AN: Okay, this chapter has some violence in it. The next will be worse. Please avoid if it will make you uncomfortable, but honestly, it's milder than some of my other stories.

Janice really put in yeoman's work for this one in her beta role!

Edited because I initially missed responding to one of the comments.

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Sam watched, mesmerized, as a drop of blood slid down a lock of hair next to his face. It moved so slowly, then hung at the tip for a few seconds, growing fatter and longer until gravity won. It landed on the floor, making a nearly perfect circle surrounded by impossibly tiny dots. Sam had been taught to track before he knew what Winchesters really tracked, and he knew what a round drop of blood meant. If a drop tapered, it pointed in the direction whatever you were pursuing was moving. A round drop meant they had been standing still, which was almost always a very bad idea for prey. Usually, it meant they couldn't move. Kind of like Sam right now.

He knew Dean was watching him. He needed to look up, give Dean some reassurance. It would make both of them feel better, just making eye contact. But he needed another minute.

Sam had gotten hurt before. He'd even broken his nose before. He'd broken his arm, gotten stitches, and even taken a baykok claw through the meat of his calf. Somehow, this was different. Maybe it was because he hurt in so many places. While none were really terribly painful on their own except for the headache compliments of getting kicked in the face, having shallow cuts all over his chest, back, arms, neck, and even face meant there was no way to move without aggravating something. But Sam had an idea that what really made this different was the how of it. None of these hurts were accidental. Nor were they from monsters following their instincts or fighting for their lives. No, each cut was made deliberately by a human being for the sake of hurting.

Sam had thought he'd understood obsession, having lived his entire life with a devoted member of the Revenge is My Purpose Club. But he couldn't imagine Dad torturing a teenager on scanty information. Hell, Dad killed even the most heinous monsters as quickly and humanely as he could. Having to kill a pair of young popobawa had sent him spiraling into a bottle for a long weekend even though they would have quickly grown into voracious man-eaters. Torching the bones of a child always had the same effect on him. But this? This entire family being okay with capturing and abusing two young men who, even if they had been witches, were human? It was a new kind of ugliness for Sam.

Sam wondered if he'd ever forget the clinical look on Dave's face as he studied Sam to find the perfect place to cut next or the way he'd trail the tip of the knife against an eyelid or over the pulse point of a carotid artery in clear reminder of how much worse it could be. Or the sense of vulnerability that raised more goosebumps than the cold air when Dave decided he needed a bigger canvas and cut Sam's shirts off. And he knew he wouldn't forget that second after he'd felt his skin split but before the pain hit.

None of that could compare to the slow-motion horror of watching Lance carefully copy Dave's every move, except on Dean. He focused like he was being graded, using Dean's own blade, and made every cut barely-there at the beginning, blood bubbling out in tiny droplets, and deeper as it went, so at the end there were lines of blood painting down almost before the knife was lifted from the skin. The details of that were tattooed in Sam's mind, from the whiteness of Dean's lips as he refused to make noise to the casual way Lance flicked the knife before blood (Dean's blood) could drip off on its own.

Sam wondered if there was some kind of genetic quirk that made people capable of such things. Or if compassion was something that could be rubbed out in childhood. He knew that there were books about serial killers out there, maybe exploring these same questions. He might have to read some of those if – when – they got out of here.

Still, these hadn't done anything irreversible, so maybe there was some hope for sympathy from these guys. Or if not sympathy, at least an end to the torture. Mike had left almost immediately when Dave and Lance had started to hurt the Winchesters. Paul kept trying to get Dave to stop and talk to him. Rick started drinking when the blood started flowing and hadn't stopped.

On the other hand, Lance seemed more than willing to do whatever he was told. Steve seemed to genuinely enjoy their pain. To Sam, Dave was the scariest of all, because he was smart enough to know better, but his words and actions were coated in such fervent zealotry that he reminded Sam of what he'd read of David Koresh and his suicidal followers.

