Chapter 10

Dean was surprised at how quickly the sun came up boldly declaring the start of a new day and the close of a long night. It had been just that, a long night…. a night of wondering, fear, and desperation…a night of refocus, resolve, and strategy. The rain, which had mocked him less than an hour earlier, had stopped. The cloud from which it had fallen had lost its battle with the sun and unhappily moved on.

His caffeinated "cabbie", oblivious to what lay ahead for the newly focused warrior, stopped his truck when directed, waved cheerily, and said, "Have a great day!"

Normally Dean would have told him what to do with himself, but he was already off to a dead run long before the words "great day" had even been spoken. He was a warrior, ready for battle, strong and confident, fully armed with conviction and commitment; a soldier, fully prepared for the war that lay ahead, willing to make the ultimate sacrifice should it be required of him. His compass….steady, Sam is his North; his cause …righteous, his direction… unswerving; his loyalty… to his brother and his brother alone; his conviction- to kill Denton. He had let the son of a bitch go once before, a mistake he would never make again!

Dean wondered if Sam would try to stop him, try to reason with him as he had so many times in the past. With Max, he had wanted to save the troubled youth, to stop him from using his powers to kill. Dean was ready to eliminate him but Sam, placing his own life on the line, had persuaded him differently. Then there was Roy Le Grange, the faith healer. When Dean had decided that the minister was using a reaper to do his "work", he had told Sam they needed to end him, although, if Dean were honest with himself, he would admit that he secretly hoped Sam would have a solution to resolve the problem without killing and of course, Sammy did…to break the binding spell which trapped the reaper. Finally, there was Meg. Hell, Sam even questioned Dean about finishing the exorcism of Meg when he knew she would probably die. Always, his little brother had chosen life. Dean had admired and respected him for that. Truth was, he loved Sam's trusting and caring nature, always believing the best in people, always looking for ways to solve the problem and save the life. Dean couldn't help but wonder if Sam would feel the same way now and whether, if he did, Dean would be able to oblige him.

Moments later, Dean reached the end of the grove of trees that had bordered the property near the farmhouse. The grassy acreage once again spread out before him. He quickly ducked back, crouching behind a large tree on the corner to asses the situation. The soldier in him wasn't about to engage without surveillance.

The Impala was still sitting in the driveway to Dean's relief. He had hoped that Denton's truck might still be there though he wasn't sure why it would be. The depraved huntsman had probably taken Sam somewhere remote. Dean thought of all the properties that had been on the list the county cleric had given them. Sam could be at any one of them.

His mind began to run through the possibilities. He could start by heading back to the first one they had seen and then proceed by going through them one by one. That would take forever and forever is exactly what he didn't have. Instead, he decided to start with the ones he and Sam hadn't checked out yet, since his brother hadn't recognized any of the others they had already seen.

Dean worked his way to the driveway and paused where Denton's truck had been. The tire tracks still remained, sunken in the gravel holding the memory of the flat tire and the trickery that had accompanied it. The warrior paused for a brief second offering up a moment of silence for the tragedy that had occurred there when a civilian had been victimized by a war he did not belong in; neither of them did.

He continued on up to the passenger side of the Impala as he began searching his pocket for his keys. Dean was glad he had been driving so that his little brother didn't have them.

"Crap!" he exclaimed when he discovered that just like the cell phone, they were gone too. "Denton! You son of a bitch!" he cursed as he slapped the top of his car with his hand.

"Great! That's just great!" Dean grumbled. "Can this day get any more screwed up?" he yelled to the wide open field that just mocked him with its silence. Denton was even more calculating than he had thought. He glanced into the front passenger seat and was glad to see that at least the property lists were still there. Apparently, Denton hadn't thought to remove them; He could begin his search immediately, that is, after he had hot wired his car.

Circling around to the driver's side, he stopped abruptly. He could see the image of his fallen brother imprinted on the gravel next to his car and he painfully relived the dreadful moments of the previous morning as they played out before him in his mind… Denton's bold request for Sammy's help, the gasp, the fall… It all replayed in Dean's head and he felt sick.

