Ho boy. This chapter fought tooth and nail. It was supposed to cover more but it was becoming unmanageably long. Overachieving muse.

Thanks to CBloom2 and Souless666 for your reviews! YellowEyedSam, you'll just have to wait and see!

Warning: Some pretty intense gore and torture at points.

The steady whir of the fan overhead slowly lured Dean out of unconsciousness. Weak moonlight filtered in from above. Taking note of his surroundings, he realized he was on the ground in the panic room, exactly where he had fainted. Hours must have passed. He propped himself up, noting the extreme tenderness around his neck.

The still outline of Sam's body told him that his brother was not awake. Or maybe he was dead. Again. The anxiety of not knowing forced Dean to slowly roll over and push himself up to standing. He stalked over to the light switch and flipped it on. Sam was lying haphazardly on the cot, limbs flung out in every direction, his restraints snapped. Dean's stomach knotted when he saw the angry blackened burns on both Sam's forehead and on the hand that had been trying to strangle him. Peeling skin and scorched tissue spread like a morbid flower from his temple across his face. Dean searched his memories and realized that Castiel must have rescued him by knocking Sam out, but in doing so triggered one of Sam's angel wards and blasted himself away.

Dean moved to Sam and felt for a pulse. The cool skin that met his fingertips conveyed the vital information Dean needed to know. He closed his eyes for a moment and cursed everything that had led them to this point. But at least Sam's wounds would heal and he couldn't deny he was grateful for that. The third degree burn horribly disfigured his face and Dean couldn't bear to look at him. If it did this to Sam, what did it do to Cas? He dug his phone out of his pocket and was surprised to see a number of texts from Bobby.

'Everything alright down there?'

An hour later, 'Dean, you okay?'

A few minutes after that, 'Was about to come down the damn stairs again but I can hear your snoring from up here'

Two hours later, 'Sandwich in the fridge for ya'

That last text had been three and a half hours ago, so Bobby was probably asleep by now.

Dean sighed and dialed the angel's number. As he had expected, it went to voicemail.

"Cas, thanks for saving my ass back there. Call me when you're back on earth." He hung up and tucked his phone away. Dean went upstairs and retrieved the sandwich and a beer. He plunked himself down on the couch and turned on the TV to some action-packed B-movie. He tried to focus on his food and the shitty dialogue but his thoughts kept drifting down to the panic room. The sandwich was tasteless and the beer seemed flat. After twenty minutes he gave up and returned to the basement cell. He refused to acknowledge the way the tightness in his chest eased the moment he saw his brother, the mangled tissue already healing. He'd get Sam back, come Hell or high water.

Exhaustion scratched at his eyelids. He wasn't even sure what time it was or how long he had been sitting here watching Sam rest. When Sam returned to the land of the living, he took in a deep breath but didn't wake up. Not long after, Sam had begun whimpering slightly in his sleep, but it didn't seem like anything from which Dean needed to wake him. He actually found himself grateful for the near silence since it meant the demon parading around as his brother wasn't spewing his hateful rhetoric. The vicious words flung like burning acid from such a familiar mouth still punished Dean's heart.

"You should know from your own stint in Hell that there is no fixing something like this."

"Should I list of the ways we died, Dean?"

"If only you could see what's left inside."

"The Sam you want is dead, gone, broken."

"The only thing useful about you is all your buried rage."

"Sam broke the world, but it was your dismissal that broke him."

Had him giving up on Sam really precipitated all of this? No, it couldn't have, Sam was fucking kidnapped by two insane hunters with a misplaced vendetta. But maybe Sam would have fought more, would have tried harder if Dean hadn't rejected him. Well, Dean had learned his lesson. He wouldn't ever make this mistake again. Sam needed Dean as much as Dean needed Sam. Zachariah's little trip to the future had taught him that in no uncertain terms. They kept each other human, kept each other fighting, kept each other sane. At least as sane as one could hope for in this fucked up life.

Some time after dawn, Sam began crying out, graduating from mere whimpers to distinct sounds of suffering. Dean's attempts to wake his brother were unsuccessful. Sam was locked inside, probably experiencing the violence of detox completely internally. Dean had the macabre hope Sam would actually talk to his hallucinations just to get demon-Sam's cruel, mocking voice out of his head.

