AN: Same warnings for violence. There are what my brother calls "swears," but I kept the worst of it out.

* * *

Jim Murphy clung to what Dean irreverently called the oh shit handle. He was more nervous now than when the four hunters had discovered that they were being tracked by a group of werewolves. He'd said more than a few prayers on the drive so far, and found it a good time to send one up in his own behalf.

He glanced at the lock jawed, carved out of granite face of his companion. He knew John Winchester didn't care about excessive speed or danger at this point. and heaven help any cop who tried to pull him over.

Knowing better than to try to talk to the man and trying to distract himself from just how fast the scenery was flashing past, Jim looked in his side mirror. He couldn't believe Bobby's old car was keeping up with them. But he honestly wasn't surprised that the other hunter was willing to drive fast enough to put his life at risk. Just like John, Bobby thought he disguised his deep love for Sam and Dean. And just like John's, Bobby's love was completely transparent to he pastor.

And Jim loved those boys, too. Their hunting life hadn't hardened their hearts or made them callous. On the contrary, they were fine, compassionate young men with deep wells of courage and heroism. Separately, they were impressive enough. Together -- the way they belonged -- they were nearly unstoppable, even at such a young age. If one or both of them were...

Trepidation forgotten, Jim actually wished they could go even faster. He'd rather end up a smear on the pavement than discover that something had happened in Texas while they chased a red herring.

Too good to be caught with their pants down, the four older hunters had set up a counter ambush and, after a fierce and bloody fight, ended up victorious.

Then John had found a band of cash and a very accurate sketch of his own face in the leader's pocket. Jim had had to step outside when John interrogated the one werewolf that was still breathing. The latter had admitted that they'd been paid to perform and stage the killings, down to the yellow eyed murderer. "To get you away from your pups," in his words, though he didn't know why or by whom.

John had thrown a quarter of the cash at Travers, who'd said he'd handle the cleanup. They had been driving hellbent for leather ever since. By now, the boys had missed three check ins and nobody had been able to reach them for over a day.

Jim began to pray again.

WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER

Watching over Sam was a common thing for Dean. He'd sat vigil over fevers, food poisoning, broken bones, and many, many nightmares.

But in one extremely important way, this was completely different.

Dean couldn't touch his brother.

The way he showed care and affection was through words, though not the traditional ones, and through tending hurts and a ruffle of the hair or a shoulder bump or...

Dean knuckled one eye. What he wanted to do didn't matter. He had to focus on what he could do. He had to work on: protecting Sam, arming up, figuring a way out of this place, and finding a way to contact Dad.

Good thing Dean was a gifted multitasker.

The goat men had all of the leverage, but maybe they didn't know just how much leverage they had over him with his baby brother in their clutches. A baby brother who was sounding congested, like maybe he'd taken some hits to the ribs. He should probably be on his side...and Dean was going to break his teeth if he kept clenching his jaw so hard. He briefly considered waking Sam and just telling him to roll, but the kid looked utterly wrecked, and needed the sleep. Besides, Dean wasn't sure if he was sleeping or unconscious.

There went the jaw again. Dean would just have to keep an ear on Sam's breathing.

The best (only) way he could help Sam right now was to keep working on his to-do list.

The goats, even Conan, were definitely not in charge, and the chick who was wanted Dean kept healthy. He could use that. She liked her games, apparently, since the rules that had been laid out were designed to mess with the captives. If Dean could get her intrigued, draw her in, he could play his own game.

Even more than the psychological games, this boss was all about control. The whole hidden compound, staying out of sight, toying with the emotions of her captives, all of it spoke to a need to control everything around her.

Dean had to get himself some space, act like he was going along with what she wanted, then get her off her game by messing her carefully controlled operation all up.

Weapons...well. Dean would have to keep his eyes open. Same for finding a way to contact Dad. Opportunities would present themselves; he'd negotiate for a little more space from his bodyguards to help that along.

Sam shivered. He really shouldn't stay in those wet clothes, or he was going to get sick, and that was the last thing he needed. Dean had to scoot back as far as he could on the bed, shoving his back against the wall, to keep himself from getting down on the floor and feeling Sam's forehead. This didn't just suck, it sucked like the world's biggest Hoover.

Focus, Dean. Sam was alive. The rest he could work on.

Dean needed to start building a map of the place, and he could only think of one way to do that. It wasn't ideal, but nothing about their situation was.

He closed his eyes because he was a coward and needed to stop looking at the accusation of Sam's battered face. Hang in there, Sammy, he thought. But since telepathy was unfortunately not in his skillset, Dean needed a way to communicate with his brother. The damn goats and their psychopath of a mistress were going to keep putting the kid through hell, and he'd need something to hold onto.

Instead of sleeping, Dean began to plan.