He glanced down fearful he might see his brother's blood seeping through the gravel to the dirt below, but there was none, to his relief. Instead, he noticed stones scattered off the driveway and, upon closer examination, trails amongst the grasses …drag marks he presumed. He studied them briefly and noted one set crossed behind the Impala's trunk and over to where the passenger door would have been on Denton's truck. That trail had to be his.

Oddly, the second set went towards the front of the Impala. Dean followed, seeing it cross in front and head towards the porch. Denton had dragged Sam…. into the house. He cursed himself for not having considered this. Sam had said that something about the house was familiar. It was what had caused them to exit so hastily in the first place; what had driven them out to where Denton lay in wait.

Immediately, Dean's hunting instincts kicked in and took over. He ran for the trunk to grab the weapons needed to breech the house and eliminate any threat that lie therein …to rescue Sam.

"Damn" he cursed when he remembered he had no keys. Knowing time was everything, he rushed back to the car, flung open the unlocked door, and lunged for the glove compartment. Lying uselessly inside was an unloaded Colt .45 . Sam didn't like to leave the loaded weapon where someone else could find it. It was a safety thing, although, right now he was cursing his little brother's safety conscious side. It was Sam's gun and he always carried the bullets in his left jean pocket. Only problem was, Sam's pocket wasn't here and Dean wasn't carrying. He considered the situation quickly and opted to take the unloaded weapon anyways. He could always use it as a bluff in a tight spot. Then, he bolted towards the house.

The cautious young hunter stopped just short of the creaky first step and, with stealth-like movements, he silently stepped up into the house avoiding any obviously broken boards. Barely breathing, he moved swiftly through the first floor aware that his little brother was not shadowing behind him as he always was, at least since they had resumed hunting together. Dean only hoped that Sammy would join him there once again… soon. After finishing his inspection, he determined that the first floor was 'clear'; there was no sign of Denton or Sam.

Deftly, the trained soldier headed to the second floor being careful to avoid the upper steps which had given way the day before. An occasional creak underfoot caused Dean to pause and listen before continuing with expert swiftness. Moments later it was obvious, the second floor was clear.

Dean suddenly remembered the trouble Sam had in determining if the vision was at night or in the day. "The basement," Dean mouthed as he stiffened his lower lip, frustrated that he hadn't started there in the first place. As he made his way back through the house towards the cellar, his heart began recklessly beating against the wall of his chest. He only hoped he'd be arriving in time to save his little brother.

The basement door was partially open. Dean paused at the top and listened. Nothing. The soldier inside of him armed itself with courage, commitment, focus, and fear, not the kind that disabled, but the kind that made you alert, ready, quick to act and react. He began to move stealthily down, one step at a time, carefully, determinedly, carrying his unloaded weapon as if armed should he need to set up a pretense. Trying desperately to adjust to the darkness and get his bearings, he paused half way down.

Off to the left, barely a few feet away, he could make out a small broken window which was allowing a tiny bit of light to sneak into the musty cellar. An old wooden workbench that seemed to reflect the light that was attempting to make its way onto the cold cement floor, stood beneath it. Dean quickly realized that the reflection cast back from the decaying bench was coming from multiple metal objects neatly arranged in a row on top. Upon closer glance, the objects were clearly recognizable….weapons, double sided blades with jagged edges of all sizes… a hunter's arsenal. To Dean's dismay, many of them were darkened in places with what appeared to be blood. Horrified, Dean's stomach sickened… Sammy's blood?

Dean's feelings internally battled with his training, each struggling for control. Dean had hunted many times before and his training had always won out, but this was so much more difficult, this was about his brother, his family and he felt himself slowly lose ground to fear.

Fully adjusted to the semi-darkness, Dean's eyes began to search in terror the room that lay a few steps beneath him, scanning frantically for any sign of Denton or worse, an injured Sam. His eyes met their mark; Dean stood still, his body glued in place as he felt sheer horror crawl up his legs, travel through his spinal cord, and grip his heart in a strangled panic which radiated from his eyes….Sam.