But it was high time for Sam to get out of his own head and reassure Dean.

Sam lifted his chin enough to get a look at Dean. Their respective chairs were facing each other only a few feet apart, presumably so the sight of their brother bloody and in pain would help break them. And it was hard to see Dean like that. His shirts had also been cut off him and many of the cuts that littered every place skin showed still oozed blood. None had bled too much. The witch hunters were still avoiding major damage or blood loss so far, maybe due to humane concerns, or maybe just to make sure their interrogatees stayed conscious.

Unlike Sam, Dean was leaning back in his chair as if the cuts on his back didn't bother him. Despite his split and swollen lips (from repeated punches, since he kept deliberately antagonizing the men to try to keep their attention away from Sam, which didn't work but was a nice gesture), he was whistling. He caught Sam's eye and, with the slightest quirk of an eyebrow, silently asked if he was okay. Sam nodded slightly. He would be fine as long as this didn't ramp up at all. He wanted to ask Dean if he was really okay, but they already knew what would happen if they spoke to each other. Blond-bearded Rick was the only guy close to them at the moment, but bum leg and heavy drinking notwithstanding, the rifle across his lap made him a threat.

The tune Dean was whistling resolved itself in Sam's brain and he almost smiled. It was Always Crashing the Same Car by David Bowie. Dean, who was both more subtle and more clever than many people gave him credit for, was telling their clueless torturers that they were engaging in a fruitless activity. He'd started whistling as soon as Dave had called for a pause at Paul's vehement insistence. So far, Dean had performed AC/DC's Dirty Deeds Done Cheap and Highway to Hell and, best of all, Elton John's Screw You. It was almost poetic.

As the brothers visually assessed each other, Sam's pain and despair faded under growing anger. How could they do that to Dean? He was a damn hero, a man who always put others' needs above his own, who'd dedicated his life to hunting the dangerous, scary things in the world. Sam was pretty sure that Dean would never stop hunting, either, not even once they'd gotten their revenge on the thing that had killed their mom, because he wouldn't be able to live with himself if he knew what was out there but didn't actively do something about it. He was a protector, a selfless, brave freaking warrior who hid all of that under the cover of charming hedonist because he was uncomfortable with praise.

How dare they hurt him!

The same anger that Sam felt simmered in the back of Dean's eyes, too. Sam had an idea of just what that anger would look like once that was released, because nothing was more important to Dean than Sam himself. And, though Sam sometimes forgot because it was never directed at him, Dean was a seriously dangerous man to truly anger.

Dean's eyes dropped to Sam's feet for the barest second. It was a reminder that they'd never tied Sam's feet to the chair, although his ankles were still bound. In fact, they'd only looped his bound arms over the back and not actually secured him to the chair at all. He was freer than Dean, for whatever that was worth. Sam slowly and deliberately closed his eyes then opened them, signaling yes, he remembered.

Voices filtered to them, and Dean's whistling got softer. He didn't stop so Rick didn't suspect that they were trying to listen in.

"...see their scars? How about their gun callouses? Why would witches have either one?"

"You're overthinking this, Paul." That was Dave. God, Sam hated Dave. "Who knows what witches do in their spare time? They're addicted to power and crave death and destruction. Maybe they have other dangerous pets they have to keep in line."

"Dave, they're kids, especially the one." There was an almost pleading note in Paul's voice now. Huh. "Are we really gonna –"

"Nits make lice." There was no give at all in Dave's voice.

"They were both carrying iron knives. Witches would never do that; you know as well as I do that iron interferes with magic. And every real witch we've ever come across has been a coward when separated from their abilities. Witches would have broken by now." Paul's voice was impassioned. "You know I've studied witches pretty much my whole life. I think...they really are Hunters. Dave, not only would we be killing people, innocent people who might be on the same side we are, we won't learn anything. We're almost out of time. And –"

"Paul, don't be stupid." Dave was clearly getting angry now. "You know how much of those slimy bastards' magic is still hanging around town all these years later, the way the stupid townies can't even focus very long on anything to do with the egg or the witches or even the damn house. You know how just staying in town too long makes you start to think the mission isn't so important. You really buy that a couple baby Hunters not only just happened to show up now and stumble across this, but can fight through the magic enough to stay focused and do that much research?! My dad died believing we'd see this through. So did yours. So did Pop. I am not falling down with the finish line in sight just because you're squeamish."

