A/N Guys, it's been a day. Not necessarily a bad one, just...weird. But that's alright because here I am posting a new chapter and that makes my life happier.

I would love to know what you think about it, so please leave a review!

Chapter Three

Dean bowed his head and dug the heel of his hands into his eyes.

Sam had been missing for over twenty-four hours now, and he didn't have anything to show for it despite a sleepless night. His stomach rumbled, but he ignored it as he lifted his head and looked down once again at the pictures that he had printed off earlier.

The first thing he had tried after talking to Bobby was tracing Sam's phone, but it had been turned off. It had been a fool's hope anyway, and he had turned to his next best option; going through video surveillance that he had bullied into getting from the bar, and two shops near their motel. He had started at the bar as that had been the only place besides their motel room that they had been that night, and when that had proved fruitless had moved on to the security feed from the shops, as they had a decent view of the road going past the motel.

At first, Dean had been looking for anything out of place or someone he recognized. Only, there wasn't anything and he should have known that it could never be that easy. At that point, his eyesight was starting to blur and despair was threatening, but John Winchester hadn't raised a quitter. Especially not where Sam was involved.

Anger was as good of a motivation as anything and he found himself working his way through the feeds once again, this time screenshotting the images of the different cars that had been to the bar and those that passed by their motel. He printed the pictures out, keeping the different locations carefully separated.

Whoever had taken his brother hadn't just carried Sam the sasquatch out of town without the help of a car. There were no sideroads or alleyways to get out of the motel, meaning that whoever had taken Sam had used that road. Now, he was just hoping whoever had taken Sam had followed them home from the bar. If so, their car should show up in both locations.

It was slow and tedious work.

Dean began to cross-reference the cars and felt frustration building at the delay. He was sitting here, safe and sound, while Sam could be possibly dying…or being tortured…or even saying yes. All options were equally bad and Dean felt like drowning in a bottle of Jack or ripping something's head off.

Instead, he grabbed a picture of a chevy and compared it to the other photos, but it didn't yield anything and he tossed it into the discard pile.

When he had finished sorting through everything, he ended up with a dismally small pile of five cars, but he couldn't decide if that was a good or a bad thing. On one hand, he only had five names to do further research on, and that wasn't overwhelming, but then again…if it wasn't any of them then he didn't know what to do. He would be back at square one.

Rubbing vigorously at his burning eyes, Dean scrambled blindly for his phone. He stared at it dumbly, before fumbling through the scraps of paper for the number of the local sheriff.

Belatedly, he checked his watch, but it was half past ten in the morning and that was a completely reasonable time to call someone. It came as a slight surprise, actually, he hadn't realized how much time had passed since he had last looked at his watch sometime around three.

The sheriff picked up on the third ring, and Dean began to tiredly and tensely relay the license plate numbers to him. It was a brief conversation, Dean not responding to the other man's chirper questions about how his day was going—bad, very bad, but probably better than Sam's—and he dropped the phone onto the table as soon as the call had finished.

While Dean was waiting for the sheriff to call back with the needed information on who the cars were registered to, he forced himself to eat something. Nothing sounded particularly good—fear and anxiety were hard on the appetite, believe it or not—but he finally managed to choke down a couple of granola bars.

The phone rang just as he was finishing the last bite and Dean hurriedly tossed the wrapper in the direction of the trashcan and grabbed the phone while fumbling for a notepad, where he jotted down the names and addresses of the owners of the five cars. He crossed off three names immediately. They were locals, and probably just happened to be at the bar and then on the same street as the motel, and were minding their own business.

Pulling Sam's laptop towards him once again, Dean began to run background on the other two names. Twenty minutes later, he sat up straight, his mouth dropping open as he stared, fixated on the owner of the red Dodge Avenger, one Thomas Harding.

Only, Dean knew him. He had talked with him at the bar the night before. He had—Dean sat back, pressing both hands over his face as memory of the night came roaring back. He had talked with him for a few hours after Sam had left, he had…he had said some things he shouldn't have. He had thrown Sam under the bus, blaming him for everything that had happened that week.

Harding had asked the perfect questions to get him going, and Dean had just been so upset and frustrated with himself…he had taken it out on Sam to a complete stranger.

Dean had messed up—big time—and if he was the reason that Sam had been taken…

"Damnit. Damn it all to hell!"

