"Dr. Borden, Are you in there?" The security guard tapped twice on the door.

Silence.

He tapped again, "Dr. Borden?"

But the office appeared to be empty.

###

Sam felt the cloth tightening around his throat, felt his heart racing. He could feel his pulse pounding in his temples, in his cheeks. His face growing hot. He could barely breathe. His hands plucked feebly at his throat.

"Not too quickly now." Guyver directed. "Let's just hold it right there for a bit. I want to watch his face."

Joan paused in her work, her face blank. She nodded.

Guyver smiled and glanced around him. Joan had a podium pushed into one corner beside her desk. He tugged it out and rolled it in front of him, leaning comfortably against it to get the best view.

Now he felt at home.

"You may continue, Joan. You're doing so well."

###

The guard was turning away from the door when three men approached him at a run. "Unlock it!" The battered one barked.

The guard frowned. "Who are you?"

"Listen," The older man said. "We believe Dr. Borden in is trouble. You need to unlock that door. We need to check on her."

"What kind of trouble?"

"Fuck this!" Dean yelled, snagging the man's keys from his hand. "Which one is it?"

###

Sam was dying. He could feel his life leaving him. The room was dim now, the carpet just a pale shadow in the background. His head felt like it was going to erupt, and in his confusion, Sam pictured brains like lava shooting out the top of his skull and pooling beneath him.

Still, the doctor tightened the tourniquet.

Sam couldn't breathe at all now. His neck - it felt like it was separating, everything inside being crushed to pulp. He couldn't plead anymore. He couldn't speak. He couldn't fucking whimper.

The tourniquet tightened.

"Stop. Right there." Guyver grinned, studying Sam. "That's perfect."

Sam slipped from the chair to his knees.

###

"Which one!" Dean practically screamed.

"Here!" the guard wrenched the keys away. He fumbled with them for an instant before drawing the one he wanted. He slipped it into the lock and shoved the door open.

Dean pushed past him, surveying the horrifying scene in front of him in a split second. Sam, on his knees on the floor, the doctor behind him, garroting him, and the bastard preacher standing off to the side, watching the scene with glee.

Dean roared, shoving the woman aside. He grabbed his brother's shoulders and tried to untwist the garrote, but it was woven too tightly around Sam's slender neck.

Sam was blue, dammit. He was blue.

Dean grabbed him by the hair, yanking his head back, apologizing. "I'm sorry, Sammy. I'll make this quick, okay?" He slipped his knife effortlessly from its holster and slid the tip beneath the scarf under Sam's left ear. In one swift, left-to-right motion, he severed the red fabric that choked his brother. He lost his grip then, and Sam fell to the floor, a sea of red chiffon following him down. Once released, it fluttered to the floor on top of him, covering his neck like blood. A portion of the thin veil fell across his eyes.

Sam lay, trying to draw a single, labored breath. He stared up at his brother through a film of red, seeing the knife in his hand and feeling the pain in his throat.

They'd lost.