Sam had been strapped to a table one too many times in his life.

He brought his head up a bit, trying to catch sight of the demon. It was bent over the table he had seen before, its hands fiddling with something. He glanced over at Dean, who was still trying desperately to loosen Trevor Hartman's hold on him. He couldn't imagine the memories going through his older brother's head, but he knew that Dean still held on to a ton of guilt from his time in Hell. Whatever the demon had in mind for revenge, its mere presence was already doing enough to torture his brother.

Hartman turned back, clutching a small knife. Sam's muscles immediately tensed as he prepared himself mentally for the pain that was sure to come. No matter what came, he would not make a sound. Dean stared at him desperately, sweat beginning to form on his forehead. "Hurt me, damn it!" he shouted, his voice echoing around the nearly empty room. "I'm the one that tortured you!"

The demon grinned at him, black eyes boring into Dean's. "Oh, no. If there's one thing I learned from asking around about the Winchesters, it's that you boys would do anything for each other. When I asked what Dean Winchester had done to get himself sent into the flames, I learned it was to save his little brother from dying. I've heard about the Apocalypse that never was, when you refused to fight against each other and Sam ended up in Lucifer's Cage for it. I have done extensive research on you, Dean, so that when the time came I would know exactly how to cause you the most pain." It gestured to Sam. "Seeing your brother suffering will torture you more than I ever could. Besides, you've been Alastair's plaything and there's not much anyone can do to you after that.

"Although," Hartman speculated, turning from Dean and grinning at Sam, "I've got to say that by the end of it you were getting as good as the big man himself. There were days when I almost wished I had gotten Alastair instead of you, Dean. I mean, being tortured by demons with nothing compared to being tortured by a human: By someone I should have been able to trust. Someone who knew what it was like to suffer."

Dean's eyes were shut and he was shaking, from the effort of his continued attempts at escape or from the effect of Hartman's words, Sam couldn't tell. He wanted to say something, anything, to get that look off of his brother's face, but he couldn't. Dean's actions were done, and to him the circumstances under which they were done didn't matter in the slightest. It didn't matter that he had held on for forty years. It didn't matter that the souls in Hell were dead anyway and that they would have been tortured anyway. Dean had broken, and that was all that mattered to his brother. And there wasn't the slightest thing Sam could do about it.

Suddenly the demon lashed out with the knife and Sam shouted in surprise. He hadn't been expecting the sudden pain and he grimaced as blood began to flow from a shallow cut on his arm. "Sammy!" Dean shouted.

Hartman grinned. "Praying on your guilt and praying on your brother. Meg was right. Dean Winchester's formula for pain."

The brothers shot each other a look. "You've spoken with Meg?" Sam asked. His voice was tight, all his muscles clenched as the cut on his arm began to sting.

"Oh yes, we know each other. Long before she turned her back on us and began working with you to destroy Crowley. We had a nice talk about the Winchesters and our dreams of what exactly we'd do to them if we ever held them in our clutches." Hartman made another swift cut, but this time Sam was prepared. He squeezed his fists and gritted his teeth. Blood dripped down the other arm now.

Dean sucked in his breath. He was hanging limply now, not bothering to fight. "You weren't there as long as I was," he said. "You never reached your breaking point. You don't know what it's like."

"How do you think I became a demon?" Hartman demanded. "You know how time moves in Hell. I spent much more than forty years down there. I outlasted Dean Winchester. So don't give me your sob-story. I know what it's like."

Sam had been trying unsuccessfully to tune the demon's words out. Whatever Dean had done in Hell, he knew the details weren't anything his older brother wanted him to know. He kept his gaze away from both his torturer and his brother, desperately trying to ignore the words. And then a hint of movement caught his eye.

He looked at the door and saw a flash of blonde hair. Thank God, he thought, a flood of relief going through him. He hadn't thought Juliet was dead, but he thought she may have been hurt to the point where she couldn't move. Now he could see only a tiny section of her face as she poked her head in and took in the scene. She met his eyes and he could see how pale her face was.

He glanced quickly toward Hartman, but the demon was leaning over Dean and murmuring something. If Sam concentrated he could have made out the words, but he immediately turned his attention back to Juliet. In those brief moments she had already slipped through the door and was crouched behind a crate, which shielded her from the sight of Dean and the demon but not from Sam. She was mouthing something but she was entirely in shadow and Sam couldn't read her lips.

Another quick slash with the knife distracted him. This one was near his elbow. He flinched and looked at Hartman again, making sure the demon hadn't noticed where Sam had been looking. Up until now he had forgotten about the man who was being possessed—Juliet's boyfriend. He was in there somewhere, locked away in his own mind. Shawn had to be protected as much as possible, for Juliet's sake.

"Your brother has told you how they torture in Hell, hasn't he? Ripping pieces off bit by bit until there's nothing left." The tip of the knife played over Sam's face. "Some would start from the top and work their way down. Some would cut off all of the toes first and work their way up. But Dean, he had a different method. He cut straight into the middle and worked his way inside out." Hartman pushed up Sam's shirt, revealing the muscles of his stomach. Sam gritted his teeth again and looked up toward the ceiling.

"Sam can't die, you know," Dean said suddenly. "The angels are protecting him. If you kill him, they'll resurrect him. And then we'll both come and kick your pathetic ass."

It was a desperate bluff. Sam kept his eyes on the ceiling, waiting. He had died before—he had been stabbed, shot, had fallen into the crevice of Lucifer's deep pit. Being shot had been the least painful; had his killers not been flaunting their weapons, it was possible he may not have even realized what had happened to him. Stabbing hadn't been fun, but then he had been conscious for a good minute after it had happened. The pit… well, it was only the thought that nothing could top that in terms of sheer agony that was keeping Sam in his right mind.

The cold touch of the knife slid across Sam's stomach and he almost panicked before realizing that Hartman hadn't cut him. The dull side of the knife slid back and forth across his skin as the demon stared at Dean. "And why would the angels be protecting a boy with demon's blood, a boy who was once the vessel of Lucifer himself?" it asked, in a tone of voice that sounded as though it was discussing nothing more important than the weather. "I wouldn't think Heaven would have any interest in protecting someone like that."

"Like we would tell all of our plans to a demon," Dean shot back. His voice was more confident now. Sam sensed his brother had another play in mind, but they didn't have the opportunity to silently communicate like they usually did. Sam lifted his head once again, first making sure that the demon's attention was riveted on Dean before glancing over to Juliet's hiding spot.

But when Sam looked, Juliet was gone.

"I don't believe you," Hartman said. "The Apocalypse is over. There's nothing left for Heaven and Hell to do until Lucifer escapes or the King of Heaven returns, both of which seem unlikely. Nice try, Dean." The knife's point seemed to hang over Sam, suspended, for an eternity.

Then there was a flash of reflected light as the blade came whistling down.