He hadn't used his or Sam's names nor had he let slip that he was upset that his brother had tried to kill him while high on demon blood, after which he had proceeded to kick start the end of the world—Dean wasn't that dumb even while drunk. He had also been careful when he had been going back to the motel, and he knew for a fact that no one had followed him.

He had simply talked to the bastard, he hadn't…

It wasn't working, the guilt had settled into his gut and was going to stay there until he found Sam and saw with his own eyes that his brother was alright.

Dean turned his attention back to the screen and Thomas Harding's driver's license. Time to do some digging, find out who he was…only, Thomas Harding did not seem to exist.

Dean had created and seen enough fake IDs to know one when he saw it, and this one wasn't a particularly elaborate fake identity. 'Thomas Harding' had done enough work to make sure that the ID survived the first inspection. Dig any deeper than that…and there wasn't much there at all. Just a name and a fake address.

That would have made Dean suspicious on a good day, and today was most definitely not a good day.

Grabbing his phone, Dean continued to stare at the name as the phone rang. Bobby picked up almost immediately.

"Hey, I think I might have found something…I've got a fake ID here of a man who was talking to me at the bar, but I don't know how to trace him any further, not with a fake ID. Do you know how to track someone down like that?"

Bobby didn't even pause to think about his answer, and Dean had the idea that he had been preparing for every possible situation. "I'll do you one better. I know someone who knows how to find just about anything on anyone."

Dean snorted tiredly. "Bobby, for a paranoid bastard you sure do know a lot of people."

"And aren't you just the picture of gratitude? My connections have saved your ass more than once. And, for the record, you can work with someone and still not trust 'em."

"Noted, I'll keep that in mind."

A brief flare of guilt bubbled up, and was not helped when Bobby grumbled, "You do that, might save us some trouble in the future. Damn angels…" Bobby blew out a sigh. "Gimme the info."

Dean relayed over the name, address, and car info and Bobby grunted in acknowledgment.

"I'll call you back when I know more."

Dean ended the call and leaned his head back as he pinched the bridge of his nose before bringing his hand around to massage the back of his neck. Reaching for the coffee mug, he found it empty. Bracing a hand against the table, he heaved himself upright.

His phone rang, and Dean snatched it up. Bobby again.

"Yeah?" he asked.

"I don't think that you're going to find anything else down there. Whoever took Sam probably hightailed it out of there since he left you alive and unhurt. His best option was to get as far away as possible. So, get your ass down to my place and we'll go from there," was all Bobby said before the line went dead again.

Dean snorted as he continued on his journey to the coffee pot. He savored his first swallow, waiting for the caffeine to kick in. If he was going to be driving, then he needed to be awake and aware.

After half a cup, he began to pack both his and Sam's belongings, noticing as he did so that Sam's duffle had been cleared out of any books that could be considered relaxing or even entertaining.

There were only thick volumes that made Dean's head hurt just by looking at them.

He didn't know why—he was the one advocating for Sam to come up with a solution to the whole Lucifer/Michael thing—but it made him sad.

The Impala was a welcome comfort, the one thing that never changed.

#

Darrion had gotten a motel that was on the outskirts of what looked to be a fairly large city, and Sam watched with apprehension as the buildings faded from view. Soon, they were following a nicely maintained road that had trees towering on either side that allowed him brief glimpses of massive houses. Sam was much more comfortable with unmaintained gravel roads or backroads, and the polished finery off to the side didn't sit well with him.

They finally slowed, before taking a right off the main road and into a driveway. Sam felt his heart sink as a mammoth black iron gate came into view. Just beyond it, looming with dark foreboding, was a mansion. It sent a shiver down Sam's back and he eyed it warily as they came to a stop next to the gate.

Darrion leaned through the still open window, hitting the intercom button.

"What do you want?" a woman asked in a bored tone and Darrion grinned, running a hand through his thinning hair.

"Hey, sweetheart. Tell Mr. Harris that Darrion Hodges is here to see 'im," he called, leering up into the camera that had swiveled in his direction.

The unamused woman answered blandly. "Do you have an appointment?"

"Well…" Darrion hedged. "Not exactly, but look, Mr. Harris is goin' to want to see me. Tell him…tell him that I come with another one, another gift."

"A gift? What is the gift?"

"He'll understand if he knows who I am. Tell 'im my name and-and he'll understand."