Checking Sam's vitals revealed the other physical manifestations of detox had started in earnest. His body was writhing and flinching, the muscles visibly spasming. His heart rate was over 140. He was dangerously warm, his temperature wavering on the edge of 105°F. Despite knowing he wouldn't lose Sam forever to a high fever, the thought of leaving Sam to literally stew in his own juices seemed abhorrent to Dean. He crushed up some Tylenol and sprinkled the powder in Sam's mouth, hoping he'd get enough to ease the fever. Dean didn't dare risk an IV the way Sam was starting to thrash.

Before long, the flailing progressed to seizures and Dean did his best to pin Sam's errant limbs and keep his head still. When the first seizure died down, he got a cool cloth and tried to ease the heat radiating off Sam's face. Dean could see his eyes darting frantically under the closed lids.

After a few rounds of seizing, Dean realized Sam's eyes would still a minute or so before he started moving. It was just enough time to set down the bowl of ice water and get into position to best ride out the violence of Sam's detox fits. Occasionally, Sam would keen like an animal being slaughtered. Dean would deny it if it ever came up, but he eventually started putting a hand over Sam's mouth to muffle the agonizing sound. With any luck, Sam wouldn't remember, but Dean would never forget.

The elder Winchester put down the car magazine he was attempting to browse. His eyes burned too much to make any sense of the words. He was beyond exhausted. He'd been on seizure watch for over sixteen hours. His brother had been quiet for the past two hours, which hopefully meant they were through the worst part of detox. He wove his fingers together and held his arms out in a much-needed stretch. His back popped and he sighed in satisfaction until the sound reminded him of Sam's spine being crunched and broken in one of the scenes demon-Sam showed him. Nausea ripped through him and he closed his eyes against the suddenly too-bright panic room lights. He planted his hands on his knees and carefully inhaled and exhaled, repeating the simple act until his body ceased its rebellion. Opening his eyes, he noticed the hair on his arms was standing straight up. Figuring it was somehow a reaction to his nausea, he went to smooth it down and was surprised to find it unchanged. He scrubbed at his skin but found the fine hairs continuously raised in stubborn defiance of his will.

Distracted as he was with his arms, he didn't notice the way any object not bolted to the floor began to hover and drift towards Sam. A sudden yelp from Sam drew Dean's attention in an instant. The older man had to do a double take from Sam's trembling body to the small collection of items floating over his brother's unconscious body. A strangled gurgle escaped Sam and Dean began moving towards him when Sam arched his back and yelled. All the things in the center of the room exploded outward and tried their best to embed themselves in the iron walls. Dean dropped to the ground and waited until the loud clatter of struck iron and falling stuff ceased before lifting his head. Dean barely registered the sound of breaking glass when Sam started screaming.

"Sam!" Dean shouted and launched himself towards the cot. Sam was convulsing violently, wailing so loudly he was sure the kid's vocal cords would tear. Dean's (by now) expert maneuvers kept his limbs from flailing, but the pillow previously cradling his head was somehow in shreds along the edge of the panic room. Sam's head thrashed against the cot and blood began to drip from one nostril. "Sammy!" Dean yelled and placed both hands on his cheeks, hoping to rouse him. He didn't even have a chance to appreciate the tacky feel of Sam's sweaty, fevered skin before bright light hazed his vision and the world stopped making sense.

Claws slashed at his belly and he looked down in the semi-darkness to see his intestines spilling out, glistening and alien in the open air. Despite the debilitating pain, despite knowing it was useless, he tried to gather himself up, warm, sticky blood coating every inch of him. Even though the wound was likely fatal, for some reason he knew he had to get out of there. He started to run but stumbled and the slick organ slipped out his hands. His will to live ebbed out of him, but it was like someone else was in charge. Without his control, his body picked itself up again and kept going, the screaming flare of his wounds mind-numbing. Something whipped out behind him and slashed his Achilles tendons, causing him to faceplant into the mud. Again, a force that was not his own motivation pushed him up on his arms and he began to crawl, even though his dragging legs were enlarging the jagged gash spreading across his abdomen like a deranged grin.

Something soft and velvety slid along his leg before wrapping around his thigh and halting his meager progress. The squelching mud held him in place as more tendrils slid around him. An eerie whine sounded from behind him and he craned his neck to peer into the darkness. All he could see were a multitude of pale grey tentacles reaching out, circular pads of tiny teeth on the end, like a lamprey, searching for an ideal spot. One by one, the nightmarish suction cups spread out and planted themselves across his body. Then, in unison, they began to vigorously twist and burrow into his flesh, tearing away tiny chunks of meat.

