A/N: Another fun chapter from a sick, sick mind. Hah! I hope you guys are still liking this. Reviews will be met with open arms, and in return, I will send you all seventeen sled dogs. Or cats, if you prefer, but really, you're not getting anywhere on seventeen house cats. Enjoy the fun!

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It was like some cliched horror movie. The thud of the feet on the stairs was almost as loud as the heart pounding in his chest. It jerked him out of the light sleep he didn't know he'd fallen into.

Startled into consciousness, it took Sam a moment to remember where they were, and what had happened. Blinking the sleep out of his eyes and fighting back a yawn, he glanced over at his brother, half expecting to see him hanging limp and breathless from the ropes.

Dean was staring straight ahead, eyes fixed on the stairs as Earl's boots came into view.

Sam breathed a brief sigh of relief and shivered, as much from the chill of the basement as the prospect of facing this man again.

"Rise and shine, kiddies," Earl said as he descended the stairs.

Sam watched him as he crossed the room, wishing looks really could kill.

Earl paused to take in the brothers, and smiled slowly. "You're still alive, I see."

Sam glared.

"I'll remedy that," Earl promised, heading directly to his worktable.

God, what was next?

---

Dean was tired.

No, tired wasn't a good enough for for what he was. Hell, exhausted didn't even cover it. He was beyond exhausted, weary deep into his bones, his eyes so gritty it hurt to blink. How he'd managed to keep from tipping forward and just sleeping himself to death, he'd never know. He'd had to stay awake for long periods of time before, but never just recovering from the effects of a drug. And never having to suffer through the beginnings of shock.

And now, the bastard was back for more.

Suddenly, Dean felt pressure on the ropes holding his arms together, felt the blade of a knife graze the side of his hand, and then the sudden lack of stress as the rope was cut, thrust him forward, his weak knees unable to hold him.

Eyes watering and bulging, Dean struggled to regain his footing, the rope around his neck now severely cutting off his air supply. He could feel the rope around his lower body being removed slowly. Earl was in no rush at all as he hung there, choking.

"Dean!"

He heard Sam call out.

"Stop it!"

And then a laugh from Earl.

Bastard.

Black spots danced at the edge of his vision. He was suffocating.

Oh, God...

And then the rope around his neck was released, too, and he fell face first onto the floor, his nose banging painfully into the soft dirt floor.

He lay there, stunned, breathing hard through his nose, feeling like a fish out of water, still unable to get all the oxygen he needed.

A swift kick to his stomach twisted him onto his back, and he gagged, bringing to mind the whole new fear of choking in his own vomit.

As he lay there, Dean knew he should be fighting back, but he couldn't control his body. His brain was screaming at him to get up and attack, but all he could do was look up in time to see Earl's hands coming down to grasp him around the neck.

Pulling him up by the tatters of his torn shirts, Earl planted a solid punch to his jaw, snapping Dean's head back.

"Dean!" Sam cried again.

That was all he needed to bring him back to reality.

Sam, worried, scared, in trouble.

Dean swung his fist.

Earl dodged the neatly, much to swiftly for someone his age.

Dean suspected torturing people in his basement must do wonders for this man's physique.

The momentum of the punch sent him forward, directly into Earl's fist as it caught him in the stomach.

Barely able to grunt, Dean doubled over, and was sent to the ground with a final punch.

"Come here," Earl said, sounding disgusted, hauling Dean to his feet again.

Dean was bleeding as much from the punches as his fall moments earlier, the blood pouring from his nose, and over his lips. He was breathing with difficulty, and Earl shook his head as he looked at him.

"Somehow I thought you'd put up more of a fight," Earl said, holding Dean by one shoulder as he pulled the ripped shirts from him.

Switching his grasp, he pulled the shirt from Dean and let it fall to the floor. "You were so spirited before. Have I broken you already?"

Pulling Dean along with him, he went back to his workbench and retrieved more rope.

It was all Dean could do to stay on his feet as he stumbled behind the man as he led him back to the center of the room. There, still gripping Dean by the shoulder, he tossed the rope up, looping it around a rafter, and pulled both of Dean's arms up over his head.

Facing Sam head on now, Dean saw the look of panic on his brother's face.

Sammy...

---

His brother was in pain, and there was nothing Sam could do about it. He'd allowed hope to wash over him when Dean threw that punch, but knew there was no strength to back it up. His hopes had crashed.

Dean was strung up in the middle of the room, and it was worse now that he could see him fully.

His jeans were filthy, his face bloody, his skin ashen, eyes weary as he watched Earl retreat to the table, then return holding something in his hand.

Sam let his eyes gaze to the instrument in Earl's fingers.

It was a small surgical scalpel, delicate and wickedly sharp.

Sam cringed as he raised the instrument.

He almost looked away, when he saw Earl gently place it to the strings holding Dean's lips together, the stitches splitting easily under the sharp blade. The miner removed the stitches carefully, and the minute they were gone, Dean opened his mouth and drew in deep, shuddering breaths.

"Can't have to suffocating just yet," Earl mused. "Even if it ruins my work."

"Dean!" Sam cried, watching his brother's chin meet his chest.

No answer.

"Are you okay?" he tried again.

"You," Earl spat, spinning. "Need to shut up."

He approached quickly, delivering a sudden, sharp blow to the side of Sam's head, an open handed slap with enough force to make his ears ring.

He shut up, watching the miner with narrowed eyes.

"Brothers," Earl used the word like it left a bad taste in his mouth. "One won't shut up."

He lashed out suddenly, opening a cut across Dean's upper chest and shoulder.

"And one won't fucking scream!" Earl raged.

Sam watched his brother raise his head slowly, regarding Earl with tired eyes.

"Oh, but you will," Earl's lips twisted angrily.

Dean's eyes followed him again, and Sam strained to see what Earl was doing as he disappeared.

For a moment, Sam turned back around and caught Dean's eyes.

He held his brother's gaze, even as Earl returned.

Forced to break the contact, when Earl spun his brother around, Sam swallowed hard when he saw what he had in store.

With a flick of his wrist the whip unraveled.

And with one savage motion, he brought it down, hard across his brother's back.

Dean didn't scream.

The next one was harder.

And still, nothing.

With a cry of rage, Earl lashed out, the whip meeting it's target and easily splitting the flesh.

Then again, and again.