Sam looked between Darrion and the gate. Was it too much to hope that they would be turned away? If they were turned away, then Darrion would have to wait and go through the proper means, and Sam might have a chance to escape. He had the worst feeling that if he went through those gates right now, he wasn't coming out again.

"One moment."

Darrion pulled his head back in and rifled through the consul until he found another stick of gum. He spit the old one out and began to chew the new one loudly, smacking it every now and then. Leaning back in his seat, he stretched until his back popped and turned the music up.

Sam wasn't even sure what they were listening to, but he did know that he wouldn't term it as music. Dean probably would have planted Darrion in the ground right then and there because of this abomination alone, and the thought of Dean's horrified face brought an unexpected warmth.

That warmth was destroyed when the crackle of the intercom broke through the music.

"You can go ahead, Mr. Hodges."

Darrion crowed softly and put the car back into gear as the black gate creaked open, allowing them to drive through. It slid shut with an ominous clang.

Parking in front of the colossal doors that were made out of some sort of black marble, Darrion turned to grin at Sam, before getting out. Sam sank back into his seat, but there was nothing that he could do when the passenger door was opened besides shake Darrion's hand off and stand by himself. Darrion raised an eyebrow but didn't question it as they walked up the wide marble steps.

The front door swung open to reveal a short, grim-faced, man in a fine suit whose eyes widen just slightly at the sight of Sam. He probably did make quite the appearance between the zip ties and the duct tape. Sam threw him a desperate, hopeful, look, but the man dropped his gaze, unwilling to meet his eyes.

"Follow me." The butler pushed the door open further, standing stiffly as they passed through, before leading them along the prestigious-looking hallway. He glanced at Sam, but his eyes darted away again as soon as Sam tried to make eye contact.

The hope that the butler would be of any help faded, and irritation and anger swarmed in its place. Could the butler not see what was happening? How could he just sit there and let this happen? This was wrong.

Sam squashed the thoughts almost as soon as they came.

He knew better than anyone how upper management could convince you to do something that you wouldn't normally do. Besides, what could the butler do? Darrion had the rifle swung over his shoulder, ready for use, and the smaller man wouldn't stand a chance.

They began their way up another stairway, this one made of some sort of highly polished wood, and Sam looked around as they reached the top. The hallway was sparsely decorated, but what he could see was expensive. He didn't even have to know anything about some of the art to know that the paintings were collectible items and worth more than Sam would have ever seen even if he had become a top-notch lawyer.

Mr. Harris, it appeared, was a man who spared no expense when it mattered to him. Sam might have even been able to appreciate his taste had he not been tussled up and prepared like a pig on a platter.

The butler led them down a smaller hallway, which led to an empty study through which the butler bowed them.

"Mr. Harris will be with you shortly. Please ring if you find yourself in need of anything," he said, before turning and shutting the door gently behind him. Darrion heaved a satisfied sigh and then dropped down to lounge on a leather couch.

"You can stand behind me," he said, waving a hand in that direction, and Sam made a face at the back of his head. He did not move to stand behind him and Darrion frowned, standing.

Up until this point, Darrion had shown very little actual aggression towards Sam—unless you counted kidnapping and drugging him—and for the first time, Sam caught the full glimpse of what was underneath the easy-going attitude as Darrion slapped him hard, jerking his head to the side.

"Be respectful, and don't blow this for me," he threatened. "You do, and I'll make your life hell." He paused, staring directly into Sam's eyes before moving back to sit on the couch with the same ease as before as he lifted the top off of a small, orient jar that looked to be pure silver.

He closed it with a huff of displeasure and moved instead to the liquor cabinet.

Now that he was paying attention, Sam could see the slightest shake in his hand and it suddenly clicked.

Darrion was nervous.

Pouring himself a finger of whiskey, Darrion surveyed the room with a frown. "Actually," he said, pointing at Sam. "Kneel next to the couch. Makes you less threatening, more like the freak of nature you are."

The insult came out of nowhere, and Sam couldn't stop his flinch. Darrion caught it and his eyebrow arched. "Don't like that?" he asked disdainfully, tossing back the liquor and pouring out a little bit more and pointing at the ground.

"Kneel. Or I'll make you kneel."

Sam straightened to his full height and shook his head.