He opened his mouth to scream but a wandering tentacle found its way in and latched itself to the back of his throat. The newfound territory was quickly exploited and the vile things began exploring his body, lodging themselves deeper and deeper inside. The agony seemed to stretch on forever; he was sure it would take him hours to die like this. The moon peeked out from behind a cloud and with his last reserve of strength, he lifted up his head to see his attacker. It was at this point he realized that it was not one creature, but many, the smug face of a parent who's gotten enough food to feed all her children evident on a hideous face lurking just out of the shadows. Its sallow yellow eyes fixated on his head. The monster was like a praying mantis with velociraptor-like talons gleaming in the light at the end of its foldy arms. A long tentacle unfurled from its head and the circular mouth practically blossomed in a grin as its owner approached. It positioned itself over his body, the weird whine sounding again. He felt the other tentacles flee his mouth before the parent's terrifying jaws descended onto his face. Mercifully, he only felt the grating tears for a little less than thirty seconds before his oxygen ran out and he surrendered to death.

Instantly his eyes opened, though his vision was obscured by blood dripping into his eyes. Blinking rapidly, he realized he was no longer in the clutches of the hellish face-eating monster. He was in a warehouse which looked well past its best-by date. Doing a quick scan of his body, he focused on ignoring the pain in order to gather any useful information. Looking down, he realized he was handcuffed, the sharp metal biting into his angry, inflamed flesh. A chain trailed away and spilled onto the floor, presumably to limit his movement from his rickety chair. His feet weren't bound, though it didn't take him long to figure out why. The tinkling of the chain rang in his ears and he was suddenly pulled skyward by his wrists. His shoulders tugged in protest momentarily before submitting and dragging his body up. His free feet kicked out weakly, seeking purchase on something solid and finding nothing.

A mirthy chuckle from behind him stilled his struggle as fear bubbled through him.

"You are really just something else, aren't you? You'd think after all these times you'd learn, but I guess daddy Winchester was right about you: not even worth the silver it'd take to put you in the ground. Though if it were up to me, I'd salt and burn ya, just to be safe."

Rage bristled along his battered nerves. "Don't you talk about my father!" he spat out.

"Did I say you could fucking speak?! You know what happens when you bark without my permission, dog!"

Dread prickled his mind a half-second before blinding pain ripped through his entire body. Convulsions snapped his limbs like a taut rubber band being plucked by an impatient student. Just as his vision was blurring from lack of air, the shock stopped and he gasped for breath. The eager gulps made him hyper-aware of the shock collar constricting his neck, especially the fresh burns decorating his skin.

Something rustled in front of him and he opened his eyes. Tim was grinning in front of him. Fuck! How did Tim get the drop on me? Does that mean he also has Sam? Shit! Shit! Shit! He tried to open his mouth to threaten hellfire if he touched Sam, but his aching muscles refused to cooperate.

"If I can't talk about daddy, what about Dean?"

Wait, what?

"I bet the moment Dean found out what you were, he had to talk himself out of gutting you." Tim withdrew a blade from his pocket. "I bet he went to bed every night gripping the knife or gun every hunter keeps under his pillow and argued with himself. One side trained to be his brother's keeper, the other trained to destroy evil."

The realization hit Dean like a bag of bricks. He hadn't been captured by Tim; he was somehow experiencing Sam's memories as if he were Sam. He closed his eyes and focused, trying to remember how he got here. The visage of Sam's pale, frail body convulsing in the panic room sprang up and he remembered grabbing Sam to still his shaking. The physical contact must have been enough, combined with whatever new freaky powers Sam had, to pitch Dean into this hallucinogenic hell.

The sound of fabric tearing brought his attention to the situation at hand. The knife was sliding up his shirt – well, Sam's shirt – and splitting it easily. "Think about how many times he must have fantasized about cleansing the world of your filth." He felt Sam's body sag, a sign of acceptance in the young man. Dean's heart cried out a denial but his emotional pain was instantly overshadowed by the tip of the knife sliding into his flesh just above his sternum and gouging a bloody path down his chest. "It must have been torture," Tim plunged the knife into his abdomen, "knowing that you," he twisted the blade viciously, "were destined for evil, for the worst evil the world has ever known! And if he could see you now…" He quickly withdrew the blade, the sickening slurp audible over Sam's frantic pants. "Do you think he'd be relieved you were finally contained or do you think he'd be disappointed you were so weak and easy to capture?"

