A/N: Impala cookies for everyone! Mind you, I had to cut each one out by hand. ;) Okay, so I'm sick, I admit it, I was just out of boring torture ideas. And yeah, I get a kick out of shockin' y'all. Hah! And how about tonight's episode, huh? Eeesh. Okay, leave me lots of reviews and I'll... um... well, I'll give you another chapter, for starters. Sam and Dean sure have the wrong idea about bonding. :\

---

Dean was tired.

He wouldn't admit it. Not that he could.

God, what he wouldn't give to get his hands on that bastard. Earl Davis had presented himself as a good man, and Dean would make him regret that, he swore on it.

His mouth was on fire, and the effort of keeping it closed tightly so he wouldn't pull on the stitches was getting to him. Likewise, the effort of standing straight and stiff was getting old fast. He wanted nothing more than to sit on the floor and sleep, but the minute his eyes started to droop, his body slumped forward and the pressure on his throat made him start.

God, he wanted to get his hands on that man.

First, he had to get out of this. He had to save Sam.

Then he would make Earl pay.

Something told him he wasn't in the position to get free right now, with his arms tied behind him, and rope looping his body from top to bottom.

But Earl wasn't done. He'd be back.

And when he was, he'd be in the mood for more "lessons", Dean guessed. And that wouldn't go over well with him tied up like he was. The rope was just temporary, he'd bet on it. And the next time Earl untied him, he would be ready.

His arms were aching even before he pulled on the rope, testing yet again for any weakness, trying to shift his wrists to get a little more space. As it was, the only thing he would succeed was to pop his shoulder out of place, and that wouldn't get him anywhere, not tied as he was.

Dammit.

He wanted to talk, wanted to tell Sam it would be okay, at least to try to comfort him, even if he didn't believe it. He wanted to talk to hear the sound of his own voice. Mostly, he wanted to talk because he couldn't.

It was like that with things, he mused. You always wanted most what you couldn't have, even if you didn't realize you wanted it until you realized you couldn't have it.

He was making himself dizzy.

Shaking his head to clear it, he looked down at his brother, who was also pulling at the rope around his wrists. He'd been at it for a while. How long, he had no way of measuring, but he knew his brother's wrists had to be bleeding by now.

He wanted to tell him to cool it, to get some sleep, that he'd need it, but he couldn't, and dammit, it was frustrating.

Voicing his frustration in a surge of energy, he made a strangled groan and tensed his body, pulling against the rope, letting it cut into his body, putting pressure on it in hopes that it would give just a little.

Nothing.

Sam was looking at him now, curious, worried.

Dean banged his head on the pillar, angry now.

Dammit, he should have known.

He should never have trusted these people, never let his guard down.

If anything happened...

"Dean?"

His brother's voice broke into his thoughts, and Dean tried his best to look at Sam, though the rope around his neck rubbed him raw when he moved his head.

"Are you okay?" Sam asked, looking scared.

Dean wanted to say, No, I'm pissed.

He settled for nodding instead.

"We're gonna get out of this," Sam said.

Dean wanted to laugh, he wanted to chide his brother for taking on the role of the calm, reassuring brother.

He attempted to say his brother's name, but the slightest movement sent fire through his lips, and he gave up, issuing only a muffled grunt.

Sam gulped.

Great, he was scaring him even more.

What could he do? He couldn't move, he couldn't speak. How could he reassure him, by blinking Morse code?

Not such a bad idea if Sam caught on, but he couldn't remember Morse code if his life depended on it. Which, as it turned out, it just might.

He'd learn. After they escaped, he'd learn.

Just in case.

God, he was tired.

He just wanted to sleep.

---

Sam saw his brother's beginning to droop, saw the rope tighten and Dean jerk upright with a snort, eyes suddenly wide and alert.

"So, uh..." Sam stopped to clear his throat, pulling on the ropes around his wrists as he talked, "you remember that summer I was eight?"

Dean's head cocked slightly.

"We were on that trip with Dad," Sam continued, trailing off as he suddenly got an idea.

Moving his legs first and using them to dig into the dirt floor of the basement, he shifted his body slightly, turning. He was facing Dean now, feeling the corner of the wooden pillar pressing into his back. With a grunt, he dug in and moved his body again, feeling the strain on his shoulders and arms.

Dean's head was turned as much as the rope would allow, trying to follow Sam's movement as he repositioned himself on the pillar.

"Maybe if I can get turned around, I can grab something to cut away the ropes," Sam spoke softly, half to himself.

It was slow going, and painful, but it was progress, at least.

"That summer," Sam started up again, his voice strained. "We were on the coast. I was mad, 'cause I wanted to go to camp like the rest of the kids, but Dad made me come anyway."

He bit back a cry as the rope chafed his already raw wrists, but kept going.

"Man, was I pissed," he laughed. "But you... you convinced Dad to let us go to the beach when we were finished. I had no idea how you got him to do that, he was always dragging us from one place to the next. Like it was normal to take your grade school kids on paranormal hunting trips."

He was facing the opposite direction now, his goal achieved.

"It was nice," Sam said softly, taking stock of the sight before him. "Normal."

A long wooden workbench sat against the wall, tools hanging on the pegboard back, and other miscellaneous items piled on the top, too high for Sam to see. Next to the table, three large wire crates were piled on top of each other.

"This guy's sick," Sam told his brother, knowing he'd be curious but unable to ask. "There's a work bench and some tools. Knives, maybe, I can see something shiny. I guess...dog crates? Traps?"

He knew what his brother would ask.

"It's too far away to reach," he said dejectedly, eyes scanning the floor in the hopes that something might have fallen without Earl noticing.

Even if he stretched out his legs, the tips of his shoes came nowhere near the end of the table.

"We spent the day at the beach," he said suddenly, choking back tears or anger, or both. "It was my first time in the water. You taught me how to swim, even though you suck."

He imagined his brother's retort, an offended, 'I do not suck!"

"Dad just sat on the beach, watching is," Sam recounted, resting his back on the pillar. "He'd never admit it, but I think he enjoyed it. Taking a break. Being a family."

---

Dean could hear the sounds of his brother moving around again, shuffles and little groans of pain he did his best to contain.

Maybe after this, they would take a break. It would be good for Sam, he'd like it.

Hell, maybe he'd take him to the beach.

Anything to get that sad voice to go away.

With a final grunt, Sam heaved himself back into view, and Dean tried to watch him settle back into place, to make sure his brother was okay, unnerved at the ability to see him fully.

"You convinced that girl to lend us her frisbee," Sam said in a hoarse voice, sounding tired as hell. "I couldn't figure out how to make it fly right."

Dean wanted to shut him up. He knew his brother meant well, but it was only making him sad, and sad would get them nowhere.

He remembered that day, alright. His brother grinned the entire day, and told him, after a promise not to tell their Dad, that it was as good as any camp. Better, even.

Dean would have smiled, if it weren't for the stitches sealing his lips.

God, what a situation they were in.

And for the life of him, he could not see a way out of it.