A/N: Okay, okay, here's an extra Impala cookie for EVERYONE who's still reading. Two for those who review. ;) To comfort you through the long night ahead of the boys, hot chocolate will also be served. I've been working on an idea for another story, but I'm going to finish this one first. So, I hope you'll stay tuuuuned. ;)

---

Dean was gone.

His eyes were wide open, staring at the wall without fixating or focusing.

Only the barely visible rise and fall of his chest told his brother that he was still alive.

Sam had no way of knowing how much time had passed, only gauging the severity of each crack of whip on skin by weather it simply raised an angry welt, or opened a deep gash across his brother's back.

At first, Dean had taken each blow with a closed-mouthed grunt, his body tense.

Now, his knees were bent, his body literally hanging from the ropes on the rafters. His body was slack, his eyes wide and unblinking.

Sam knew this tactic.

His brother had removed himself from the basement. Taken himself someplace far away, maybe to some past memory, maybe not. It was a method of dealing with severe pain he'd never quite mastered. Escape your body, escape the pain.

His brother's back was a mass of criss-crossing gashes, raw flesh and torn skin somewhere underneath all the blood.

It made Sam sick enough that he had to turn away. He couldn't watch that anymore.

They had to get out of here. It was settling in, now, something painfully obvious, but something that he hadn't really realized until now. He knew it, but he couldn't grasp it.

If they did not escape, they would die.

Dean would die.

He would die.

Until now he'd held out the hope that they'd make it out of this remotely unscathed. Bruises and cuts and slightly stitched, maybe, but alive.

Now, his brother hung there with a shredded back and blank eyes, and Sam was forced to watch and wait for his turn.

---

"Dean!"

He was twelve years old again.

"Dean, come on!"

His brother was yelling for him, paused so far ahead he was just a speck on the horizon.

He ran to catch up, his legs scissoring powerfully. Even that young, he was built to fight, to survive.

His brother took off running ahead of him, but Dean soon closed the gap between them, slowing his pace to match his brother, the scrawny kid who was panting and struggling to keep up to his brother.

"Race you!" Sammy gasped.

"I don't wanna," Dean replied, his bare feet tearing through the sand.

"Cos you know...I'll win!" Sammy said, his arms pumping as he furiously tried to overtake his brother.

"Fine," Dean slowed to a stop. "We'll race."

He made a big deal of breathing hard as he let his brother catch his breath.

"To the lifeguard stand," he pointed up ahead. "Winner gets shotgun."

Dean always rode shotgun.

"Okay!" Sammy grinned at the prospect of sitting up front with his dad.

"Ready...set...go!"

Sammy took off, and an instant later, Dean followed, easily pulling ahead of his baby brother.

Hearing the labored breathing of his brother behind him, Dean slowed, pretending to be tired, never looking at his brother, keeping his eyes on that lifeguard stand in the distance.

His brother put on a burst of speed, catching up, and Dean could see him watching him as they ran.

Closer...

Closer.

He was going to win.

Dean stumbled, going down hard but landing easily in the soft sand, watching his brother race off ahead, touching the legs of the lifeguard stand and running back to him, gleefully breathless.

"I won!" he cried. "I beat you! I won!"

Dean picked himself up and brushed the sand off his shorts.

"Only 'cause I tripped, shrimp," he said sharply, defensive.

Sammy only grinned, jumping up and down.

Dean turned away so his brother wouldn't see the grin.

Sam would be pissed if he knew his brother had let him win.

---

Sam watched warily as Earl cleaned the whip off, shaking his head at Dean's limp body.

"Looks like it's your turn," the miner said as he looped the whip around his arm.

Sam swallowed hard.

Earl returned without the whip and hauled Sam to his feet, splinters of wood grabbing at his shirt. He struggled to keep upright, his legs weak and stiff from sitting in the same awkward position for so long.

"You'll give me what I want, won't you?" Earl sneered.

Sam cringed.

Earl met that with a laugh. "Oh yeah... you'll be a screamer."

"Please."

The whisper was so hoarse it was almost inaudible.

Sam watched as Earl whipped around to see Dean, blinking rapidly, staring between the man and his brother.

"What?" Earl demanded.

"Please," Dean repeated, the word rasping from his dry, bloody lips.

"Please, what?" Earl prompted.

"Not Sammy," Dean pleaded.

Sam felt Earl's eyes creep over him, and shivered.

"No Sammy, eh?" Earl said, walking to Dean.

"Please," Dean continued.

Sam could hardly believe his ears. His brother did not beg. Ever.

"Don't... don't hurt him."

Earl laughed in his face, and Sam strained against his ropes.

"There's a trade off," Earl said. "Because if I don't hurt your brother, I'm going to hurt you. And you are just not all that fun anymore, Dean. You just sit there, don't make a sound, take what I dish out. Where's the challenge?"

Sam squeezed his eyes shut as Earl disappeared again, then opened them, watching Dean's for some sign of what Earl was doing.

His brother looked at him, eyes still blank, glassy, but at least they focused on him this time.

They were apologetic eyes.

---

Earl returned with a thin metal pipe, one end wrapped in fabric, and for a minute, Dean prepared himself for another beating. When he produced the lighter, Dean shut his eyes, knowing it was worse.

"Open your eyes," Earl demanded.

And because he could think of nothing else, Dean complied.

Heating the end of the pipe not wrapped in cloth, Earl took his time, his eyes roving Dean's chest, before he quickly placed the end to his stomach.

With a cry that shocked Sam and Earl both, Dean fought to get his legs beneath him and move away from the hot metal.

Satisfied, Earl heated the end again.

Viciously, he jabbed the end of it into Dean's bruised stomach.

And Dean screamed.

---

Sam was in hell, in literal hell, with the flame of the lighter reflecting in his brother's eyes, and the agonized screams as Earl scorched his flesh over and over again, leaving singed circles on his brother's skin.

"Stop it!" Sam shouted, pulling against his ties. "Stop it you sick son of a bitch!"

Earl whirled around, furious, the craze of anger blazing in his eyes, and he came at Sam, swinging the pipe and catching him across the stomach.

Either the metal was too cool, or Sam's shirts were too thick to feel the heat, but the savage blow forced the air from his lungs, and brought involuntary tears to his eyes.

Over and over again, Earl swung, catching Sam in the stomach.

In defense, Sam tried to slide to the ground, but he had no use of his hands to cover his head, and was afraid of the blow he might receive. He wanted to be conscious, he needed to be conscious.

He was finally forced to the ground, though, as Earl brought the pipe down on his shoulder, and pulled back, gearing up for one final, brutal swing.

Sam closed his eyes.

But nothing came.

He heard a sick thud, and opened his eyes to see his brother standing before him, breathing hard, staring down with a face full of hatred and fury.

Sam blinked once, making sure he wasn't dreaming.

Earl was slumped on the ground, and his brother was holding the pipe.

Sam blinked again, this time in confusion, and stared behind his brother where the rope still hung.

"Dean?"