Shame swelled up within him, its origin foreign, and his heart grieved for Sam. He could only pray to the powers that be for some sliver of his brother to survive the abuse. It also ignited a new wildfire of hate towards Tim. He was clearly enjoying torturing Sam both physically and emotionally. Dean wished he had killed him when he'd had the chance.

Tim wiped the blood across Sam's cheeks. "I bet if I called him right now, he wouldn't even care that I was slicing you up. Do you think he would, huh? Would Dean come rescue his useless little brother again or just leave you to rot?" He trailed the knife down Sam's face towards his neck. He leaned in and pressed his mouth against Sam's ear. "I think we both know what he'd do." With that, Tim dragged the blade across his throat, laughing as Sam sputtered and bled out.

He woke to bright lights shining in his eyes and blinding him, the glare mixing with the telltale fuzz of sedatives to disorient him, so he sought out his other senses for information. Random ambiguous noises and low voices gave him no hints as to his situation. The smell of mold mixed with the stereotypical disinfectant scent of hospitals confused him. Touch revealed he was firmly restrained, from his head down to his ankles. His parched mouth told him nothing. He closed his eyes and focused on listening to the words around him.

"No, we want to keep him alive for as long as possible. That makes caring for the fragile organs easier. We'll start with bone marrow. It's the least invasive and has the most worth. Then corneas. Then we'll open up the abdomen, take the stomach, spleen, gallbladder, pancreas, small intestines, kidneys, cauterizing everything as we go. Once we take the liver, we'll have to work fast and get the heart, coronary artery, and lungs out. Next is blood, then we can take the skin, scalp, shoulders, bones, and ligaments at a bit more leisurely pace."

At first Dean didn't understand what was being said, the words swirling and bouncing off each other, then the bottom dropped out of his world as he realized what was happening: they were using Sam as an organ farm.

"Oh yeah, I always have buyers. And I'm sure he'll give us some great specimens, so we'll likely get above market value. Alright, let's get him anesthetized and then we'll get started."

Dean wanted to scream but the heaviness of chemical sedation quickly surged through him and dragged him under.

He woke up under the bright lights again. He couldn't tell how much time had passed until the supposed surgeon opened his mouth. "You guys again? I thought the three harvests would've given you enough money to do anything you wanted!"

Three harvests?! Dean thought with horror. Are they just using him as an eternal organ farm? Oh God, oh God, oh God, Dean panicked but the sedative relegated the hysteria to his mind.

"It's not really about the money anymore. It's about helping other people and causing him pain."

"Well, if it's pain you want, we can leave out the anesthesia," the doctor offered.

Dean expected waves of anger or fear to wash over him from Sam, but instead he experienced vague weariness and morose acceptance. He wasn't sure how he could tell, but there was just less of Sam here to react. His dismay over this realization rose exponentially as he heard the doctor prepare to start. The rev of a drill made Dean want to jump but Sam's body did not respond.

"Get the aspiration needles ready. I'm just gonna crack 'im open."

With that meager warning, Dean didn't have a chance to brace himself before the surgical drill tore through his flesh and bit into hip bone. Both he and Sam screamed louder than Dean thought possible until the drill shredded a major nerve. The white hot tsunami of blinding pain hit him so hard he thought the axis of the earth had shifted and then he knew nothing more.

When Dean awoke, he was on the cot with Sam, his own body carelessly flung over his brother's. It was kind of a miracle Sam was still able to breathe. Dean carefully pulled himself off of Sam and examined him. A hand to the forehead told him the fever had broken. Sam's pulse was calm and his breathing was even. A glance towards the panic room fan told him it was early morning. He heard his phone buzz and he slowly ambled to the table, his stiff muscles expressing their intense displeasure.

A series of texts from Bobby, about one an hour, asked Dean how he and Sam were doing. Dean's brain refused to entertain any of what he had just experienced.

Been better, but I think Sam should wake up soon. Fever broke during the night

Good was all Bobby wrote back, but Dean could sense the apprehension. Just who would Sam be when he woke up?

