Dean didn't know how, but he was on his hands and knees, bile rising in his throat thick and fast, and he was throwing up all over the rag rug, over and over until he was retching up nothing but air.
Bobby's face was a mask of you-don't-know-the-kind-of-hell-you-just-called-down-boy.
John dropped to his knees like a string had been cut. "Jesus. Not my boy. Not my boy too."
Dean wiped his mouth and dragged himself to his feet. "Come on. We gotta go."
Bobby put a hand on his shoulder. "Hang on, kid. We gotta do this smart."
Dean stared at Bobby like he didn't know who it was inside his skin. "They. Have. Sam." The sound of boots impacting flesh, Sam's grunts of pain. Dean shook all over."We have to go now. Right now. Right fucking now." His voice was desperate. He grabbed Bobby's shirt. "They have Sammy."
John rose to his feet. The rage in his face was, quite simply, terrifying. He put his hand on Dean's shoulder. "We're going to get him back." He took a rapid, shuddering breath. "But Bobby's right. We can't just run off half-cocked, or we'll walk right into the trap."
Dean didn't understand. The words rushed through him without sticking. He needed to hear, "…going now…kill them all…grab the arsenal…" What he heard instead was meaningless.
Dean raced to the door, grabbed the keys to the Impala and was in the driver's seat before John could stop him.
When he turned the key, nothing happened.
He wrenched open the hood, and stared in horror at the tangle of severed hoses and ripped-out parts.
Bobby's truck was non-operational.
The yard was filled with junkers in various states of disrepair. But none of them were running.
Dean dropped, waves of helplessness washing over him. Sam's bloodied face, lax and unresponsive in the hands of that thing that had him. Got your boy, Johnny. Dean began to sob, digging his fingers into the dirt. Gonna hurt him.
The fear built in Dean like nothing he'd ever felt before. Not ever. His Sammy. Taken. The sound of them hitting him. Hard enough to break bone.
Gonna hurt him.
Dean retched again, crying hysterically now, unable to breathe.
"Dean. I need you to hold it together."
The impossibility of that statement was so vast that Dean began to laugh amidst the choking sobs and great sucking breaths of air that didn't seem to bring any actual oxygen into his lungs.
Another voice. Maybe Bobby's. It didn't matter.
Gonna hurt him.
No running vehicles. No way to get on the road and get Sam back, snatch him from the things that took him away from Dean.
Dean cried harder now, growing dizzy.
Strong hands gripping his flannel shirt, pulling him to his feet. A hard cuff across his face.
"Man up, son. You're worthless to Sam like this. He needs a soldier, not a crybaby." These words, so callous and hard, shocked Dean so much the sobs died in his throat.
John fixed Dean with a fierce stare. Beneath the military drill sergeant demeanor, Dean could see he was holding it together by the thinnest thread. "Sam needs you. Need your strength. Not your weakness. So lock that shit down. Stay frosty. Help me get Sam back alive."
That nearly undid him. The possibility behind that phrase.
Dean wrenched himself away from his father with an agonized sound and stumbled, half-blind with crying, to the nearest junker. He snatched up a piece of metal pipe and laid into it, raising up high and using his whole back and legs to smash it down with as much force as he could muster. Animalistic. Primal.
His attack on the car was so savage, John and Bobby were transfixed. Dean smashed the windshield, smashed the driver side window, beat the mirror into fragments, wrenched the door open, beating it until it was deformed, laid into it like a major league batter, wailing on it until it bent back nearly parallel with the hood, kicking it, bending it back, tearing at it with his hands, wrenching it and twisting it until he ripped the door clean off.
He stood there, chest heaving, sucking in air, hands clenched at his sides gradually opening, breath coming slower, until it resumed its normal pace.
When he turned back around to face John and Bobby, it wasn't Dean that looked at them. It was someone far older, harder and infinitely more dangerous, wearing Dean's skin.