"What did I just say, you filthy—"

Before Darrion had the chance to finish his sentence, the door behind the desk swung open and a tall, mostly bald, old man shuffled in. He looked Darrion over, glancing at Sam out of the corner of his eye, but he only pursed his lips.

"Darrion," he said neutrally.

Darrion grinned, pouring a second glass of whiskey and bringing it over. "Mr. Harris! It's been too long, sir."

Mr. Harris accepted the whiskey, but he was frowning slightly. "You better have a good reason for showing up here again. I just managed to save myself from prison last time, and I know that the FBI is still keeping tabs on me. I don't need them to get suspicious."

Darrion nodded slowly but gestured to the alcohol. "Mighty good whiskey you got there, sir, why don't you have some."

Mr. Harris's lips thinned, but he took the drink all the same. "I guess this one is like the others," he asked, apprising Sam carefully.

"This one…this one is special. This is the kid I was telling you about last time, the one that—"

"I remember," Mr. Harris broke in starkly.

"Well, this is him," Darrion finished proudly, thumping Sam roughly on the back.

Mr. Harris still looked hesitant and Darrion threw in a tidbit that he appeared to have been saving for just this moment. "He's different than the others, Mr. Harris, I swear. All those other kids, the special ones, disappeared shortly after the FBI tried to take you down. All…except this one."

Sam's stomach dropped as Mr. Harris's eyes widened in interest and greed as he turned back to Sam. Was this about Azazel and his special children? He hadn't thought about them…in a long time. But he supposed that this was probably better than the demon blood, all things considered.

"Visions, right?" Mr. Harris said, putting the whiskey down and crossing over to stand next to Sam.

"Yes sir, he has visions."

"It. It has visions. Humanity isn't markable," Mr. Harris cut in quickly, giving Darrion a hard look. Darrion raised a hand in an apology.

"It has visions."

Mr. Harris began to pace, his hands behind his back. "Visions always were my favorite, or at least they would be the easiest to market and sell." Mr. Harris paused before bending down and into Sam's personal space and nodded at Darrion. Darrion reached in-between them and ripped the duct tape off Sam's mouth. Sam grimaced, licking at his now bleeding lips.

"How many visions have you had?"

Sam worked his jaw for a moment, trying to buy himself some time. "I don't—Visions? People don't have visions, that's—" Darrion grabbed him by the hair, yanking his head back so far that his air supply was almost cut off.

"Tell Mr. Harris the truth," he whispered silkily, his tone dangerous, before letting go.

"That's crazy, people—" Sam tried again, and Darrion's fist sank into his stomach and he grunted, letting the blow flow through him but refusing to make any sounds of pain, at least not yet. He would wait for the real torture to begin before that happened.

Mr. Harris leaned back, sniffing. "Don't bother trying to pull the crazy card. I know your kind, all you freaks. So, visions? How many?"

Sam's lips thinned, and he snorted. "I haven't had a vision in years. Not since the rest of the kids disappeared."

"But he used to," Darrion cut in pointedly.

"But I don't anymore! That power is gone," Sam tried again.

Mr. Harris began to walk around him, circling Sam like a vulture would a piece of meat, and Sam's skin crawled. He felt dirty, wrong. Like he was something less than human. Mr. Harris tangled a hand in Sam's hair, pulling his head back once again so that he could look directly into his eyes.

"It's not exactly like any of the freaks could perform on command," he mused, bending closer before releasing Sam and moving back to his glass of whiskey.

"I have a name, you know," Sam goaded, but Mr. Harris just scoffed, turning away from Sam and back to Darrion.

"Did you cover your tracks? I can't have anyone coming to look for it."

"All he has is his brother, and they aren't exactly on the best terms right now," Darrion said.

Mr. Harris nodded, taking a slow sip of the whiskey. He was softening to the idea, Sam could see it in his eyes and also in the way Darrion's shoulders were relaxing. "And you said that he had a vision? Of the last one?"

Darrion was nodding, but Sam's gut was twisting together as he tried to put together what Darrion was talking about. A vision? He remembered his visions; they weren't exactly easy to forget, but he didn't…and then it clicked.

There had been a girl in a small, dark, room. Alone. Terrified. And a man who, now that he thought about it, looked an awful lot like Darrion, just a few years younger, and he had been causing her terror beyond belief, and pain. All she had wanted to do was go home, to see her mom, and her pleadings were etched into his brain as Sam suffered vicariously with her.