84 minutes later and Dean got his answer. Sam's eyes fluttered open and relief flooded Dean as he saw that his brother's eyes were hazel, no tinge of black and no flickering. So his eyes were only black when he was on the demon blood? He could deal with that. Concern quickly supplanted his relief as he noted how long it took for Sam's gaze to focus on anything. That anxiety skyrocketed when their eyes met and Sam's pupils dilated with alarming speed, no hint of recognition on his face. Sam weakly tried to recoil from Dean's presence and began to fall off the cot.

Dean reached out and caught Sam's wrist, pulling him back and steadying him. He didn't let go, hoping to comfort Sam with a familiar touch. To his dismay, Sam immediately went limp and turned his head away. He seemed to be holding his breath, though for what Dean couldn't tell.

Dean softly traced his thumb over Sam's wrist, rubbing away some of the accumulated grime. "You don't need to be afraid of me, man." He leaned forward and turned Sam's head towards himself. "C'mon, look at me, it'll be okay." A few seconds passed until Sam opened an eye to peer at Dean, who gently smiled in response. "Would you like to take a shower? Would that make you feel better?"

Sam's jaw twitched then he slowly rose, struggling to coordinate his limbs. Once he got to his feet, he did not move from his standing position.

Dean swallowed his confusion and stood, then stepped into Sam's line of sight. "Do you remember where the bathroom is?"

Sam deviated his thousand yard stare for just a second to glance at the floor before his hands started to pump in anxious fists. He was shaking and looked ready to collapse any second.

Dean shook his head dismissively. The shower in the basement wasn't gonna work. They needed a tub where Sam could sit down. "Don't worry about it. Here, I'll show you where it is, then I'll go get some towels and clean clothes for you. That sound good?"

The pace of the clenching fingers slowed slightly and Dean understood that as an affirmative. He led Sam forward, up the stairs, through to the second floor and then to the bathroom. Dean opened the door, motioned for Sam to go inside, then left for towels and clothes.

He dug through Sam's duffle bag in search of something that would fit. The kid had lost so much weight that he was bound to look ridiculous in this stuff. But it was all they had for now so it would have to do. As he approached the bathroom from the bedroom, he was dismayed by the silence, expecting the sound of running water to fill his ears. Instead, when he turned the corner, a heart-wrenching sight filled his vision.

Sam had shucked his dirty rags to the floor and was sitting in the bathtub, knees drawn to his chest. Grime and dried blood caked his skin, mostly hiding the myriad injuries beneath. Dean could count each of his ribs and vertebrae. There was something else on his back, something he couldn't quite make out. He wasn't sure he even wanted to know. But he had to be there for his brother. And that required understanding what had happened to him.

Dean stepped forward and knocked against the open door. "Uh, is it alright if I come in?"

Sam gave no response, verbal or otherwise. This is gonna be impossible, Dean grieved internally.

"Okay, then. Am I gonna have to clean you up? Scrub in between your toesies, like when you were a little kid?" Dean joked gently, trying to lighten the mood. "Seriously, dude, gonna need you to stretch out," he said more firmly.

Sam merely uncurled from his ball and spread his legs out, hands on his thighs, head tucked down, waiting. He made no attempt to maintain his privacy. That by itself, the implication of what that meant, was nearly enough to break Dean. He gulped, unsure he was strong enough to go through with this. It was one thing when he had bathed his brother when he was a baby… Now, though? One man bathing a naked, fully grown man? It just felt wrong. But he had to. For Sam.

Making sure the showerhead was not turned on, he twisted the tap open and waited until the water was pleasantly warm. He flicked on the showerhead and noticed Sam flinch as the water hit him. When was the last time he had a shower? Dean wondered idly.

Despite the warm water flowing down his skin, little of the dirt was washing off. Dean sighed and resigned himself to scrubbing his brother down. He added some soap to a wet washcloth and began on the shoulder closest to him. As he revealed Sam's skin, a frenzy of emotions began clamoring for his attention. There were more scars than Dean cared to count on this small area alone. He steeled himself and worked down Sam's arm. When he got to his wrist, he realized there were large, almost fully healed, circular wounds on either side of his arm that looked as if it had gone right through the bone. Dread seized Dean and he reached for Sam's other hand. As he scrubbed, he begged the powers that be that his suspicion would not be confirmed. But of course, it was, and Dean lamented the unimaginable agony his brother must have endured when he'd been fucking crucified.