Bobby was on the horn calling in every marker he had out there. He spread the word. Spivey and his clan had snatched John Winchester's youngest boy. Every hunter safe house, rest stop, dive bar and diner was open for them. Every hunter dropped what they were doing and put their feelers out. Nobody messed with a hunter's family. And few hunters were as respected and feared as John Winchester.
Within an hour, people were at their door, hard men and women with bandoliers, tattoos and weathered skin, and a brand-new four-door truck.
One man with four fingers on his right hand screwed and hammered the kitchen table back together. Another cleaned the blood off the floor. Others came. The phone rang, on multiple lines, rang nonstop, into the night. Bobby's CB radio was cluttered with traffic. A surprising number of hunters made their living as truckers.
Plans were made. Trails followed. Information floated back to them through the hunter network, information driven out the hard way.
Dean watched it all, face impassive, mind working furiously, taking notes, paying attention, saying nothing.
Keep it locked down. Don't think of the sight of Sam falling underneath the mass of the four grown men, the four men it took to subdue him. Don't think of what they were doing to him now. Keep it locked down. Stay cold and dead and fucking lethal.
Get Sammy back.
Dean refused to sleep until John made it clear that a soldier took rest when he could, because he had to, because an efficient hunting, killing machine needed reset time to keep its reflexes at peak capacity.
So Dean laid down on top of his bed, closed his eyes, and forced himself into sleep. He didn't dream. He told himself not to, and his body, stunned and helpless, obeyed.
In the morning, he awoke without an alarm clock, and pushed his way through the half-dozen strangers in the kitchen. They parted, knowing he was John's eldest, that he was Dean, watching his hard face and steely demeanor.
One brought him a cup of hot black coffee. Bobby pushed a plate of eggs, ham and biscuits with butter in front of him. "Eat all of it, Dean."
Dean complied, like a good soldier, and ate every morsel. Nobody cared that he couldn't taste a damn thing, least of all him.
Don't think of what they were doing to Sam. Don't. Think of that when you have their bleeding bodies in front of you.
Dean tried not to think. Tried not to count the hours, crawling under his skin, as the day passed from light to dark. Lay down in bed again, fully dressed, and willed himself to sleep once more.
A new morning. More unfamiliar faces, strange people stepping back respectfully as he walked through the house, listening for information, ignoring the chit-chat. The light changed again, brightened into midday, faded again into dusk.
Dean refused to let hope fade, but the disappearance of the light was agony.
Yet another knock on the door, but the response was different. People moved toward the door, voices rose. Someone called for John.
A thin blond man in blue overalls and a bandage on his temple strode through the hallway, handed John a small bag. Dean caught snatches of conversation. "…didn't see who it was…came to, there was a bag on the floor…deliver it to this address or he'd kill my wife…said just drive as fast as you can..."
John pulled out another unmarked videotape.
Every voice in the house fell still.
Every pair of eyes was on John and Dean.
John looked at Dean. "You might not want to watch this."
Dean just stared at him, and refused to leave the room.
John slipped the tape into the VCR.
Sam was bound to a chair in the middle of an empty warehouse, slumped over, hair in his face.
Earle Spivey stood next to him, along with a stocky man in his late forties.
"Hey there, Johnny. Bet you've been wondering what's up. Bet your mind's been going a mile a minute since you strolled in that front door. Ain't it."
John swallowed hard, fists clenched.
"Well, let me fill you in." Without warning, Earle cracked Sam across the jaw. His head rocked to the side, and he roused, eyes bright with pain. "Wakey wakey."
Sam's right hand, taped to the arm of the wooden chair, fluttered.
"Can't go nowhere, son. Already taught you that." Earle looked at the camera again. It was steady this time. On a tripod of some kind.
"I found my boy, Johnny. Saw what you did to him before you killed him."
John's face tensed.
"Really pulled out all the stops. Didn't you. Tortured him a good long time, by the looks of him."
Earle's face twisted. "You tortured. My son. And now I've got your boy. And every little thing you did to my boy, I'm gonna do to yours."