"Dave –"

"Go help Mike load the Jeep. I'm gonna start cutting pieces off. Once the younger one starts screaming, the older one will tell me anything, and I don't want you screwing this up with your bleeding heart."

"Shit, Dave. I can't let –"

"You may be family, but if you come in the cabin before I call you, I will shoot you."

Sam went cold, then hot. He hadn't given them much in the way of noise so far, something he'd been proud of. But he knew that Dave was right that Dean would capitulate if Sam started screaming. Not that he'd be able to give them what they wanted.

Dean started trying to subtly get Sam's attention, but he wasn't sure what his brother wanted. Sam was on the verge of panic and trying to be strong and trying to read Dean's eyes all at once. Dave was going to come back in and "start cutting pieces off," and Sam wasn't sure he could be strong for another second, but if he wasn't, they were going to kill Dean.

Sam was on the edge of hyperventilating when he realized that Dean had switched to humming a song that was as familiar as the Impala itself. A song that was a favorite of all three of three Winchesters, which was a rare thing indeed. Enter Sandman. Sam relaxed marginally, which was certainly Dean's intention.

Wait. Dean used to sing or hum the Metallica song to get Sam to go to sleep. It was a message. When their eyes met again, Dean deliberately closed his eyes for a long moment and marginally tilted his head. Did he want Sam to act like he'd passed out? Yes, that had to be it.

Sam promised himself that he'd do a better job of possuming this time...though if they hurt Dean again, he didn't know if he'd be able to keep up the pretense.

Sam focused on the pain he was in for just long enough to make his groan real, then went completely limp in his bonds, ignoring the way it pulled even harder at his sore, abraded wrists.

"Sam! Sam!" Dean cried, and Sam might have believed the panic in his voice except for the fact that if he were really scared, he'd have said 'Sammy.' Besides, Sam hadn't been able to fool Dean into thinking he was sleeping since...forever. "Let me loose to check him, or somebody make sure he's still breathing."

The door banged and Sam made himself stay still. It was harder when footsteps walked up right next to him and a kick caught his calf, but he kept his body loose. Knowing Dean had a plan had made him immediately calm down a little, at least enough to pull this off.

"He's fine." Dave. Naturally. "Now it's up to you to make sure he stays that way."

Sam wanted to sneer. There was no way he'd ever let the boys go, too far gone in his purpose and the fantasy of finally achieving the family's plans.

"Look, let him go, get him to a doctor and I'll tell you everything," Dean spat out and Sam allowed himself to appreciate his brother's acting skills. He was using his real anger and worry to sell it. "He's just a kid, you psychos!"

There was silence for a moment and even without being able to see, Sam knew it was a power play on Dave's part. He couldn't resist cracking his eyelids just a hair and from his new, extra-slouched position, could see something that nearly made him break character. Dean's favorite knife, still tacky with his blood, sat on the edge of the Adirondack next to Rick...only a few feet from Sam. So close, if only he could do something about it.

Dave finally started talking again. "Listen, tell me where the book is. If it's where you say it is, I'll know you're telling us the truth and we'll let your brother go. Then you can lead us to the egg, okay?"

Yeah, right. Sam wondered if he planned to behead them or just shoot them or… Sam had to force himself to stop thinking and to listen for Dean's answer instead lest he start shaking and give himself away. He stared through his lashes at the knife as he listened.

"I...do you swear you'll let Sam go? And you won't go after him again?" Dave probably heard vulnerability. Sam heard the dark promise under Dean's words. He'd heard that tone before, giving boneheads trolling for a fight one last chance to change their minds or telling a werewolf to let the girl go and Dean would make its death quick.