Sam had seen her die over and over again in the horrible hours leading up to her actual death. He had also seen Darrion digging her grave, and the memory of finding her in the ground as he dug her up with Dean was still vivid.

It had haunted him for weeks afterward and the weight of her death had dealt his soul a harsh blow.

Dean had taken over, livid and functioning, while Sam grieved for a girl he only knew from dreams and visions.

He hadn't even known her name.

"You killed her," he said quietly, the hurt and anger washing over him like it had been yesterday. The well of emotions took him by surprise, but he let it flow through him as his voice rose and he surged forward, shaking with fury. "You just—you killed her! She was terrified! She couldn't get away, she wasn't—! And you killed her, for marketing! For profit!"

Darrion hefted up his gun, aiming it straight at Sam's chest. "Don't," he warned as Mr. Harris took several steps back, looking slightly panicked.

"I don't care, shoot me! Shoot me—kill me, like you did her!" Sam reached for the gun, ready to rip it out of his hands, and Darrion snatched it away, smashing the butt into Sam's chest. Sam staggered back, wheezing as all the air fled from his lungs.

They stared at him—Mr. Harris with profound fear—before Darrion edged forward, keeping the gun leveled at him.

Sam straightened with effort. "I've seen firsthand what hell can do to someone, and you both deserve what you are going to get when you die," he vowed, breathing heavily.

"I've heard that before, and I'll hear it again," Mr. Harris remarked, jutting his chin out, trying to mask the fear that was slowly fading.

Sam swore, blinking away the tears that were burning his eyes, and looked away from them. She had been so young, her terror so real to Sam who had shared it all in an intimate, personal, way through the visions. She hadn't deserved to be tortured, she hadn't deserved for her murderers to stand there, drinking, with no remorse or repercussions.

"Look," Darrion was talking to Mr. Harris, but his eyes were on Sam. "We were getting close with the last one. We almost had the formula refined. We just needed another test subject…" he trailed off pointedly.

Mr. Harris took another sip of the whiskey and Darrion edged forward. "Just think of how much money you could make off of this? How much people would pay to see the future…we've just got to learn how to control it. And this is our chance to do just that, and our last one. He's the only one left. You might lose a little bit of money if it doesn't work out, sure, but you can afford that. And if it does work, well, you have everything to gain."

"True." Mr. Harris titled his head towards Darrion, raising his glass.

"You can't control the damn visions. Nobody can! Didn't you learn that before?" Sam snarled, but somehow, he doubted that that little hiccup would stop them from continuing.

"If you freaks had them once, then you'll have them again. I just need to learn how to flip the switch in the brain. It's all science," Mr. Harris said snidely as he finished his whiskey and slapped the glass down on the table, turning to Darrion. "The FBI searched the house last time, but they never found the vials. When I moved to Michigan and built this house, I had a room prepared, just in case. It is better than the last one, I made some improvements. Mr. Sanderson will show you where it is and we can begin in the morning."

Darrion nodded and Mr. Harris left, a spring in his step that hadn't been there before.

Mr. Sanderson, it turned out, was the butler and he appeared at the door a moment later. He looked pale, and still refused to meet Sam's eyes as he began to lead them steadily downwards through a maze of hallways.

The wide glamorous artwork and fixtures slowly faded to bare walls and fading paint until finally, they reached a room at the very end of a dark hallway. A steel door with a heavy-duty lock led into a room the size of a bathroom. It was windowless, the only light coming from a single bulb hanging from the ceiling, and was devoid of any furniture. The floor slanted downwards, leading to the only defining feature there: a bolted metal grate over a drain.

Sam was shoved in, and the door slammed behind him with a bang before the lock snapped into place

Sam stood there for a moment, his heart racing and his stomach turning. He wasn't an idiot. This would be where he was tortured in an attempt to pry a vision from him. Where he would experience first-hand the things that he had only borne witness to before.

This wasn't good.

First things first, Sam needed to get rid of the zip ties. His father had long ago taught him how to break free of most types of bondage if he had enough time and energy. Duct tape would have been easier, but zip ties were doable. Carefully manipulating his hands in front of him, he brought them together before thrusting them violently apart. He repeated the motion until the plastic snapped. His wrists were throbbing and red by then, but it was worth it to be free.

Flinging the broken pieces of plastic away, Sam began to rub at his abused wrists in an attempt to restore blood flow as he walked around the small room, examining it and trying to see if there was any weakness that would lead to escape.

