AN: This is just as rough sledding as the last chapter; there's a fair amount of violence. You've been warned!

Also, I thought this posted last night, only to wake up and see that it didn't. Sorry!

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The way Sam's day started should have been a clue for how it was going to go. One moment he was struggling to unstick heavy eyelids and wondering why the bed was so hard. The next, he was gasping and retching from a blow to the stomach.

"...t up," he heard over the sound of his own puking. He saw the next kick coming, but couldn't curl in on himself fast enough to protect his stomach. The sight of the hoof doing the kicking reminded him of the attack at the trailer. He barely made it to his feet, sore and disoriented, before he was kicked a third time.

"Clean up your filth, kovalos," boomed a deep voice loudly enough to make Sam's head pound. Something was thrust violently into his hand, nearly unbalancing him.

Sam blinked at the mop he now held, then at the creature who towered over him. Instinct and luck let him duck the ensuing backhand. "Clean!" boomed the...well, Sam was pretty sure it was a satyr. Not that that made any sense.

And Sam realized that standing there just thinking was a terrible idea. He quickly began mopping up the puke puddle he'd made.

"Where --" he started, not seeing his brother in what was apparently a cell of some sort.

The satyr, who stood maybe a foot over Sam's own six feet and bulged with muscles, snatched mop out of his hands and smacked him across the shoulders with the handle. "No talking unless you're asked a question," the satyr barked. He tossed the mop away and pointed at the half wall at the other side of the room. "One minute!"

Now, Sam didn't like to be ordered to do anything. It was in his nature to resist. But he was still too foggy and confused to put to string two thoughts together, much less come up with a plan. And he did have to go. He hustled over and relieved himself. His tormentor hadn't been kidding about the one minute thing. Sam hadn't even finished washing his hands when a large, heavy backpack was shoved at his chest.

"That's all your rations for the day. Eat and drink whenever you want, but drop it or set it down for any reason, you lose it." Without any more exposition, he grabbed one of Sam's arms and half dragged him out of the room.

They passed through winding corridors at dizzying speed. Even not still feeling fuzzy, Sam would have been hard-pressed to replicate their path. His shoulder ached from the way he was being dragged and a whole lot of older hurts were reminding him of just how the fight at the trailer had turned out. One ankle and the other wrist were competing loudest for his attention, but his whirling head wasn't doing him any favors either.

They stopped so suddenly that Sam would have fallen if not for the iron grip on his arm. Some instinct had Sam slipping the backpack over his free shoulder. And he blinked as he saw where they were. The cave system -- because that was certainly what the whole place started as -- was in the side of a canyon, and they were looking out of a narrow aperture a long ways up.

Sam stared, trying to get a better look out, squinting in the bright sunlight. Before he could do more than that, a squeaky gasp was shocked out of him as he was unceremoniously tossed over the satyr's shoulder.

Then the creature jumped. Instead of ending up as smears on the rocky canyon floor, they landed surprisingly lightly. Then the little air that was left in Sam's lungs was forced out explosively as the satyr made another impossible jump.

Even as he struggled to breathe and waited for the inevitable slip that would lead to their deaths, Sam realized what was happening. We're descending like mountain goats, jumping from ledge to ledge. Those hooves must be able to flex and hold --

Sam's thought derailed as he was dumped roughly onto the ground.

The satyr scowled down at Sam for a moment, his eyes evaluating. Sam scrambled to his feet, not liking looking up so far. He pulled the backpack on fully.

"They give me a mikroskopos, and expect to get a good game," the satyr muttered. His eyes flicked to the backpack and one eyebrow lifted as if in surprise. Then he shrugged. "Run, skoulíki!" He pulled a stout staff out of somewhere and punctuated the order with a stinging smack to Sam's bicep.

Sam ran. And ran. And ran.

The sun pounded down until Sam was literally drenched in sweat. He had no boots, and the soles of his feet were soon torn so he left bloody footprints. His taskmaster ran behind, constantly muttering to himself, seemingly unbothered by the heat or exercise. He referred to himself in the third person (third monster?), so Sam learned that he was called Propos.

If Sam faltered or slowed, Propos hit him with the stick. If he turned the wrong way (and how was he supposed to know what was the right way?!), he was hit. If he tried to say anything, he was hit.

He never knew where the blow would fall, either. Lower back, thigh, calf, shoulder. All designed to hurt without completely incapacitating him. Some of the strikes sent him crashing to the ground.