Sam's almost shirtless body hung limply before him; trails of blood from multiple whippings, punctures, and cuts ran their way down along his back and across his chest, collecting along the waistline of his favorite jeans. His wrists were shackled, chained high above him over a wooden beam that was unforgiving in its strength, offering no possibility of breaking and releasing the prisoner that dangled helplessly below it. His legs were slightly bent beneath him, his bare feet rested in a pool of blood on the floor. The defeated young hunter's head, bloodied and unconscious, drooped forward, resting lifelessly on his damaged chest. His left arm was clearly broken as the bone piercing the skin threatened to force its way out. If it weren't for the length of his body and long brown hair, Dean would have barely even recognized that it was Sam.

"No," Dean breathed out in a wash of sadness and despair as his eyes began to fill with tears. Overwhelmed with the sight of his little brother hanging helplessly before him, Dean forgot his training and rushed to Sam's defeated body. He gently placed his fingers on Sam's neck and a wash of relief flooded his shock filled mind; at least Sam was alive.

Dean quickly glanced around the room and was relieved to find that Denton was no longer there. Overwhelmingly concerned for the life of his little brother, it never occurred to him that the remaining huntsman's weapons were an ominous sign that he would be returning.

"Okay, okay," he whispered trying to calm himself and get his bearings. He swept his hand across his tearing face. "It's gonna be okay" he continued attempting to comfort Sam as much as himself.

Sam was no where near conscious to be able to benefit from his big brother's words.

"Think, Dean, think," the older sibling muttered aloud as he tried to clear his head of the despair and fear that had returned, paralyzing him. He didn't know quite where to begin.

"Sammy?" he whispered as he placed his hands lightly along side his little brother's badly bruised face and gently lifted his head to see if he could arouse his beaten brother. "God, you're a mess." The tears that once again welled up in his eyes finally found their way down the sides of his cheeks. Dean wiped them of and continued assessing his brother's condition.

Both of Sam's eyes were swollen; his nose was bloodied, most likely broken, his lip was split in two places and even now continued to drip the blood that had softened them prior to the beatings. The bruises on his face, especially along his hairline, were unforgiving as they stretched his bruised skin far beyond what one would think possible. Dried blood was caked inside the young hunter's left ear.

"Damn," Dean spoke shaking his head and biting his lip. His eyes changed briefly from grief to anger, "I'm gonna kill that bastard for what he did to you."

Having determined that Sam was alive and badly in need of medical attention, Dean began the daunting task of trying to free him from his imprisonment.

"Let's try to get you down, Sammy," Dean offered softly, hoping that the sound of his voice might somehow bring his little brother comfort and keep him from slipping deeper into unconsciousness.

"Man," Dean sighed as he looked over his little brother's situation and what it would take to free him. "This is gonna hurt," he offered sympathetically.

Needing to believe Sam could hear him, he offered a little hope. "We'll take it slow. You're gonna be okay, little brother."

Reaching inside his jacket, Dean felt around for his lucky paper clip, the one that had freed him from handcuffs more times than he could count. Denton apparently hadn't considered it a problem when he was removing Dean's cell phone and keys. Once again, the chessman had underestimated his opponent.

He began picking the lock on the shackle, cruelly holding Sam's broken arm. After a bit of struggling and several glances to see if his movements were causing his little brother any pain, the shackle popped open and Sam's wrist was released into Dean's grasp. He attempted to steady Sam's shifted weight against his side, being careful not to pull unnecessarily on his broken arm. He gently eased the broken limb down. Sam gasped and moaned with the movements. Dean winced along with his younger brother each and every time.

"Damn," Dean sighed. "Sorry, Sammy."

The second shackle would be much more difficult. It was hard enough to steady Sam's dead weight, but to raise him far enough to remove him from the second shackle once it released would be no easy trick. Sam's dead weight pulled the shackle down and held it steady while Dean quickly picked the lock with one hand. Within a few seconds, the second shackle popped open. Dean raised his unconscious brother up enough to slip his wrist free. Sam's second arm dropped and he began to follow it.