But Dave missed the danger completely and was unable to entirely keep the triumph out of his own voice. "I swear," he promised with patently false sincerity. Apparently, he thought they were morons. And that Sam was wimpy enough to pass out from a bunch of glorified paper cuts.

About a year earlier, after the six-legged, two-headed piece of matted-fur nastiness the Winchesters had been hunting had come screeching directly into their camp, Dean had looked down at its bullet-ridden corpse and stated, "Something that stupid almost deserves to die." Sam kind of felt the same way about Dave right now.

"Okay," Dean said. "Okay, fine. Fine." Dean paused again like it was hard to force the words out. "You know in the library, where they keep the rare book collection?"

"Where is that?" Dave asked and Sam supposed he shouldn't be surprised that the man hadn't spent much time in the library.

Dean sort of huffed a little. "Small room behind the librarian's desk where you check books out. There's a door hidden behind the shelves on the back wall, where we keep the truly rare books that nobody else knows about."

"The egg is there too?"

"No. No egg until after Sam is safe. Actually, you can take him to the clinic in town when you go to get the book."

Nice, Dean, Sam thought, though he and Dean both knew it wouldn't work. It was like a chess game and Dave had no idea he was playing against a master.

"No. He stays until we have the book in hand." There were retreating footsteps, then Dave started giving directions to the other men.

When he heard Dave directing Lance and Mike to go into town and check out the library, Sam's heart began to race. There would only be four guys left, and two of them had hurt legs. Actually, he was pretty sure Dave, who was yelling instructions through the kitchen door behind Sam to the men outside, and Rick, still slouched (and possibly half asleep) in his chair to Sam's left, were the only ones inside with the Winchesters. After a few moments, Sam heard the sound of an engine outside and waited until it faded away into the distance.

Sam let himself slump slowly further to his left. He opened his eyes a tiny bit more and met Dean's gaze. Dean flexed his shoulders and wiggled the fingers of his right hand. Oh. That hand was free.

Sam wished he'd been able to do more to free himself than just shred his wrists. Dean's knife was right there but Dean couldn't reach it without stretching in front of Rick and Sam couldn't get it because his hands were still trapped.

Sam thought about a trick they'd been practicing lately. Dad encouraged them to carry and mess with weapons all the time, since familiarity leads to proficiency. It wasn't uncommon for the brothers to find creative ways to play with knives or guns. Perhaps it wasn't the safest or most normal activity, but their lives were neither "safe" nor "normal." Besides, it was hard to argue with results. For example, their "who can shoot out the middle can in a pyramid first" contests when Sam was about 11 had drastically improved their shooting skills.

This...this was intended for more of a bar trick than to actually use in a life-and-death situation, and it was still a work in progress, but Sam couldn't think of a better way to get the blade into Dean's hand. He'd have to improvise a little, but he could do it.

Normally, you'd balance your knife over the top of your foot not far below your toes. Then you'd stand and bring the foot up in a short, quick motion and snap your toes upward, sending the knife straight up. If you did it right, you could catch the knife right out of the air about waist-height.

In this case, Sam thought he could kick the chair so the knife slid off, catch it across his feet, and flip it into Dean's lap. Fortunately, he was familiar the knife to know it was very haft-heavy, making it less likely to impale Sam's foot or castrate Dean. (The latter thought almost sent Sam into hysterical giggles that would've ruined everything.)

Sam would only get one shot at it, though. If he didn't catch the knife or couldn't get it to Dean immediately, the gig was up. There would be no second chances.

Sam caught Dean's eye again and deliberately looked at the knife, then his own feet, then Dean's lap.

Dean nodded incrementally. He looked at Sam, then flicked his gaze to Rick. Then Dean deliberately looked down at his own chest, then over Sam's head, presumably at Dave. He made eye contact once more and raised his eyebrows. Sam knew he was asking if he'd understood. Sam gave a slight nod back.