They ran for hours and the few breaks were far too short to allow him to catch his breath, much less eat or drink. Eventually, he dug out a water bottle to drink while he ran, then a big, textured cracked that reminded him of a giant Triscuit. It was bland and hard to chew, but grainy and probably a great source of carbs, and he was starving, so he choked it down.

Sam spared a thought for his brother -- he really hoped Dean wasn't out in the cruel sun, because he'd get burned to a crisp. His heart twisted, just hoping and praying that Dean was okay, wherever he was. Distracted by his worry, Sam stumbled and landed on the already sore wrist. Propos' blow to his thigh made the muscle briefly seize up.

Sam had to stop thinking about Dean, or he was going to get himself killed. Watch your six until I can, Dean would have told him, so Sam somehow got up and started running again.

Despite his exhaustion and pain, Sam listened to Propos' disjointed soliloquy, and he learned.

Propos was under the orders of someone called the mistress, and his job was to train Sam so it would be a "good game," This sounded gladiatorial enough to make Sam very nervous.

Propos was not impressed with Sam as a candidate. He called him a weakling, a fly, and lots of words Sam didn't know but thought were Greek. Sam's selection was, apparently, not his decision, nor one he supported. Yeah, even my family thinks I'm useless and need more training, Sam thought morosely.

Propos and other satyrs were, Sam gathered, soldiers or a security force of some kind. But that didn't make any sense. Satyrs were notorious hedonists, only interested in eating, drinking, and sex. Actually, they were like supernatural Deans, but without the good traits and heroism. They were also anarchists who only ever listened to the deity Bacchus. So how some mysterious female was making them conform and obey, Sam had no clue.

He wasn't getting anywhere puzzling through it, either. Weariness was making his thought processes slow.

Sam was wondering just how long he could possibly keep going. Then came the obstacles to make things even harder. There were boulders to climb over, a rock shelf he had to army crawl under, and a fissure to jump that he was sure had a couple of skeletons at the bottom.

After an interminable amount of time, Propos suddenly yelled, "Stop, áchristos psýllos." Sam gratefully stopped. Propos was staring at him with a strange expression on his goat-like face.

Go ahead and stare, Sam thought, flattening his mouth into a mutinous line and straightening his shoulders as much as he could.

Something flickered in Propos' eyes. Then he tossed Sam a stick identical to the one he'd bedeviled the teen with for so long.

"Defend yourself. I will attack for one hour. I will not stop if you lose your weapon or fall. If you lose consciousness, I will beat you to death." Without further warning, the brawny supernatural swung his staff at Sam's head so fast that it whistled through the air. Sam barely ducked it, reflexes dulled by his utter depletion.

Then it was on. Propos was bigger, stronger, and far healthier. Sam was quicker and more desperate. And he became even more desperate when the satyr taunted him, promising any blow Sam let through would be visited on Dean too.

"He passed all of his tests," Propos reported, cracking Sam's ribs hard enough to make the latter gasp. "Now he'll have to suffer because the Fates have cursed him with a weakling for a brother."

"Leave him alone!" yelled Sam, the first words he'd spoken in hours. No way was Dean suffering because of him. Fury lent him adrenaline which lent him strength and Sam swung his weapon at Propos twice.

Even though the satyr deflected both blows, it felt damn good to go on offense.

It didn't last. Sam had to pull out every trick he knew to survive the hour. There was a lot of ducking and running and even some hiding. There was also tripping and sneak attacks and getting hit way too often.

Finally, blessedly, it was over, and Propos actually let Sam sit for a while and eat the last of his big crackers and drink his last water bottle. It wasn't nearly enough, but he knew better than to complain.

Sam was shocked to see the sun was going down. He'd been "training" all day.

"Up," ordered Propos, then pointed back toward the canyon wall. Just before they reached it, the satyr paused and looked way up, performing some complicated motions with his hands that were clearly a form of obeisance. Sam tilted his head back, fighting a wave of dizziness.

Way, way above their heads was a skinny tower with a broad head. It reminded Sam of a child's poor drawing of the Seattle space needle.

Propos grabbed Sam's arm and he resigned himself to getting tossed over a shoulder again. Instead, he was tossed forward.

Just before he landed in it, Sam saw that there was a little brook flowing defiantly in the shadow of the canyon wall, hidden by the overhang. It was a strange and welcome sight in the desert.

Sam hit the bottom of the little creek, since the water only about three feet deep, then he was being hauled back out. Then he was tossed over Propos' shoulder for the terrifying ride back up.

We'll never get free, Sam thought despondently, too tired a be frightened by the ascension. Only satyrs can get up and down.