Dean attempted to steady his failing brother as he collapsed in his arms. Sam's head fell forward onto Dean's chest. He struggled to help him stand, but any contact to hold his little brother up only caused Sam to gasp. Finally conceding, Dean laid him gently down to the ground, easing his head slowly to prevent it from colliding with the basement floor which was the last thing Sammy needed.

Sam's body trembled from the cold contact of the floor. Dean hurriedly removed his leather jacket and covered his bloody form hoping to offer him some warmth. He then removed his outer shirt and began blotting the bleeding wounds on his chest. He fought back tears that threatened to fall for his brother who so undeservedly suffered before him.

The tortured hunter moaned again. Dean couldn't help but feel as if his brother knew he was there and was somehow trying to call out to him. He gently brushed Sam's bangs away from his bloodied face and tried to console him.

For a brief moment Sam's eyes flickered open trying desperately to make eye contact with his older brother, needing to see him, to ask him for help, to warn him about Denton but he never succeeded. Instead, he faded helplessly back to the nothingness from which he had come.

Dean pulled his leather coat tighter around Sam's shivering frame.

"Shh, Sammy, shhh…..easy……easy" Dean continued to soft talk his little brother. "Stay still, I'm right here."

Recognizing he should not move Sam and that he would not be able to get his brother up the stairs to the car without hurting him, Dean decided to call for an ambulance. As he hurriedly reached inside his jean pocket for his cell, he remembered Denton had taken it. He gently searched Sam's right pocket where he always kept his cell all the while talking to his unconscious form laid out broken on the floor.

"It's gonna be okay, Sammy. I'm gonna get you some help."

When it wasn't there, he checked the other pocket.

"Damn," he stated sadly. Sam's pockets were empty.

He remembered the weaponry on the workbench and thought maybe, just maybe, Denton would have put Sam's cell on it. Sure enough, the cell was there resting uselessly next to Dean's between the bloodied weapons. Beside the cells lay Dean's tire iron lined up with the rest of the "tools" of torture; it had been obviously used as one of them. His eyes were momentarily captured by it, sickened to know that the blood dried on its end was Sam's. It broke his heart.

Finding the distance from his brother unbearable, he snapped himself back to reality and rushed to Sam… dialing 911. While he gave the necessary details to the emergency operator on the other end of the phone, he continued to care for Sam's tormented body.

While there were many visible injuries, most were not life threatening. Denton had played with Sam like a cat plays with a mouse, tormenting it just enough to frighten and hurt the defenseless creature, but not enough to kill it, at least not right away. It was the bruises developing beneath Sam's skin hinting of internal injuries that were disconcerting.

As he reached his shirt around to Sam's side to wipe away the blood that was there and check for further injuries, he noticed a wound that seriously concerned him. It was deep and swollen and the dark crimson blood that oozed out of it had already pooled on the floor. Dean applied pressure in the hopes of stopping the flow.

"Ah…" Sam gasped unconsciously when Dean applied pressure.

"Shh… shhh" he cooed as his brother moaned under his touch. "Sorry, Sammy. Hang in there, man. You're gonna be okay."

Sam did not respond. His skin was becoming clammy and cold to the touch. His face was deathly pale. Dean was scared. He was losing his brother and he knew it. If the ambulance didn't get there soon, Sam wouldn't need it.

So consumed was he by his worry for his younger sibling and the medical help that he so desperately needed in order to keep Sam's vision as only that, a vision, that he never even noticed the crunch of gravel beneath the tires of the seasoned hunter's truck which had returned to complete the hunt.

It wasn't until Dean had completed the 911 call and was remaining on the line, that he became aware of the creaking of the floor boards above him and the basement door being swung open.

"Saaaaaaaaamy" the disturbing voice called out in a sarcastic and bone chilling way, "I'm back."