He had no way of telling time, but he did have a good internal clock. By the time Sam began to stir in earnest, Dean knew it had to be morning. It was the first Sam had really moved, except for little shifts that were usually accompanied by soft sounds of pain that made Dean indulge in fantasies about killing all of the goat men in lurid ways.

The most recent time Sam had moaned, Dean began to talk. He couldn't touch or say anything encouraging? Fine. That didn't mean he couldn't talk at all. So he'd spent a good hour or so just quietly debating the merits of various muscle cars, finally concluding that after the Impala (of course), he could appreciate the GTO Judge, the Mustang Mach 1, and the split window Corvette Stingray.

The conversation would've bored the sleeping geek, but Dean's voice did the trick and Sam had settled. Well, as much as one could sleeping on a hard floor after being beaten half to death.

Now, it seemed like Sam was going to wake for good, and Dean had to be ready. Sam would take Dean's apparent indifference badly, not to mention what he'd think about the fact that Dean was obviously being treated better than he was. Sam's self esteem was low on a good day...and this was hardly a good day. Dean had to get him a message, and hope that big brain wasn't too scrambled to pick up on it.

Dean got up and used the facilities, then took his time washing his hands and face. He wasn't surprised when the not-so-mod squad walked in. Dean ignored them, staying at the mirror and running wet fingers through his hair like he was styling it.

On the floor, Sam gave a little groan that made him sound like an old man. He rolled onto his side. "Dean?" His voice was as rough as his appearance, but Dean didn't turn.

He waited until he caught Sam's eyes in the mirror. Then he put everything he could into that look. Love, because Sam was a big girl and needed that. Confidence, that Sam could survive whatever they threw at him, and that they'd get out of there. Apology that he couldn't say any of it. I hope you've paying attention, Sam.

Sam passed a hand over his eyes and Dean worried that he was still too tired and out of it to pick up on anything.

'Are you...are you good?" rasped Sam, curling into a seated position.

Dean turned and pasted a bored look on his face, no longer looking at Sam directly. "Of course."

Sam reached a hand up, silently asking for Dean to help him up, like he had a million times before, after sparring, in the morning after a hard workout or difficult hunt. And long before that, after they wrestled or after little Sammy had managed to trip over his own untied shoelaces.

Turning away from that hand now made Dean's heart shrivel in his chest. The pain was so sharp that Dean wasn't quite certain how that abused organ was still beating. There was only one thing he could do for Sam right now. But he couldn't look at Sam's face as the kid let his hand fall onto his lap.

Aware of four pairs of goat eyes and the damn camera, Dean made his voice as cold as he could. "Sammy, this is like when you were six and Dad said you were too big to sleep in my bed any more. Sometimes you just have to cut the cord, dude."

There were a lot of firsts for the Winchesters in renting the townhome in Bakersfield, Tennessee. It was bigger and nicer than most places they stayed, and Dad had gotten a job, which Dean recognized as meaning they were staying a while, which was good. Sammy was about to start first grade, and going to so many different schools was hard on a little kid.

One first was that they actually had stairs. It was the first place they stayed -- not counting Pastor Jim's and Uncle Bobby's houses -- that had stairs since the house.

Another first was there were separate beds for the boys instead of just one big one. Sammy, who was plagued by nightmares, hated that immediately. Dean would have offered to just push the beds together, except that all of the furniture was bolted to the floor.

Dad was coming off a near disastrous hunt, limping all the time and walking slightly hunched over. Dean already recognized that the lines on his face meant that he was in pain. And he was irritable. When Sammy had whined about the beds, Dad told him that he should enjoy the space and that he was too old to need his brother to sleep anyway.

Dean rarely outright defied his father, but he knew that Sammy needed him and determined they'd just have to wait until after Dad went downstairs after putting them to bed to get together. Then, they quickly learned how the creaky old floor made it completely impossible to take a single step out of bed without Dad hearing. And he really didn't appreciate having to come back up the stairs again with his bad leg.

But Winchesters simply didn't give in that easily. In short order, a plan was formed and executed. The distance between the beds was too great to jump, but between the beds, next to Sam's, was a nightstand. When Sam climbed onto it, he was able to leap into Dean's waiting arms.

Since Dad didn't come up in the morning, but just called them to come down, he never found them out.

Dean needed Sam to understand, to remember that big brother had worked against authority to help him. He needed Sam to realize that Dean wasn't tending him because he couldn't, not because he chose not to. But he couldn't tip his hand either. So without so much as a glance toward Sam, he walked out.

Just as he was stepping through the door, Sam called after him, "Don't blame the satyrs, Dean. They're just pawns."

Dean contemplated that as he walked. Whether or not he'd understood, Sam had given Dean information. And thinking about that beat the shit out of imagining what these assholes might put Sam through today.