Holding back his tears, he moved to Sam's back and lifted his hair to start washing him from the neck down. That was when he noticed the angry scar right below his hairline. As quickly as he could while taking care not to hurt Sam, he scrubbed away the dirt and followed the scar, revealing the horror that lurked beneath. Despite the hundreds of scars from a whip or lash scribbling a frenzied mess across his back, a huge sigil stood out against his mottled pale skin, the raised dark red welts screaming their violent origin in no uncertain terms.

Suddenly, Dean needed to know where else his brother had been marked or branded like a fucking animal. He had to know what they had done to Sam.

"I'm gonna lean you back a bit so I can clean your front. Let me know if you're uncomfortable." He didn't get a response but then again, he wasn't expecting one.

He gently pushed Sam back, careful to cradle Sam's head and rest it against the rim of the tub. Sam didn't even seem present and if Dean were to be honest, he was grateful for that.

A few more minutes of scrubbing revealed the two painful looking wards on Sam's chest. Dean traced his finger down the one that went from the middle of Sam's chest to his belly button; the skin had been torn away and left a palpable dent. The raised, spiraling sigil over his heart had clearly been burned on with immense heat.

Tears now freely fell from Dean's eyes. He didn't care to try to be strong for his brother now, the time for that had clearly passed. He'd been too late and maybe he'd lost Sam forever.

He moved down to Sam's feet and began washing those, only to discover more intricate sigils carved and burned into the soles of his feet. Countless marks and scars littered his body, showcasing only a partial chronicle of all that Sam had suffered. He kept scrubbing his legs, telltale signs of all sorts of restraints painting his skin. He brushed over the bite mark from the naga and he shuddered at the thought of how Sam had died. Part of him wanted to scrub Sam's skin raw, erase all these marks, but he knew that wouldn't work. He had to live with these, just as Sam had been forced to acquire them.

He gingerly washed Sam's long thighs, careful to avoid getting too close to his genitals. Yeah, sure, Dean had seen 'em before, Dean had his own set, but he still felt uncomfortable. It felt like one more invasion of Sam's privacy and he just couldn't do it.

He grabbed a hairbrush from the vanity and began working on Sam's hair. It was greasy, filthy, and knotted beyond belief. "You trying to grow dreads or something?" Dean teased half-heartedly, knowing he wouldn't get a snarky response. He winced every time he ripped through a knot and accidentally tore out some of Sam's hair, but Sam never flinched once. Just how far gone was his brother? All Dean knew was that he feared the answer.

"Close your eyes, Sammy," Dean asked quietly, preparing to squirt a bunch of shampoo into his brushed hair. Sam didn't respond. "Sam, close your eyes!" he repeated loudly, hoping to get through to him. Nothing. "Dammit, close your fucking eyes!" he huffed in irritation. To his surprise, Sam instantly complied and shut his eyes.

Dean paused, trying to understand what just happened. "Sam," he said softly, "turn and look at me." It was as if Sam hadn't heard him. Dean closed his eyes and inhaled, bracing himself for what he was about to do. "Hey, you fucking look at me when I talk to you!" he yelled quietly. Sam's head snapped up in record time and large, fearful eyes stared at him, though Sam still couldn't quite meet his gaze. "Oh, Sam," Dean murmured as he pulled his brother's head into his chest and wrapped a protective arm around him. "So you only respond to people yelling at you? Is that what it is?" Sam said nothing. The two sat in silence a long time until the water started to cool slightly.

"Alright, gotta finish this up." He grabbed the shampoo bottle. "Close your eyes til I say you can open 'em!" he said roughly but it didn't seem to work. Dean hated this. Was he not being mean enough? "Hey bitch!" A faint jerk echoed in his head and he never realized how much he'd miss Sam's non-profane response. "Close your goddam eyes!" That spurred Sam into action and he forcefully squeezed his eyes shut. Dean felt his heart break even more than he thought possible.

After shampooing Sam's hair three times and using half the bottle of fancy conditioner he'd found in Sam's old duffle, Dean took a fresh washcloth to clean Sam's face. The burn on Sam's face was just about gone but the purpling bruise Dean had given demon-Sam still remained, suggesting Lucifer only healed life-threatening or serious wounds. Fucking bastard, Dean hissed mentally.

