another, this will be the end of everything." John held up three long and thick nails. "I'm afraid this next ritual will hurt. I'll make sure there won't be any permanent damage to your nerves or tendons though."

Panic began to swamp Sam as his father approached, spreading one of Sam's hands on the arm of the chair he was tied to.

"No, please," he pleaded. His mind was too far gone to pinpoint John's, as instead his range began expanding and encompassing far too many minds for him to comprehend.

John hammered the first nail through the back of his hand, and Sam screamed.

By the time John got to his feet, Sam had passed out.

"Are you going to kill me?" Sam croaked.

"Probably." John was dispassionate, and Sam was almost in control to grab his mind, but not quite.

But the pseudo-crucifixion ritual had not worked. With blurred vision, Sam watched as John began mixing up another spell. Sam's hand inadvertently twitched, sending a ripple of pain down his arm and causing his whole body to jerk, which only exacerbated the pain ten-fold.

"This will be over soon." His father was standing in front of him.

Sam closed his eyes.

"Sammy?"

At the change in tone, Sam snapped his eyes open by sheer will. "Wha—"

"Sammy, I'm so sorry, I didn't . . . Oh, let's get you some help."

"Dad?" Sam slurred. "What do you—"

His father was kneeling in front of him, hands hovering over the nails. "Should I pull these out?"

Sam swallowed roughly. "Christo," he ground out.

There was no change, and he shivered in confusion, fighting the pain and dizziness. "Dad?" He blinked, suddenly noticing the tears streaming down his cheeks. "Daddy?"

A hand cupped his face, and Sam couldn't help but lean into it. "Sammy."

Sam let out an involuntary whimper.

Abruptly, his father laughed and stood, leaving Sam blinking in confusion. "It would be fun to keep up the pretense, but as your father said earlier, let's not play games."

"I don't—"

John's eyes flashed yellow, and Sam gasped.

"The whole time?"

"Oh no. Just came in at the end. See, I can't have you actually dead, as hard as dear old dad might try." The thing in his father's body crouched in front of Sam, hands settling roughly on top of Sam's and causing the nails to move. Sam whined deep in his throat, and John's face smirked.

"What are you?" Sam panted.

"A demon, of course. You can call me Azazel." The demon patted Sam's cheek in some parody of affection. "You've had a rough time of it, Sam. I am very sorry for that. But now that you've seen the true depths to which you've been abandoned, I hope you'll come join me, when the time is right."

"I'll never join you," Sam growled. His growl changed to a keen as the demon's face darkened and his grip went tighter on Sam's wrists.

"Well. Maybe a little persuasion is in order." Azazel stood and walked over to the table of supplies John had set up. "Let's see what your father had planned, shall we?"

Sam ignored him and tried to focus on his telepathy. The demon's mind had the same shape as his father's, but the consistency was all wrong. Oily barriers forced Sam's mind to slide away.

"Oh, I like this one. Branding. Did you know he was going to brand you like a mindless animal?"

Sam could only watch as the demon started a fire with a flick of his hand and lowered the metal into the flames.

The brand was intricate, with Hebrew-looking symbols around the edge, a pentangle in the middle.

Somehow, the designs on it didn't matter. Just the surface area.

"Your powers are very well developed. I am impressed, Sam Winchester."

Sam managed to grunt in response. He noticed that he was cold, and shaking a little. That wasn't good, he told himself. That was shock.

"What I can't understand is why? Why hold back. You have nothing left in your life, and you would still refuse to join me."

Sam slowly lifted his head off of his chest and locked his eyes onto the demon's yellow ones. "Because you're evil. And we'll send you to hell."

The sudden glee in Azazel's grin made Sam's stomach drop. "Oh, we. Dear ol' Dean. I nearly forgot. That brother you love so much."

Sam wanted to plead at Azazel to leave Dean alone, but sensed that might only spur the demon to go after Dean even more.

"What will he think of this?" Azazel asked softly.

Sam forced himself to focus. "Think of what?" he queried dazedly.

"We can think of this as an experiment," the demon mused. "Oh, yes. I like the sound of that."

Through blurred eyes, Sam watched the figure of his father—not his father, not really, right?—pull out a cell phone.

The faint ringing noise didn't make sense. Wouldn't the demon not want Dean to come? Dean would kick his—

"And now, my best trick yet. I'll be seeing you, kid." Azazel grinned at Sam one more time, and then black smoke poured out of John's throat.

Sam watched, helpless, as his father collapsed. Was he dead? Was the plan to convince Dean that Sam had killed John? But then why was he still tied up?

A long time passed before John stirred, coughing.

Sam tried to call him, but couldn't quite get the word 'dad' out of his mouth. "Hey," he awkwardly whispered. "You okay?"

"Sam?"

Sam shivered, the pain spiking once again before going back down into a manageable level. "What do you remember?"

John stared at Sam. "Enough," he said softly.

"Oh." Sam swallowed. "Okay."

"Sam!"

It was a voice Sam hadn't expected to hear, and he jerked in his bonds, sending another pulse of agony through his nail-ridden hands and feet. "Dean," he croaked.

"Sammy!" Dean roared, breaking down the door as he did so. Sam latched onto his mind without another thought, taking care to block his pain from reaching Dean, but allowing his brother's soul and thoughts to rush into his own mind, distracting him from the pain.

Dean was pointing the colt at their father.

"Sam?"

"I was possessed, Dean," John said. "It left, I don't know why."

Dean looked to Sam for confirmation. Sam closed his eyes, feeling the overwhelming need of his brother to believe his Dad and have his family remain strong.

"Yeah," he lied. "That's what happened."

Dean lowered the gun and rushed to kneel in front of Sam. "Dude," he breathed. "This is why you ride with me, okay?"

Sam cracked an eye open. "And you would rather have you be the one who did this?"

Dean's skin went white under his freckles, and his eyes darted to Sam's hands. "This is gonna hurt."

"I'm glad you're here," Sam murmured. Briefly, he tilted his head forward to rest on Dean's temple. "Don't leave me."

"I won't, little brother," Dean promised him.

That was all Sam needed to hear, and he let his consciousness slip away to rest in the hidden corners of Dean's mind and the memories of brief times of happiness. Dean would take care of him.

A/N: I didn't actually plan to have that little of Dean in this chapter, so instead, I think next chapter will be from Dean's POV to make up for it.

As I said before: John fans, I apologize. The show gives us too little of his interactions to know whether this would be a viable reaction from the man, but with the sheer obsessiveness of his revenge, I could see this as a worst-case scenario. Plus, he makes a fantastic shades-of-grey badguy ;)

I am hoping to finish up this fic before I leave for vacation in (three?) weeks, so hang in there! I'll do my best. Let me know what you thought about this chapter.