A/N: At one point, I thought I could finish this by the season 3 premiere. sighs Some definite hurtSam! here, for those of you who like that kind of thing.

THEN: Dean stole Sam's psychic abilities so that he could make a deal with the Demon, giving up a piece of his soul for Sam's safety. Since then, Dean has done some very, very bad things. Sam found the motel that Dean was staying at. Then he found himself standing at the barrels end of the Colt.

NOW:

The first thing that Sam noticed, of course, was his brother not ten feet in front of him, holding the Colt directly in line with the center of Sam's forehead.

The second thing he noticed was how normal Dean looked. It was stupid, he knew, but Sam had almost expected something else, fangs or dark eyes or at least the requisite villain black clothing. But instead there Dean was, wearing blue jeans and a white T-shirt, and without the gun in his hands, you'd never know he was missing his soul.

Unless you looked at the center of the room. Then, the pool of blood might have tipped you off.

The blood pool wasn't fresh, or at the very least it wasn't wet. Dried and brown against the center of the carpet, and you might have mistaken it for coffee if you didn't know better.

Sam did know better. He also knew there was too much of it. There was blood spattered on the walls too . . . too much blood for just one person.

This was the first time Sam had seen Dean in weeks, and Dean had a gun on him, which was sort of important. But Sam couldn't take his eyes off the deep stain of blood . . . and Jesus, how many people contributed to that?

Dean noticed Sam noticing. "Housekeeping here kind of sucks," he said calmly. "But, you know, you can always tell the best parties by how much of a bitch the cleanup is afterwards." He smiled slowly, waving his gun in the direction of the nearest bed. "Go ahead, sit down, Sammy. You and me, we oughta catch up."

Sitting down didn't appeal to Sam, you know, like, at all, but since Dean was the one with the trained gun right now, Sam didn't have much of a choice. Dean nodded, as if Sam had said something, and looked at the gun in Sam's hand.

"Speaking of that," Dean said quietly. The gun flew across the room into Dean's other hand.

"Sorry, little brother," Dean said, smiling. "Can't exactly trust you with a weapon right now. While you're at it, why don't you throw me the gun that's stowed in the back of your jeans. And the gun that's in your boot too." He tilted his head, as if listening to something. "Anything I'm missing?" he asked.

Sam smiled faintly. "Just the knives."

"Dammit," Dean muttered. "Always miss something."

"Those psychic powers can be a bitch, huh?" Sam tossed his weapons across the room. Truth was, he didn't mind giving up the guns and certainly not the knives, because there was something that Dean hadn't caught, something—you can't think about that. He cast his gaze around the room desperately, trying not to think about that, not that, don't think about—and his eyes drifted to the pool of blood, and then to Dean, and then back to the blood.

"So," Sam said softly, "looks like you've been busy."

Dean followed his gaze and then grinned like a maniac . . . pretty apt metaphor, when you think about it, Dean-In-His-Head said. At another time, Sam might have corrected him about the metaphor (it's a simile when you say 'like' or 'as,' you dumbass) but right then he was just a little preoccupied with the whole my-brother-is-a-monster thing.

"Yeah," Dean said. "Well, you know, I had to pass the time somehow. Maybe if you'd gotten here a little sooner, Sammy, I wouldn't have had to kill all those people."

Sam swallowed hard—no, he didn't want to think about that either, not his brother as a killer—for fuck's sake, Sam! Dean-In-His-Head shouted. What the hell did you THINK your brother was doing? Late night binges, maybe some vandalism, singing Bad to the Bone at an unreasonable hour? You KNOW what Dean's become

And he had, but he hadn't wanted to think about it. He'd spent the last two weeks not thinking about it, avoiding the what-could-be's at every turn.

But now he was here and he couldn't turn away.

Sam met Dean's eyes with more than a little horror.

Dean smirked at him. "Oh, what's the matter?" he said, as if talking to a baby. "Big brother doing some naughty things . . . is that making ittle Sammy saaaaad?"

"You're not my brother," Sam snapped, and hated that this wasn't true.

Dean laughed. "Of course I am," he said. "What do you want—Dean's not here, Mrs. Torrance? Redrum, redrum." He laughed again, shaking his head. "I've always been a killer, Sam. I've always been a monster. All these memories you've been having of me . . . you'd think you'd have figured it out by now. Maybe you're not so bright, after all."