He wasn't exactly hopeful, but it was better than just sitting there and bemoaning his situation. There was no handle or doorknob on the inside—which would only prove helpful if Sam could get his captors inside and himself out. There was a vent built high on the ceiling, next to the lightbulb, but his fingertips just barely brushed it when he jumped.

There would be no escape through it.

Adjacent to the vent, there was a blinking red light attached to a camera, and it slowly turned, following his every move.

That in and of itself was more troublesome than anything. It was also disturbing.

Sam sat down, slumping against the wall and putting his head in his hands. He was well and truly screwed.

"Damnit."

#

Sam was sitting in the corner of the room, his back against the wall and his eyes closed, when Darrion returned.

He was almost grateful, in an obscene sort of way, that Darrion was back. It had been hours since he had been locked into the small room, and he had nothing but his thoughts to keep him occupied. None of those were particularly good or lighthearted at the moment.

Sam had been called a freak before, more than once in fact, and even a monster. Hell, Dean had called him those things—which had hurt worse than all the others combined—but the words still stung, no matter who used them or how many times he heard them. Perhaps that was because they were just an acknowledgment of everything that he feared was true.

Even more painful was the lurking thought that he was never going to get to atone for what he had done, to prove to Dean that he wasn't a monster. He had been trying so damn hard, but if he didn't make it out of this, then all Dean would remember was a brother who had betrayed and hurt him.

The freak…the monster.

He didn't want that. He wanted so badly to prove to Dean that he was worthy of everything that Dean had done for him, that he loved Dean just as much as he loved him. Though, he supposed, that in a very messed up sort of way, loving Dean too much was what had gotten him into the demon blood mess in the first place.

Thus, when Darrion suddenly thrust the door open and jarred Sam out of his thoughts, it was with some relief that he scrambled upright.

Darrion edged into the small room, the dart rifle in his hands, and pointed right at Sam's chest to keep him at bay.

"Have a nice night?" he asked, leering a little as he smiled at Sam. He appeared to have washed and changed his clothes, and there was a new bounce in his step.

"Darrion," Sam began, his voice soft and as calm as possible even as he tried to shake out his muscles in preparation for what was coming. "C'mon, this isn't—this isn't going to accomplish anything. I'm not going to have a vision. You don't want to do this."

Darrion smiled, his eyes dancing. "And why wouldn't I? Mr. Harris has already paid me ten grand. It don't matter to me if you perform or not."

"Is that all you care about? Money?" Sam threw back, walking slowly along the wall of the room. The door had been shut behind Darrion, there was no escape that way. The rifle followed his every move, tracking him carefully to not give him an opening.

"Pretty much. They say money can't buy happiness, but it can buy a damn lot." Darrion was mirroring Sam's actions so that he was now at the other end of the room.

Sam's mouth thinned. "So that is what a life is worth? Ten-grand?" he asked sharply and Darrion shrugged.

"You have your job, and I have mine. You kill more than I do, so don't get all high and mighty with me. At least I get paid."

"We don't kill the innocent," Sam snapped, even as guilt flared. Darrion didn't know about the apocalypse; about how many innocent people Sam had killed inadvertently when he let out Lucifer. Darrion changed direction, crossing the room in two steps and pressing the tip of the rifle into Sam's chest. Sam stopped, staring hard into Darrion's eyes, both waiting for the other to make the first move.

"So," Darrion began, "Enough of that…you wanna know what we are going to do to you, you filthy freak?"

"Not exactly, but I have a feeling that you are going to tell me either way." Sam took a step back, and the rifle drooped, but Darrion lifted it right back into its original position, the small smile back.

"We've developed this formula—this serum—that is supposed to open up the pathways in your brain to flip whatever switch controls your powers. Kinda softens it up for an actual vision, you could say. It might hurt a little, but it's just pain. You're accustomed to that as a hunter, though, aren't you? No, what you really should fear is what comes after. There is a second serum that we will be injecting into you, one that is supposed to spark a vision."

Sam didn't blink as he stared Darrion coolly down. He supposed that he could be grateful that Darrion and Mr. Harris had never come across the children who could easily control their gifts. They would have had a field day with Andy or Max.