So, the goat guys were satyrs. What did Dean know about them? The only thing he could remember was from last summer. They'd been at Bobby's Sam was looking at one of Bobby's old books. Sam's eyes had widened as he turned a page, and a blush had painted his cheeks. Sensing blood in the water, Dean had grabbed the book and been surprised to see a reproduction of some old painting that depicted an orgy. The caption read: Satyrs and nymphs cavort in bacchanalian celebration.

Right. Bacchus was the only ancient deity Dean could ever remember, probably because he was the god of wine and cavorting. Sam's embarrassment had provided months of entertainment. But what else did he know about satyrs? Just one thing, but it was huge: basically impervious to bullets but can be killed with a blade.

Good job, Sammy.

A loud crunching noise interrupted Dean's musings. He frowned over to see Whitey crunching on some kind of giant cracker that looked like what zoos fed giraffes. (There aren't always a lot of options in TV, okay?) Conan was drinking smugly from a water bottle, if such a thing were possible.

Dean froze. "What is going on?" he demanded, having an idea of what it was. Whitey grinned, his teeth full of crumbs.

"Just enjoyin' your brother's extra provisions." He took an obscenely large bite.

"And why, exactly, is Sam losing provisions?" asked Dean with quiet menace.

"You comforted him during the night." It was Conan who answered.

"I did no such thing. The only thing I did was talk to pass the time, about a subject that would've bored the kid to tears if he'd been awake to hear it." The idiot twins were only ones who seemed to hear the menace in Dean's tone, because they backed off slightly, hands on their guns nervously.

Whitey was openly laughing, so Conan answered again. "The sound of your voice is a comfort to the boy. So there must be a punishment. Go into there."

"No." Dean set his feet, implacable, and it felt so good to finally defy them.

"What?" Conan hadn't been expecting that.

"No. No going where you want me to, eating your damn food, taking a bath or anything else you tell me to do. There are a million ways I can make you look bad to your mistress without ever touching you. She wants me in good shape right? Well, good luck with that."

"Go in there or we will kill your brother."

Only because Dean had know the threat was coming was he able to avoid flinching. "Then what? You'll lose any leverage you have over me, and I will fight you until you're all dead or I am. And if your mistress really wanted him dead, he already would be."

"We can hurt him," threatened Whitey, no longer amused.

"Shut up. The grownups are talking. Seriously, this was all a power play. You wanted me to disobey so you could throw it in my face. But I didn't, so you had to change the rules. Well, if you do that, you'll lose any and all cooperation. And I imagine your mistress wouldn't take kindly to that."

Conan was frowning slightly, looking at Dean warily, like he'd underestimated him. Both ignored Whitey, who was all but spitting in irritation. "We will not change the rules," Conan said finally. "But your brother will pay dearly for ones you do break.

"Well, duh." Dean rolled his eyes. It was taking every once of self restraint and acting ability he had to not react to the threats to Sam. "Do you think I could get my boots back?" he asked as he strolled nonchalantly into the room where his breakfast waiting. "My feet are getting torn up."

Sitting at the table, Dean lifted one foot to show off the blood on the bottom of his sock. He'd deliberately scraped it on a protrusion on the floor, inspired by Sam's bloody soles. And...so not thinking about that right now. He wanted to test just how important it was to them to keep him healthy.

"Don't give in to this apóvrasa!" yelled Whitey. "He has no power here." He was nearly foaming at the mouth.

"Actually," said Dean, his mouth full of some kind of crepe. "I bet I can get you removed from my detail before the end of the day."

He kept verbally poking at the volatile satyr the whole time he ate, and during his workout. Then Conan held out small device that looked like a tiny...tape recorder.

"Your brother is still alive," he said. "Which means I lost a bet. But we need a little incentive for him. Normally, we'd just beat the shit out of you and show him the video, but we're going to have to get creative. I need you to yell like you're in pain."

"I'm no actor," protested Dean. Never mind that he'd been acting for their very lives all damn day. "Hey, I know y'all aren't exactly the brightest bulbs, by why do you carry guns, anyway? I thought there was a minimum IQ requirement for owning a firearm."

Well, that was the straw that broke the goat's back. Whitey grabbed one of said guns and there was a deafening retort. Dean found himself on his back, all but writhing in pain. Damn. All I wanted was for him to take a swing at me, Dean thought, trying to suck in a breath.

"Per-personal space, goat face," he wheezed out as Conan's face loomed close. Dean's questing fingers didn't find any blood, and he thought he knew what that meant. "Beanbag rounds?" he stuttered, because flying port-o-johns, that hurt. But now that his body was coming back under his control, he was pretty sure the injured rib wasn't even cracked.

Conan's expression registered as Dean pushed him away and gathered himself to get up. The satyr was terrified. It eased Dean's pain slightly to see that. "That enough yelling for you?" he asked, making it to his feet and glaring at the twin who reached to help him up.