"You weren't a monster, Dean. You were always . . ." Sam trailed off, his brain catching up with everything that Dean had just said. "How did you . . . the memories, how did you know? How did you know about those?"

Dean tapped the side of his head. "Psychic, Sam, remember? Pick up a thought every now and then—you remember that little ability, right? The one you just happened to forget to share." Dean stepped a little closer, idly playing with the Colt in one hand. "Yeah, my head's been tuned into yours for the better part of a week. Man, you're a boring motherfucker; did you know that?"

Sam ignored this. "So you've been, what?" he asked. "Scanning my head, just listening to my memories for kicks?"

Dean looked disgusted. "Don't make it sound like it was on purpose, Sam. Trust me, I've got better ways to spend my time." There was a muffled sound then that Sam couldn't quite pinpoint, a thumping noise from somewhere that made Dean grin. "Like that," he said, still grinning at whatever sick joke that was in his head. "That, let me tell you, was much more fun."

Sam shook his head. "Dean, what are you—" and then nothing. Sam broke off. The thumping noise started again, and Sam followed the sound back to the tiny closet.

He met Dean's eyes (he's laughing, he's fucking LAUGHING) and then was off the bed in an instant, marching over to the closet. Dean didn't even try to stop him (of course not, this is the part of the game) and stepped back a little, giving Sam room to open the door.

And—oh God. Oh dear sweet God in fucking Heaven.

There was a little boy inside the closet, maybe ten, maybe older, and the best thing that Sam could say about him was that he was still alive. He was tied to the chair with his arms behind his back, bleeding in a half dozen places that Sam could see, and Sam didn't want to think about the places he couldn't see, how many cuts and bruises were hidden underneath his clothes.

Sam moved to inspect him and the kid released something like a scream—but it wasn't a scream, and at first, Sam didn't get why. He did understand the terror, though, that came through just fine, and he put his hands in the air reflexively, showing him he was unarmed. "It's okay," he said, as soothingly as he could. "It's okay; I'm going to get us out of this." He tried to keep the touching to an absolute minimum, but he needed to see what Dean had done.

And Christ, Christ . . .

The kid had no ear. He had no ear, because Dean had chopped it off. It was tied to the palm of one the kid's hands, and that was the hand that wasn't missing three fingers. None of the cuts looked to be fatal (a lot of them weren't even that deep) but there were so fucking many, over his neck and arms and chest. And the kid whimpered as Sam examined him, whimpered in a way that Sam had never heard, and then the kid opened his mouth . . .

Dean had cut the boy's tongue out.

Oh, Jesus. JesusJosephfuckingMarywept.

"I meant to kill him hours ago," Dean said, almost lazily, from behind him. "But you know, I was drinking a little, having some fun, and I passed out before I could—tied him up first, though, made sure he couldn't escape. You know, Dad taught us to be thorough." Dean's voice was mocking, almost bitter, but Sam couldn't turn around to look at him just then. "Anyway, I woke up, and I was all ready to finish the job, and then I had this brainwave, you know, this little idea that popped into my head. And I was like, 'Wouldn't it be fun if Sammy got here first before I cut this kid's head off? Wouldn't it be a blast if Sam got a preview of, you know, the full show?"

Sam tried to take his eyes off the boy; he tried, but he just couldn't do it. "You know why I picked him, right?" Dean said quietly from behind him. "You know why it had to be him, why he was destined to play this part?"

Sam knew. Who wouldn't—it was right there for anybody to see. Same nose, same cheekbones, hell, probably the same smile . . . although that kind of thing would be impossible to test anytime in the near future. Change the kid's eyes, darken the skin a little, and you had a miniature Sam sitting bleeding and broken before your very eyes.

"I'm so sorry," Sam whispered. He had no idea if the kid could hear him, if the kid could even comprehend what was happening, but it was all he had to offer. "I'm so sorry for all of this. I'm so sorry, I swear."

"No," Dean said coldly. "You haven't even begun to be sorry."

Then Sam was flying backwards across the room. And when the knives went straight through his palms, he screamed.

II.

Well, Sam thought, it's not exactly crucifixion.

Somehow, this failed to make him feel any better.

He was standing, pinned, against the motel wall, feet planted firmly on the ground. He couldn't lift them because there were knives going through the tops of his feet, effectively nailing him down to the floor. His arms were held out at the sides, also pinned to the wall by eight inch blades. He was in absolutely no risk of suffocation.