"That one, that one might hurt a little bit more. That one might even eventually kill you, but you're strong. You aren't going to give in as easily as the rest of them did, not as a hunter." Darrion paused, his head tilting to the side. "Huh. I've never thought of this before. Being a hunter makes you different than all the other kids, in ways beyond just being tough. You probably know just what a freak you are. How abnormal it is that you have visions, even in the supernatural world. You've probably even tried to figure out why you have them. I never really questioned that—freaks be freaks—but you…you probably did. Did you ever figure it out?"

"Even if we did, do you really think that I would tell you?"

"No, not at first. But maybe after a couple of rounds. And, hey, maybe then we can find other people like you."

Sam highly doubted that, considering that Azazel and the rest of the kids were dead. Once again, Sam was the last one standing amid death.

Darrion didn't give Sam any warning beside the slight narrowing of his eyes before he pulled the trigger, sending a dart straight into Sam's chest. He staggered back, grunting with the impact.

"What the—"

And then the pain hit, firing throughout all the nerves in his chest and rapidly expanding outwards, racing up to his head. His knees gave out and he hit the ground hard on his side. He brought his hands up, trying to fish the dart free. Only his hands weren't working correctly. They flopped oddly against his chest, his fingers refusing to obey his command as everything went…sideways. The floor, the wall, it all began to tumble in the wrong direction.

Gritting his teeth around a cry, Sam closed his eyes, panting through it. When he opened them again, Darrin's blurred face was mere inches from his own.

"No…" Sam mumbled, but he couldn't get his tongue to work around more than that. Sam's hearing must have gone as well because Darrion's lips were moving, but he wasn't hearing anything more than a shrill whistle. His arm was being pried outwards, and he caught a glimpse of the needle in Darrion's hand before the end was jabbed roughly in just above his elbow.

Whatever was in the needle felt like ice and Sam's whole arm began to tingle. His heartbeat was loud in his ear, pulsating as the ice flowed through his veins to the rest of his body.

Fire chased the ice, burning where it had been freezing.

Tilting his head back, Sam sucked in air, trying to breathe, trying to keep his heart working as he felt it skip a beat.

And then pain like he had never known before, except perhaps in a vision, exploded in his head. Someone was screaming. It might have been him, but he wasn't sure. All he knew was that his head was about to implode or fall off, and Sam just wanted to die, he wanted it to end, he didn't care anymore, he just wanted it to be over—

And then it was, the pain fading as quickly as it had come.

Sam gasped raggedly, staring up at the blurry ceiling as his whole body shook. The red light next to the camera was slipping into three separate dots. Sam stared at them, both fascinated and nauseated by the movement, when Darrion's face appeared, blocking his view.

Blinking, Sam tried to focus.

"You handled that surprisingly well," Darrion said over Sam's low moan. "Most of them screamed louder."

"Screw you…"

"I'll take a raincheck for when you are looking prettier. Now, I doubt it, what with this only being the first dose, but did you see anything?" Darrion reached over, grabbing Sam's chin to keep him from turning his head.

"Only you burning in hell," Sam said weakly, trying to slap his arm away, but his body was still recovering and his hand just jerked oddly.

"Yeah, we'll see if you are still saying that after the next dose."

"What? No, no don't—" Sam shifted, trying to curl inwards to protect himself, but Darrion seized his bicep and roughly jerked his arm out again as the needle went in the crook of his elbow for the second time.

The cold spread quicker this time, the pain faster and harder and when it finally ended, Sam couldn't do more than shake and gasp. He couldn't even answer when Darrion began to ask him questions.

Darrion shook his head, his lips pursed in annoyance, but filled the syringe for the third time.

Sam blacked out before the pain dissipated.

When he woke up, he was alone again. He lay on the cold cement for a very long time as he tried not to throw up. Not that he could move even if he had wanted to. His whole body had seized up, his muscles throbbing and protesting in a way that remained Sam of the mornings after particularly intense workouts that John used to force them to do on weekends.

When he finally managed to sit up, the room spun so badly that he had to put both hands on the floor and run through every breathing exercise that he knew. When the room finally conceded to stand still, he saw that a flimsy paper cup and a package of crackers had been left by the door.

The sight sparked an intense thirst that Sam had not even realized was there, but even that couldn't get him moving. Not when he could not stomach the thought of moving.

Slumping back against the wall, Sam closed his eyes and suffered in silence on the possibility that there were microphones in the room alongside the camera.