Sam sat terrified. He was in a bad situation, but even worse - They'd left Dean hurt and bleeding on the floor.

Sam had never felt so helpless. The room they'd taken him to was only two floors up, but it might as well have been in a different country.

Nobody knew where he was.

And he couldn't move, not at all.

Sam couldn't raise his head to look around him, but he judged it was an office; he could see the legs of furniture pieces that looked like a desk and an easy chair. There was a coat rack behind him, and a small garbage can next to it.

And on the floor, stretching for what seemed like endless miles, was the hideous yellow carpet of his premonitions. He guessed it was supposed to be stylish. In reality, it was just ugly. And impractical. Sam suddenly wondered what Bobby would say about the impossibility of bright yellow carpet.

"Idjits." He snorted, medication winning out.

He was going to die here.

By his brother's hand.

###

"Dean! Wake up!"

Dean groaned. Damn. His head. When did his head explode?

"Guhhhhh."

Danny shook him gently, "Dean, come on, man. You okay? Where's Sam?"

What? Sam? What about Sam? Dean tried to corral his thoughts, but they circled down around him like vultures on roadkill.

"What?" He managed. Witty.

"Sam's gone, son." Ron's voice. "Can you tell us what happened?"

And just like that, Dean's mind snapped to. He jerked in Danny's arms, his eyes shooting wide.

"Sam? They took him." He struggled to sit. "Son of a bitch. She took him."

"Who, Dean?"

A crowd was drawing now, nurses and aides, gathering to see who needed help.

"Borden." He remembered. "Dr. Borden. Where is she?" He addressed the gathering crowd.

"Joan? Probably in her office." someone said. "Upstairs. Should we call security?"

Dean struggled to his feet, bolstered on both sides by Ron and Danny. He nodded, "Yes, send security up there. What's the office number?"

" Dr. Borden's name is on the door. It's the last door on the left, two floors up."

###

"I think I'd like to see the boy suffer, Dr. Borden." Guyver admitted, snicking the lock on the reinforced door. Ever since they'd had a hostage situation in the hospital a few years back, all the doors were now reinforced.

Joan stared blankly at the preacher. "He's suffering … enough." She answered.

Guyver grinned, looking at the helpless kid in the chair. "Nah. I don't think so." He knelt in front of Sam, eye-to-eye, satisfied to see fear lingering there. "You and your brother have caused me quite a bit of trouble." He smiled.

"Fuck ... you."

"You're going to pay for that, Sam." He said, winking.

He stood, eyes darting around the room.

They fell on Joan's bright-red scarf that hung on the coat rack. It was one of those infinity-type ones with the ends stitched together to form a circle. "Your scarf." He said. "Bring it to me."

After a moment's hesitation, she complied. Guyver took it. He plucked a large screwdriver from the top of her desk. "DIYer?" He asked her, holding up the tool.

"Left behind. They were working … working on the ventilation system."

"Perfect!" He approached the young neurologist. "Now, I assume you know how to make a tourniquet, Joan? May I call you Joan?"

She nodded, brows drawing together.

"Good! Let's just put a tourniquet around his … um … let's see … his neck. How about that? Just a little wrap and twist?" He placed the items in her hands, stepping back for the best view.

She frowned, looking at the items in her hands. "His neck?" She asked blankly. "Can't. He won't be able to breathe."

"Of course he won't. And let's take it nice and slow, shall we? I want it to go on and on."

She didn't move.

"Go on." He prompted.

She looked pleadingly at him. "I … I took an oath."

He stepped forward, catching her face in his hands and staring into her eyes. "You can, Joan. You can do this."

She murmured, "I can do this."

"Good girl. Now get on with it." he stepped back again.

She stepped up behind Sam and steadied him gently in the chair. She slipped the scarf over his head.

"Please." Sam whispered. "Don't."

She paused and grimaced, her hands shaking. Then she threaded the screwdriver carefully through the scarf and began to rotate it, drawing the fabric tight against Sam's throat.

He whimpered, trying to raise his hands. He failed.