The satyrs backed off and let him stand up and Dean did his best not to show any weakness. "So, bathtime needs to be an hour today, got it?" As he passed Whitey, he hissed, "Told you."

The bath was just what Dean needed, and they did give him an hour. And his boots and belt were with the rest of his clothes. He'd feel triumphant, just as soon as he could breathe without pain.

The spot on the lower left side of Dean's torso was already bruising badly, and the skin was slightly broken. But he had other things to focus on.

Taking off his amulet (because they'd been smart enough to leave it with him), Dean grimaced and began to draw a map of the labyrinthine caves. He had only one canvas he couldn't lose. He used one of the horns of the amulet to scratch the map into the skin of his thigh. It wasn't perfect, but it would have to do.

After bathtime, Whitey (or Ari, as Conan apparently called him) was gone, replaced by a shorter by broader russet-haired (furred?) satyr, to Dean's delight.

He began to taunt the new arrival. He pulled out every goat joke he could come up with. He got the most reaction when he demanded to know why "the whores of the monster world" were obeying "some chick with a cave kink," though if it was the part about the satyrs or their mistress that stirred him up, Dean didn't know.

Dean was brought back to the human doctor, who cleaned the injury, unnecessarily taped the rib, and forced Dean to ice it. It was, frankly, embarrassing. But it gave him a better sense of where he stood.

The day dragged on and it became harder to avoid thinking about Sam.

Then, as Dean ate his supper, reflecting on a successful day, Conan flipped on a TV (and how the hell they had electricity here was a mystery he didn't have time for).

"Thought you might like to see how your brother did on his first fighting day." His grin was more lupine than caprine.

A shaky, grainy video came up and Dean froze. There were a pair of satyrs in the background of what appeared to be a cave that was maybe 15 feet wide. Sam was in the foreground, and even in the black and white, Dean could see he was in bad shape. He was filthy, his clothes torn in numerous places. And everywhere there was exposed skin, there seemed to be scrapes. He was limping badly, holding a woefully inadequate knife and circling opposite a slavering chupacabra. The creature wasn't using one of its front legs, and it bled heavily from three or four stab wounds.

Sam might look like hammered crap, but he was winning. Dean felt a rush of pride, tempered by serious worry and anger.

Then a figure walked into the background and Dean's heart stuttered. It was Whitey, badly beaten. His face was twisted in rage. He lifted a handgun, pointed it at Sam, and fired multiple times. Sam dropped like a rock, and the chupacabra, seeing his weakness, leaped onto his chest. And Conan shut off the video.

Dean didn't remember standing, but he was on his feet. "Turn it back on! What's happening?"

"That was earlier today. Ari was going against orders and was executed for interfering in the training." Conan was unemotional.

"Is he alive?!"

Now Conan smiled, just a little. "Honestly, I don't know. They didn't tell me."

Dean felt hot and cold and hollowed out. "If he's not okay, I'm going to punch you in the throat and watch you suffocate," he promised, his voice sounding as hollow as he felt.

"Perhaps. But your brother will still be dead."

* * *

AN: As usual, the Greek word comes from Google translate. Apóvrasa means scum.

The painting is real, but I don't know the name or artist, and I'm not willing to Google nymph and satyr orgy. LOL

sfaulkenberry: I love Starchilde's stories! Yup, not making things easy on little Sam. Do I ever? And spot on with 1984, which is talked about in the next chapter, which is Sam's POV. You are very smart. :-)

muffinroo: Whew! So glad you're still with me. How did you like Dean's way of getting Sam a message in this chapter? It was inspired by my niece who used to climb out of her crib to get in her big sister's bed. The next chapter is Sam's POV, heavy on pain and angst!

BruisedBloodyBroken: Well, John's on the way! But he's a long ways away yet.

stedan: Ooh, good guesses! Some right, some not. I bet you dislike the satyrs even more now. The 1984 reference will be explained in the next chapter!

Anne: You're so nice! I do like to give the Winchesters a little fun up front before I mess with them. And the whole family dynamic is a favorite of mine for writing.

Timelady66: I was proud of him too! We can be weirdos together. LOL

MaddyWinchester2000: I promise that there will be schmoop! Just...not yet. I love the comfort part too, reading and writing. I hope you don't mind the wait too much! I'll make the end of the story extra schmoopy just for you.

JaniceC678: *cue the evil laughter* Not a bad person at all...after all, all is fair in fiction! Sam's POV coming next, so we can see what he thinks of Dean's apparent indifference.

superobes: I liked your insight so much that I added it to this chapter and the next. Thank you!

Shazza: I know -- it's so bad, isn't it? John, etc. are on their way, but it's not going well for the boys in the meanwhile!