Author's Note: The next chapter! WOOT! Reviews make me feel tingly inside!

Chapter 13: Rescue . . . ?

Despite the fact that he felt as if he'd grown unable to move or speak, Sam could have sworn he heard himself mumble, "Mine." He wasn't sure what he was laying claim to, but he was sure he would get no results in doing so. His eyes watched helplessly as they seemed to be the only part of him still involved in this grotesque ritual.

There was only one word left. Sam could feel it—could see it in her eyes as she looked at him, once again fighting tears. All she had to do was speak it. It was strange to see it—the supposed power, dangling in front of his eyes in an eerie purple sparkle. Was that his? Only seconds ago he had claimed it, but he couldn't even begin to rationalize why it had been given to him or what purpose it would serve. As his gaze melted into it, he found himself loving the potential of its existence, yet hating himself for allowing any emotion to address this part of him.

He longed to laugh. He longed to cry. He longed to do anything that qualified as a human emotion. For a moment, he even allowed himself to feel regret. He was sure he was dying. He could feel it being ripped from him. Until now, he wasn't aware that his life force was attached to the power that had been given to him, but now he was able to assess that if he lost it, he would die. He also suspected that it was his choice and was even a bit flabbergasted that he had subconsciously chosen his power over his life.

Reflecting on the proceedings, Sam realized that he had rejected the fact that he had been chosen—had denied the implications of his destiny concerning his future vehemently. He could feel that it would save him now to let it go, but found himself unable to do so. What had he become? What would he become? Questions unanswered—questions that would never be answered. He wanted to reach out to it, to touch what she was stealing from him; but was once again foiled by the rope cruelly holding his hands in place. Wanting to feel more for his life, his mind flew through an explanation, though he was uncertain why he felt obligated to provide it, as no one would ever know it, hear it or care for it.

I tried. I played this game the best I could; I may have gotten my ass handed to me, but I tried. Sam felt a bit silly, realizing that the thoughts would never be known, yet he allowed himself to emerge into the façade, God, it hurts too much to stay. I have to go, Dean. I'm sorry. I have to.

Waiting for her to say it—the last word that would seal his disappointing fate—Sam swallowed, once again regarding the manifestation of his 'power' with a reluctant fondness as he waited for her to take it away.

Although Sam's entire body was unresponsive, he was able to gaze at her—almost drunkenly—as he took in her features. Her face was lined with age and emotion. She had the sort of striking demeanor a fellow may notice at a bar, but a hidden ferocity that would prevent one from actually taking her home. She was contemplating it—the last word. Sam didn't know how he knew, but he could feel that there was only one more utterance needed to detach him from the power he had known so briefly and loved so dear. Just as he thought that he was unable to speak, it escaped him again, one last claim to what she was about to steal, "Mine."

O O O O O

Dean slinked towards the middle of the stage, treating each step as if it were glass. When he had positioned himself near the center of the stage—what he hoped to be approximately in front of the seat Sam was tied to—he lowered himself to a crouching position and slid his hand underneath the fringe of the curtain.

At first he heard nothing, which enraged and frightened him at the same time, but before even five seconds had passed, Sam's voice broke the relative silence, "Mine."

Sam's voice had settled into a tone Dean had never heard before. It was detached, tortured and—Dean couldn't help but use the word he dreaded—dying.

It would have been prudent to assess the situation and at least determine whether or not he was dealing with Lilith; but Dean had heard all he needed to know in the one word he had heard Sam say. He spared no further thought into planning or strategizing. There was only one thought prominent in his mind: Save Sammy.

O O O O O

Sam finally allowed himself to give in as he closed his eyes and waited for it to end. Part of him was still encouraging him to continue an attempted escape, but his physical body refused to obey.

The feeling was subsiding and Sam became sure that he was dying. He even felt the corner of his mouth twitch into a strange smile, somehow grateful that the torture was finally over. As he allowed himself to be swept into nothingness, he was suddenly surprised by the fact that he could still feel. And he hurt. His wrists ached from the cruel binds, his feet were sore because he's forgotten his shoes, his cheek throbbed where he'd been physically beaten; and to top all of this pain, his head screamed in a pain that he'd never known.