John turned pale, shaking. "Jesus. No. Sam's innocent. He's innocent."
"And here's the thing, Johnny boy. We got some special abilities, you know. Don't know what we're gonna get once we earn that dose of demon blood. It's like a grab bag." Earle's watery blue eyes shone. "And my brother here, he got himself a real interesting one. Show him, Buck."
Buck stood alongside Sam, and with a sneer, moved his finger in a sharp line.
Sam screamed, a hoarse sound like he'd been screaming for hours, straining against the bonds, cords in his neck popping out.
Dean's lockdown nearly failed.
Earle had the audacity to smile. "See, that right there? That's like the fucking cattle prod you used on my Leon. But it don't leave no marks. Don't cause no nerve damage. So you can do it over. And over. And over."
A hand on Dean's shoulder. "You shouldn't be watching this, son." It was Bobby.
Dean laid his hand on Bobby's, squeezed it. "Sam has to take it. I have to watch it."
Sam's hand fluttered again, fingers twitching, tapping, as he tried to breathe.
"Me, I like the old fashioned way, though. Like to leave marks. Like to see the effects of my hard work. So, we been trading off, Buck and me."
Earle tore open Sam's shirt. A collective groan rose from the assembled crowd. Dean squeezed his eyes shut, tried not to see the massive purple-black bruising all over Sam's rib cage, the blood, the lacerations.
"Holy hellfire," Bobby breathed.
"Bet you're wondering what I want, Johnny. What's the ransom? Where's the trap?" Earle laughed, a dry, humorless chuckle that trailed into a cough. "Ain't no ransom. No trap, trying to get you here." Earle nodded to Buck, who motioned with his hand and made Sam scream again, worse this time, a terrible high-pitched sound that went on and on.
"What I want? Is for you to know. What I'm doing to your son. Because of what you did to mine." His drawn face was animated by pure hate. "I want you to see it. Know it's because of you. Know he's gonna get it ten times worse than Leon. 'Cause I'm meaner than you, Johnny boy. And when I'm tired of this, I'm gonna give what's left to Buck." Buck grinned at the camera, in an expression that left no doubt what Earle meant. "And then, when he's all used up, maybe we'll kill him."
Sam stared into the camera, blood on his lips. His right hand trembled and fluttered, straining at the tape, tapping at the arm of the chair. "John," Bobby said. "Take it back."
On the tape, Earle wiped his mouth. "I have to give it up to him, though. I mean, I loved my boy, but he was weak. But Samuel here? He's tough. All we put him through over the past day, he's never once begged us to stop. Not so much as a "Please." Earle grinned. "And I have to say, I respect the hell out of that. 'Course, that's just gonna make it all the more delicious when I finally do break him. And don't you worry, Johnny boy. I'll be sure to send you the highlight reel."
Dean had somehow wrestled most of what made him Dean, the living, breathing functional human being, into a steel box lined with chains, to get him through the hours until he had Sam back safe at his side. But John was barely holding it together.
Earle continued. "See, Johnny, I know you thought you could sleep at night because we're just fucked up, right? Me and mine? Full of demon blood and all? Not quite human? Here's the thing. Leon never took no demon blood." He spat on the floor. "My boy was all the way human, just like you."
John stared in shock.
"You tortured and killed an innocent boy, who was just trying to protect his family. And I'm gonna make you pay for that."
Bobby grabbed the remote control. "John! Are you seeing this?"
John stared at Bobby in horror. "Of course I'm seeing this."
"No, you idjit. Sam's hand. Are you seeing his hand?"
Bobby rewound slightly and hit play.
Sam's right hand. Fluttering. Fingers tapping on the arm of the chair.
"Oh my god. Oh Jesus. Sam." John let out a sob.
Dean missed it. "What?"
John grabbed Dean's hand. "Look at him. Look at his hand. He's tapping out Morse code."
They rewound the tape to the beginning, with the sound off this time, and Dean stared in awe at his little brother, bloodied and bound hand and foot, tapping out his location in between screams of pain.