If he thought being back inside meant he'd get a bed, Sam was mistaken. They'd gone to a different opening in the rock, this one massive. Propos took Sam's empty backpack, handed him the end of a rope, and pointed to a deep but narrow hole.

"Climb down or I throw you down."

Sam wasn't claustrophobic, but making himself climb into the oubliette was one of the hardest things he'd ever done. He had no idea how he made it down with how hard his arms were shaking, but he did, and the rope was dragged back up out of sight.

There wasn't enough room to sit or crouch, and the rock was hot to the touch, but it turned out none of that mattered. Sam's battered body had had enough. He was asleep -- or maybe unconscious -- before he had a chance to get scared.

WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER

Sam had no idea how much time had passed or why, exactly, he was sleeping standing up. But something was bumping against his face and a voice was yelling at him. There were a lot of insults, and something about how stupid it would be if he died down there. It sounded so much like something Dean would say that Sam smiled.

Then the voice (disappointingly not Dean) said "If you want out, you'll have to hold on to the rope."

Hold on? He thought he could do that. And somehow, he did. He held on for all he was worth, even as his battered body scraped against the rock. Then he was out and lying down, which was undoubtedly the best thing that had ever happened to him.

Sam couldn't have stood up if his life depended on it, but a big hand (still not Dean) pried the rope out of his hands. Then it grabbed him around the waist and carried him away, head and limbs flopping loosely.

They walked and Sam dozed, until he was dropped again. He was just going to go back to sleep when his vision cleared enough that he realized Dean was here! Pure joy stole his voice. Dean was alive and with him and everything was going to be okay!

Dean stepped toward Sam...then stopped. He sat down. His eyes were practically sparking, but Sam was far too tired to read what was in them.

"Heya, Sammy," said Dean, as if Sam were coming back from a day of school. "How was your day?"

That...was all wrong. Was Dean angry with him? Was he hurt? Sam was just too fuzzy to be sure. "Shitty," he answered.

"I know, dude," said Dean, still in that actor-in-a-cheap-commercial voice. "They don't even have cable. It's as bad as that place we stayed in back in 1984."

Sam's body was crying for rest, but he was confused and worried. (1984? What was Dean talking about? Sam had been too young to remember anything. And why wasn't Dean helping him? It didn't make sense...this was the guy that was more upset than Sam was when the latter had gotten stitches a few months ago. Could Dean be that disappointed in how Sam had acquitted himself today?) There was one thing Sam had to know. "You 'kay, D'n?"

"Yeah, Sammy. Not a scratch," said Dean, and now he sounded congested. It was one more enigma in a whole pile of mysteries, but they'd all have to wait. Sam's reserves were gone.

"Good," he sighed, and his eyes slid shut.

He had no idea Dean stayed awake and watched him all night.

WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER

Twelve hundred miles away, the nomadic werewolf clan grinned at each other as they set their ambush. Killing was fun all on its own, but getting paid to kill by some mysterious benefactor? And having hunters basically served up on a silver platter? Even better.

John Winchester and his friends didn't stand a chance.

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AN: All of the Greek words come from Google translate.

Propos calls Sam maggot, tiny man, and useless flea.

Propos' name comes from the Greek word proponitís, which means trainer.

printandpolish: I know! :-(

Shazza19: Dean is not going to be a happy camper! The mistress has no idea what she's in for taking on the Winchesters!

JaniceC678: You are spot on with a lot of your speculation, as usual. I hope I do this trope justice. It's always a little nerve wracking to take on something that many others have done in the past, and probably with more skill. But I'm looking forward to hearing your thoughts as the story continues!

Timelady66: Oh, yeah, he will! I think Propos was already surprised. I love what you said about Dean being able to encourage him by saying the opposite.

stedan: Yay! I'm glad you're reading! I have Desi's story line all planned out. :-) I'm definitely not nice to the poor boys, but they will probably find ways the communicate. It's not really in the prompt (sorry, muffinroo!) but I can't leave them totally at odds, can I?

muffinroo: Be glad you couldn't see it, but I did a happy dance when I read your comment! I get nervous every time I put out a new chapter, just because I don't want you to be disappointed. Yup, bad guys always seem to underestimate the Winchesters (just ask Crowley) and it never goes well for them.

Lena: You know the saying that things have to get worse before they get better? Well, full disclosure: we're firmly in the getting worse part! I hope that you stick with me. After all, you made it through Sisyphus Rests, and that was a lot worse (I think). I hope you're having a nice weekend after such a busy week!

Kathy: I'm happy you're reading! Yeah, a nice, relaxing evening fell apart pretty fast, didn't it? Poor boys...they just aren't safe with me!