In Winchester language, they'd agreed that Sam would get the knife to Dean, then he'd distract Rick while Dean took care of Dave. Sam considered the logistics for all of a few seconds. It was crazy, barely a plan, but what was the alternative?

Dean gave Sam a do it with only his eyes, a message nobody else would have been able to read.

Sam breathed out slowly. He'd once managed to stack a house of cards seven layers high just because Dean had bet him he couldn't. He could do this.

A drip of sweat rolled down Sam's temple and stung a cut on his cheek then another on his jaw. He sharply cracked the side of his foot into the chair, making Rick jump. The knife slid neatly off its perch and landed across Sam's feet. He immediately snapped his knees straight, sending the knife in an arc.

It never landed in Dean's lap. Dean, being Dean, pulled his loosened hand free and snatched the flying weapon right out of the air. He had cut his other hand and both ankles free by the time Sam got his feet under him.

Dean dove toward Dave's shout and Sam, not knowing how else to neutralize Rick, through himself on top of the man, chair and all.

And all hell broke loose.

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AN: *Laughs evilly and rubs hands a la 'Enry 'Iggins*

"Nits make lice" is actually a famous quote from a guy named John Chivinton, ordering his soldiers to kill all of the Native Americans, no matter how young they were. It was my way of demonstrating Dave's blind hatred.

I'm waiting for a reader (maybe Kathy? Possibly jenjoremy?) to ask for the story of the crocodile/octopus hybrid or the unnamed 6-legged monster. Also, I know that I didn't use muffinroo's fabulous insult. But I just haven't used it yet. Stay tuned.

Christine: The Hunter dudes are all related, yes. And narrow-minded (and some not terribly bright) but definitely well-trained, you're right. Otherwise they never would have gotten one over on even young Winchesters. To quote a friend, they're "yahoos, yes, but not inept." LOL You are right that Dave should have been the voice of reason.

Long Live BRUCAS: They've convinced a few of them, maybe…

sfaulkenberry: I feel like it was just one more almost for poor Sammy. I'm happy that you saw the humor in what could have been kind of darkish chapter. I don't want this story to get too heavy. I had to use the angry Enos reference when I realized that that was just how I was picturing Steve. And yeah, I figured extra-impulsive young Dean would quickly lose his poop if he saw what they'd done to Sam.

Timelady66: Oh, thank you! Yup, who doesn't love furious Dean tied to a chair? Heh. I love the comment about him being so pretty yet so terrifying. Too true! And I promise that Dave will get his.

muffinroo: Now that is a fabulous insult! It is showing up soon in the story because it's too good not to use. When my kids were still in elementary school, I was sleeping once and the cat literally jumped on my head. I fell off the couch and yelled that he was a furry dickface, which is still the favorite insult in this house. (All three kids laughed their heads off at the time.) That's really off topic, but glad I ticked off a few of your boxes in the previous chapter. :-)

stedan: Thanks! Snarky Winchesters are some of my favorite things, personally. I'm not surprised that you recognized a lot of the witch names – there's no fans like SPN fans! And, yeah, never underestimate the Winchesters is very good advice...which means these Hunters are probably screwed.

sylvia37: Heh. You don't think the older Hunters will appreciate their sons/friends being shanghaied and tortured? Yeah, no.

Kathy: I know how much you like those kinds of details about the towns and the people around the boys and everything. Another reader said it was a shame Sam doesn't get to enjoy this town and the school more and it's true. Glad the mystery is keeping you interested. It's a difficult balance to reveal enough to keep a reader interested but not so much that it gives everything away. I very deliberately didn't put enough in there for anybody to know for sure what the actual monster is cuz I'm mean like that.

Colby's girl: A lot of us SPN fans seem to have liked the Hardy Boys. Also, thinking of these guys as bushwacking palookas made my day! I never heard the word palooka before but I love it. Thank you, too, for your kind compliments.