That's not right, he felt the odd sensation of talking to himself. If I were dead, I wouldn't feel any of that.

Blinking his eyes open, Sam found that he was still tied the a chair in the front row of the theatre. The purple sphere in front of him drifted out of shape, then moved towards him. As fond as he'd grown of the physical representation of his power, he shifted in his seat apprehensively, now attempting to avoid physical contact with it, somehow thinking that it was the action that finally would end his life. It stretched into an oval that was nearly the length of his torso and proceeded to seep into him. He closed his eyes as he felt it falling back into place as if it belonged within him and he welcomed it, unsure of whether or not this was part of the spell, but not caring anymore. It was his.

"Does that fix it?" Dean's tentative voice drifted into Sam's mind, and he was aggravated that his eyes were once again closed, "Does it?" A more commanding voice now, yet Sam could tell he was trying very hard not to yell.

"Yes!" Beth's meek voice answered, clearly terrified.

"Sam?" Dean spoke again, his voice full of trepidation, "Sammy, bud? Can you hear me, man?" A hand was suddenly on his shoulder, shaking him gently, but urgently.

Yes, Sam tried to answer, but didn't hear his voice. He concentrated all of his strength on opening his eyes and was pleased to finally succeed. Blinking as a blurry world faded into focus, Sam saw that Dean was standing right in front of him with his hand still on Sam's shoulder. His eyes were full of worry and he was pointing a gun at Beth's head. This instantly upset Sam and he forced his voice to escape his reluctant body, "Don't, Dean. She's not—" A violent cough cut his statement short and he longed to reach towards his face, but the ropes were still secure, preventing him from moving his hands, "She's not with them—it's not her fault." He was extremely alarmed at the fact that Dean was in danger of hurting someone who didn't deserve to be harmed, "Lower it."

Reluctantly, Dean complied, and turned his attention to Sam's bonds. He reached towards Sam's right hand, but movement in his peripheral vision caused him to turn back towards Beth, once again raising the gun. She had started for the door, but he couldn't have her exposing the situation, "No, no—stay right where you are. We're not gonna hurt you, but you gotta stay here."

Beth was obviously horrified at the prospect of having a gun aimed at her, "Okay. Okay!" She was starting to panic and her voice had risen in pitch and volume.

"And be quiet!" Dean demanded, glancing fearfully towards the entrance doors.

Instead of saying anything, Beth nodded rapidly.

"Dean," Sam called quietly, still feeling fairly weak, but pleased with the fact that he was recovering from what he had endured. He could feel his strength returning and couldn't help but feel that it had to do with his power. He was somehow using it to revitalize himself and this thought scared and delighted him at the same time.

Once again, Dean turned towards Sam, focusing on his binds. To Sam's surprise, Dean had a machete in his hand and was about to use it to slice through the rope. Sam started to pull at his right wrist again, but Dean's voice stopped him, "Stop movin', Sammy, that makes it harder."

Sam obeyed wordlessly as he threw his head back and sighed, waiting for Dean to cut his arms free. As he lowered his head back to focus, his breath caught in his throat. Ben had entered the theatre through the back exit—where Sam assumed Dean had made his way in.

Hearing the hitch in Sam's breath, Dean hesitated to start sawing at the rope and looked back up into Sam's face worriedly, "You alright?"

"Ben," Sam spoke the name as he jerked his head towards the theatre door, the hated feeling of fear creeping back into his chest.

Ben approached the trio, a gun aimed at Dean, as Dean was the one of the three that presented the biggest threat, "Toss 'em," Ben's features were drawn into a disturbing grin as he stopped five feet away from Dean.

Dean's face fell into a disappointed scowl, utterly frustrated with the arrival of another enemy. He took a moment to look into Sam's eyes urgently, then dropped his eyes to Sam's right wrist suggestively. Finally turning away from Sam and allowing the machete to slide along the rope, Dean understood that he had no choice but to obey the order. He dropped the gun, but didn't 'toss' it as Ben had demanded—he dropped it as near to Sam as he could manage without seeming obvious.

"And the blade," Ben smirked in a way that suggested he considered himself rather clever for having spotted it, even though it was an extremely obvious accessory.