He scrubbed under Sam's chin, noting the faint stubble growing there, before moving onto his neck. As he swiped the dirt and blood away, the large electrical burns on Sam's neck became nauseatingly clear. Black, necrotizing tissue decorated his skin in two jagged circles surrounded by bright red halos of blistered skin. They looked extraordinarily painful, so much so that Dean was surprised demon-Sam had been able to speak without discomfort. Or maybe he had been in agony but hadn't bothered to mention it.

Abruptly, Dean realized with devastating clarity how much that told him about Sam's condition. His brother had likely been suffering non-stop since his capture, so much so that he probably didn't remember what living without pain felt like. The specters of Hell threatened to terrorize his mind and he shied away from the vicious thoughts. A quick succession of knocks drew his attention outward.

He was confused for a moment before realizing it was probably the hunters' notes. "I'll be right back, Sam!" Dean hollered as he hurried down the stairs. Another impatient series of raps had him flinging the door open.

The delivery person jumped slightly then regained his composure. "Delivery for Dean Winchester?"

"Yup that's me." He made to grab the package.

"Need you to sign first."

"Fine, whatever!" Dean hastily scrawled his signature then took the box. "Thanks," he mumbled as he closed the door. The box was large, needed two hands to carry, and was heavier than he had expected. That thought did not ease his concern. Scanning the box, he saw that the return address was a post office, so that wouldn't provide him with any useful leads. He withdrew his pocketknife and flicked it open. He slowly sliced the tape, wary of any booby traps.

Finding none, he pushed back the flaps and eyed the contents of the box warily. Rusty brown smudges decorated the notebooks and edges of the pages. He had no doubt it was blood. Sam's blood. There was a small CD binder and other random trinkets in the box.

He'd told Sam he'd be right back, but some sort of morbid curiosity got the best of him.

Just one page, he told himself, then I'll get back to Sam. He picked up the top notebook, unassumingly titled "Log 1". He flipped open to the first page and focused his gaze. The date read a week after he'd told Sam they were better off apart. He forced his eyes across the messily scrawled lines.

We've had the freak for a week and it really seems like he can't die. I shot him in the head just to get rid of him after he wiped out those demons in Garber, but he was back by the time we went to burn the bodies. He survived being baykok chow for a few days. Burned him alive, all the way to ash and bones, and it took a while, but he came back. He says Lucifer won't let him die. It's fucking amazing. Gotta put a new tracker in him whenever he gets too messed up, but that's a price worth paying. So much we can do with him…

"Ash and bones?" he gasped aloud. Thanks to his stint in Hell, he knew what being burned alive felt like, all too well. They'd always start slow, just a finger or a patch of skin on his leg, as if they were giving him an appetizer to the main course of being thrown into a lake of liquid fire. Hell was strange; you could be burnt past the point of death but still feel what was happening. He supposed it made sense: can't torture people too effectively if they keep dying on you.

He looked down at the book and flipped forward several pages. It was dated three and half weeks after the previous entry.

Even a little bit of demon blood will cause him to withdraw. It's hilarious in a pathetic kind of way – he always whines and begs for Dean. Like Dean would save him even if he knew. We keep telling him that Dean would probably find a way to kill him permanently so he should be grateful we have him. Kid's lucky John ain't around. World would be down a Winchester and we'd be done in time for happy hour.

Dean's stomach lurched at the thought of John killing Sam. Yeah, he'd told Dean to do it if he couldn't save Sam, but his dad had to know that wasn't something Dean was capable of. Or, well, it wasn't until recently. But that wasn't the same! He had killed Sam to save him! Right?

Resting on the table in his limp hand, the notebook opened to a natural spot in the spine due to something crammed between the pages. His hand grabbed the pictures as they slid down and by instinct, his eyes peered at their contents.

Dean immediately regretted it.

There was a still from a camcorder video, the time stamp denoting this was within the first week of Sam's capture. A body that could only belong to his brother was folded up in the dog kennel he recognized from the back of Tim's truck. No clothes, hair, or skin covered the raw looking flesh that wrapped around blackened bones. Dean had the misfortune to learn what his little brother's skull looked like devoid of his stupid floppy hair and empathetic eyes. Instead, drops of blood and tendrils of tissue laced over the scorched bone.

Another visible photo depicted Sam tied to a chair in some basement, his face amateurly colored in with marker to look like a target. Several bullet holes pierced his face, especially his bruised eyes. The wall behind him was heavily decorated with his brain matter.

