A/N: Big thanks to all of my readers! Here, we'll see some more of Dean's dreams.

Are You Crazy Enough To Do It Challenge - #225 (genre) family

If You Dare Challenge - #94 (Chains)

Disclaimer: The writers own it all.

Dean awoke to an incredibly painful sensation tearing through the flesh of his back. He cried out at the impact, attempting to twist away from his attacker, but his arms were bound, shackled, to the wall before him. He was trapped.

It laughed, its deep bellow sending shivers through the boy. For a second, Dean mistook the voice for that of his father. Through the haze of pain and in between each agonizing lash, he remembered who was attacking him. He and his father had been chasing after a particularly violent ghost with an ugly streak of torturing children.

Dean wished now that he hadn't accompanied his father on this hunt.

The ghost circled him, growling softly. Icy fingertips brushed against his cheek, and Dean shivered. "Get away from me," he hissed. "Don't—"

In return for his protests, Dean received a broken nose and a swollen eye. He pulled violently against his restraints, but the ghost only laughed again. "You're a pretty one," it said. "This'll be fun."

It took four more strikes across Dean's bare back for him to realize he was being whipped. The leather ripped through his skin again and he screamed. The ghost growled in response and raised the whip again.

It met his back with a sickening slap. One. Two. Five. Twenty.

Dean lost count of how many strikes. They blurred together but hurt all the same. He could feel the slick blood running over his back and down his legs until it pooled at his feet. He could no longer stand; the floor was too slippery with his blood. It's not like he could stand if he had wanted to, for he was far too weak.

One. Two. Five… Ten…

Dean could barely think; the pain blurred his thoughts, so he focused on one thing: Sammy.

Dean's head dipped as he slipped out of consciousness, and the ghost slapped him again, craving a reaction, but this time he did not respond. Angry, it slashed open the skin of his leg, and finally Dean rose, begging for mercy.

As Dean soon learned, ghosts didn't care much for mercy.

Dean's back speared him with pain, and he found himself shaking in fear and cold, his mind surging forth with memories that matched his circumstances. He was injured, cold, and… He lifted his heavy head to find his left arm shackled to the bed. He was trapped…in the dark.

He shook with fear, immediately cowering in anticipation of a blow. When none came, he began to tremble, panic washing over him. He needed to find a way out. One hand wasn't bound to the bed; instead, his right arm was trapped in a large, heavy cast and tucked close to his chest in a sling. The other was chained to the side of the bed by a set of handcuffs. He sat up, receiving a rush of discomfort as he did so, and tried to wrench his right arm out of the sling. His fear was intensifying; the beeping noise from beside him grew more frequent until he finally tore the sling with his teeth and threw his arm to the side, pushing his pain into the back of his head as he banged it against the handcuff over and over again until the metal contraption broke.

The machine was beeping erratically now, and Dean pulled the mask away from his face and sat up with crazed eyes, tearing out wires and scouring the room for the one thing he cared about: Sammy. His throat was dry and burned as though he hadn't drunk anything in days. "S'mmy…" he gasped.

He stood up and quickly found that he had a similar cast encasing his right leg. "S'm…"

He had to get out of here, fast, before the monsters came back. He pulled his leg forward—which felt oddly familiar—and half-limped, half-crawled towards the door.

His throat tightened.

Sammy.

There was a strange wheezing sound in the room. It took Dean a few seconds to realize the unusual, shallow sound was coming from him. He could scarcely breathe; his chest felt as though a giant rubber band was tightening around his lungs.

He sucked in a miniscule amount of air and trudged forth, but it was impossible to stay quiet. A rush of cold slid down his spine and he shuddered uncontrollably, momentarily losing consciousness and collapsing against the wall. Hearing footsteps heading down the hallway, he shrunk back behind a cart, shaking. He touched one frail hand to his head, dizzy, and winced when he heard someone shout his name.

"Dean!"

Jimmy watched him fall against the wall, his eyes rolling up into his head. He rushed forward to help him, but already two men and a woman in scrubs were coming towards him. How had he gotten out of his room without anyone noticing? More importantly, how had he gotten up at all? He touched the boy's shoulder and realized that he was unnaturally hot to the touch. "Oh, God…"

The female doctor kneeled and picked Dean up as though he were an infant, immediately coming to a similar conclusion. "His temperature's out of control," she said. "Let's get him back to the ICU."

Dean writhed in her arms, whining intelligibly about his brother. His skin was covered in a sheen of sweat and blood. They quickly moved him to another room, and a male nurse prevented him from entering. Jimmy looked on, helpless, as Dean disappeared through a pair of doors.

"Come here, Sammy," Dean said, motioning to him. "Let me take a look at you."

The younger Winchester slumped, bowing his head. He shook his head slowly in response, eyes glued to the floor.

"Sam?"

When his little brother looked up to meet his eyes, Dean was met with a wave of emotions in the form of two bloodshot eyes and a face streaked with blood and tears. "It hurts, De," he whimpered. "I don't wanna… It hurts."

At Sam's words, Dean rose, limping towards him. "Dad wasn't supposed to take you with him, Sammy," he said. "I'm sorry."

Sam nodded slowly, clutching his arm.

"You're too little for this. You're not…" He rubbed his forehead absentmindedly. "I'm sorry." He led his brother to the motel's bed. "Let me see it." Sam reluctantly lifted his tiny arm and allowed Dean to take it. The wound wasn't fatal, but Dean would have to stitch it up because his father was busy getting drunk. "Anything else hurt?"

"My head," he admitted, his squeaky voice getting a little higher as he spoke. "My back, too."

Dean scoured his little brother for more John-induced injuries and located a small cut on his head, scrapes across his back and hands, and a nasty burn lining his side and upper arm. "What happened here?" he asked, trying to keep his temper under control.

"The Wendy, De, the Wendy…" Sam muttered.

"Wendigo."

"Yeah."

"Wendigos don't breathe fire, Sam."

"But Daddy does."

"What?" Dean's fists clenched. "He used the flamethrower near you?"

"He didn' mean to!"

"Don't defend him, Sam," Dean growled. "This is not okay, do you understand me?"

Sam's gaze dropped again. "Sorry."

"Don't be sorry," Dean said, softer. "I'm sorry. This is my fault, okay? It was supposed to be me out there, not you."

"Okay, De," Sam mumbled, and he hugged Dean, pressing his face into his shirt.

"I'll always be there to protect you, Sammy," Dean whispered. "Don't worry. I won't let this happen again."

Then he told Sam to get the first aid kit, because ten-year-old Dean needed to stitch a five-year-old's open wound.

A/N: Thanks for reading! In the next chapter, Dean will probably come back to consciousness.