Dean attempted to drop the machete in the same way that he'd dropped the gun, but it bounced awkwardly after hitting the carpet and jetted away from Sam. Beth yelped in surprise as it landed right next to her and regarded its blood-stained blade with disgust.

After Dean looked away, Sam glanced down at his right wrist and was pleased to see that Dean had managed to saw through the first thick rope. He began twisting his wrist around as inconspicuously as he could manage and was relieved to see that Ben seemed entirely preoccupied with Dean.

"Got the drop on our boys out back, I see," Ben started moving forward again, now that Dean was unarmed. Dean glanced at Ben's gun and took a few steps back, passing by Beth, who was still unsure of what was expected of her at this point in the situation.

Dean wouldn't have normally backed off so easily, but the sooner he got Ben away from Sam, the sooner Sam could wriggle out of the partially cut binds on his right wrist.

"Yeah," Dean spoke to make sure that Ben's attention was focused on him instead of Sam, "They were real bright, but I guess I got lucky."

Hearing the sarcasm drip from Dean's words, Ben scowled, "Turn around, asshole. Hands up."

Sam worked feverishly at the binds after Ben had passed his chair. No doubt Ben considered him weak and incapable of escape, but the first rope being cut had given him enough leverage to use his entire arm's strength to struggle with the ropes.

Dean was reluctant to obey this order, fearing that Ben would simply shoot him in the back of the head and drag his body to Lilith proudly. Dean didn't necessary fear his own death, but he couldn't help but nearly panic about Sam's fate if that were to happen. Who could get Sam out of this if he were dead?

This last thought convinced him to turn away from Ben and raise his hands, "Walk towards the door," Ben's voice revealed that he was nearly laughing with satisfaction, "When she sees what I have for her, she's gonna commend me. No more talk about 'Riley this, Riley that'—she'll be tellin' everyone about ME."

Dean walked as slowly as possible, yet trying not to make it obvious that he was stalling, "Pathetic, much?"

Wrenching his right hand forward, Sam finally was able to make the rope unravel. Avoiding making noise, he brought his hand in front of him and started working at the knots on his left wrist. He risked a glance towards Dean and Ben, distressed that they were rounding the front row of the chairs. When he pulled his eyes back towards his hands, he was surprised and alarmed that Beth was now standing right in front of him, holding the machete.

For a moment he only stared at her, fearing her intentions, but it almost instantly became obvious that she didn't plan on using it. She was offering it to him.

Without thinking or causing any more delay, Sam snatched it by the handle and used it to slice through the rope, relieved that he hadn't cut himself and distantly thankful for the instinct that allowed him to act with such accuracy.

Wanting to give Beth a look of appreciation, but understanding that it was the last thing he should be worried about, Sam launched himself out of the hated chair, almost overwhelmed with the feeling to turn and spit on it, though he understood that it was an entirely pointless act. Instead he furtively rushed towards Ben, once again strangely thankful that he'd forgotten his shoes as his bare feet made absolutely no noise on the hard carpet.

Just as Sam reached Ben, he hollered, "Down!" because he was unwilling to take the risk that Ben might pull the trigger in a muscle spasm as his head was severed from his body. Dean immediately dropped as he had anticipated the attack. As Sam swung the blade at Ben's neck, he was surprised and severely disappointed to see Ben twist away and duck, a fraction of a second after Dean.

Sam felt the blade connect with nearly no resistance and was unsure of what he'd accomplished until he straightened up and saw that there was blood streaming down the left side of Ben's face and neck, seeping into his shirt.

Ben still had the gun and struggled to level it at Sam, who was still fairly shocked that Ben had avoided the blade.

"Dammit!" Ben gasped, reaching towards his ear tentatively, "What the fuck?"

Sam glanced downwards towards Dean, who was lifting himself back into a standing position. Ben had backed into one of the rows, distancing himself from the Winchester brothers, but keeping his gun trained in their direction.

Well, that didn't work, Sam thought regretfully, holding his free hand up in supplication and feeling a little ridiculous for his failed attack.

Author's Note: LOVE the reviews, people! Keep 'em comin'! I hope to have another chapter up some time tomorrow!