Dean threw the book away from him like it was a bomb and turned to vomit in a trash can by the desk.

"Dean?" Bobby called from somewhere in the house. "You alright?"

Acid eating at his throat, he couldn't answer in time and Bobby rolled in to check on him. The older hunter's eyes alighted on the cause of Dean's misery. "That Tim and Reggie's notes?"

Dean nodded in between spitting out rancid saliva.

"Where's Sam?"

Sam. Fuck, Sam. He was so caught up in past Sam's suffering that he forgot about the one in the present. "He's still up in the shower." Dean pushed himself up from his seat and darted towards the stairs.

"How's he doing?"

"Not good!" Dean called as he took the steps two at a time. He could hear the shower running and guilt pricked his concern. The water had been lukewarm when Dean left, and that was easily at least ten minutes ago.

Just as he suspected would be the case, Sam was still sitting in the tub exactly as Dean had left him. Cold water was pelting his skin but Sam wasn't so much as shivering. Dean slammed his hand down on the handle to cease the freezing deluge. He quickly got a towel and held it up, looking away from Sam.

"Sam, get out and dry off, right fucking now."

Head tucked down, Sam stood immediately and stepped out of the tub, shaking slightly as he grabbed the towel to dry his long limbs and then wrap around himself. Dean lead him to their shared bedroom and lightly pushed his brother inside. Sam carefully folded the towel, placed it on the nightstand, and then sat at the bed. He stared at the floor, his hands loosely gripping his knees. He seemed to be waiting. For what, Dean couldn't tell.

"For Christ's sake, would you get some goddam clothes on before you freeze to death? They're on the fucking dresser." Dean spat then closed the door. He headed downstairs where Bobby was waiting for him, arms crossed in irritation.

"Is that any way to talk to your brother?!" Bobby hissed angrily.

Instinctually, Dean bristled at his surrogate father's tone but his face softened instantly when he processed the words. "Bobby, no, it's not like that. I can explain!"

"You better start talking!"

"Sam's not saying anything and the only way I can get him to respond to me is by being harsh. Nothing else gets through to him."

"So, what, some kind of PTSD?"

"How should I know?!" Dean snapped, clearly flustered. "What I do know is that he has massive nasty burns on his neck where a fucking shock collar was, so I'd be willing to bet my Baby that's why he won't talk."

Horror painted Bobby's face. "A shock collar? Like for when a dog barks?"

Dean nodded vigorously. "While he was detoxing, he projected memories into my head, like the demonic version did, but this time, I experienced them as Sam. There was one were Tim had tied him up and was taunting him and when Sam tried to talk, the collar shocked him so hard I could smell burning skin."

Bobby gulped visibly. "Then I'm guessing they conditioned him not to talk."

"How do we reverse that?"

Bobby shook his head. "I don't know. I know a psychologist who—"

"No, no psychologists. They're just gonna give 'im a bunch of pills."

Bobby put his hands up. "Okay, fine, just us but you know we're gonna have our work cut out for us."

Dean replied with a bitter laugh. "What's new?"

Sluggishly, as if watching in slow motion, he had lost touch with the other facets of himself. Phantom pain would still splash itself around his body but he no longer knew the causes. His only companions were the creeping ice and his thoughts.

And one rather persistent archangel.

Lucifer would pass gracefully through the ice, as if it weren't there, and come right up to his face, their noses practically touching. The intense blue of the vessel's eyes seemed to wash over him and drown him in their expansive depths. Falling, drifting, sinking. Why did he need to hold on? What was the noble reason behind his relentless suffering? Oh, right, the fate of the world.

"I see your willpower is wearing a bit thin…" Lucifer murmured, his cool breath blowing over his true vessel's face. "Perform one last act of kindness for yourself. After all this unimaginable suffering, you deserve it. Say 'yes' and grant yourself a place in Paradise. Everyone you love will be there. Don't let this be for nothing. Give yourself to me and savor the gift of eternity."

The temptation was immense and the urge to say 'yes' pulsed through him. But he couldn't give up, not yet. He'd promised himself he would fight until he had nothing left. His soul was almost entirely spent, but he wasn't gone yet. He'd let so many people down in his life; he refused to have his last act be another broken promise. He weakly shook his head and Lucifer left him alone once more.

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