Dying, though, still seemed pretty likely.

Dean stood in front of him, smiling a little, obviously admiring his handiwork. His nose was still dripping blood that trickled down over his lips, making his smile even more feral. Sam had hoped that psychically tossing your brother across the room would induce one of those nosebleeds that just wouldn't stop, but today, it seemed, was not Sam's lucky day. Dean's bloody nose was clearly slowing, and oh yeah, Sam was still nearly crucified here.

Yeah. So, not one of Sam's better days, then.

Sam stared at him, silent and still. This wasn't the time to fight back, at least, not yet. Dean obviously had the upper hand right now, and Sam had to wait for his moment (assuming you get one, Dean-In-His-Head said, but Sam ignored him, trying to be an optimist). The knife in Sam's left hand was in deep—there was no way he was pulling that sucker out without a little help—but the one in his right hand was much more shallow, the blade only penetrating maybe an inch or two into the wall. Sam figured that he'd able to wrench it free, given a moment where Dean was somehow distracted, and then he could go for his last—shut up! Shut up, shut up; Don't think about it, don't think—

Sam watched Dean carefully, but Dean didn't seem to be picking up anything at the moment, obviously still busy gloating over a job well done. Dude hasn't been watching enough Bond movies, Dean-In-His-Head said. Doesn't he know that nothing's over until the fat lady sings?

Sam felt blood drip down his wrists and thought sourly, I think she finished her solo twenty minutes ago, Dean. Because try as he might, optimism was hard when you were practically crucified to a fucking wall

"You were always such a martyr, Sam," Dean said suddenly. "I really think you should be remembered that way." He smiled sweetly, patting Sam's cheek. "They're gonna remember you forever. I'll make sure of that."

Dean backed up slowly, watching Sam speculatively. "It's missing something," he said, overlooking his "masterpiece". "I'm not sure, but it's just . . ." Dean trailed off for a second, watching him. His gaze drifted to the top of Sam's head and he snapped his fingers, grinning again.

"Of course!" Dean said. "A crown of thorns! How could I forget something like that?"

Then the easy grin slid off Dean's face, fading into an almost comical pout. "I wish I thought of that ahead of time," he muttered. "You just don't find these things at Wal-Mart, you know?

Sam looked at him with one raised eyebrow. "I feel for you," he said. "I do."

Dean waved a hand. "That's all right," he said. "Just got to improvise, is all—hell, that's what huntin' is, half the time. Improvise, pull some crazy thing out of your ass." He frowned for a minute, studying Sam's face, and then suddenly grinned. "Oh, no. No, that is too friggin' awesome!"

Dean practically skipped across the room while Sam closed his eyes and concentrated on quelling a sudden burst of nausea. He didn't particularly want to know, at the moment, what his soulless, psychopathic brother thought was awesome. Dean wasn't going to give him a whole lot of choice, though. He came back, grinning.

He had a Burger King crown in one hand.

And somehow, of all the things that Dean had done, the blood on the floor and the boy in the closet and Sam next to crucified on a motel wall . . . it was ridiculous, but looking at the paper crown, and Sam's immediate reaction was, That's just wrong

Dean's grin threatened to split his face in half. "You said it, little brother," Dean laughed. He stepped forward and carefully placed the crown upon Sam's head, righting it when it tipped to the side.

"Now I think all we need is some music." Dean moved towards the side of the bed. On the nightstand was a small boom box. God knows where Dean had gotten it.

Dean flipped through some CD's and snapped his fingers before putting one in.

Well I heard there was a secret chord
That David played, and it pleased the Lord
But you don't really care for music, do ya?
Well it goes like this
The fourth, the fifth
The minor fall and the major lift
The baffled king composing Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah

Dean walked back over to Sam, playing idly with a knife in his hands (his favorite knife, Sam realized belatedly, the one he sleeps with under his pillow.) He watched Sam for a minute as Sam helplessly stared back. Dean had a small, almost quizzical smile on his face.

"It's still not quite right," he said softly. "There's something missing. Something I can't quite . . . oh." Dean nodded. "Hell, I almost forgot entirely about that."

Then he took a step forward and shoved the knife directly into Sam's side.

"Not exactly the spear of destiny," Dean said as Sam screamed, "but, hey, what are you going to do, right?"

III.

Well your faith was strong but you needed proof
You saw her bathing on the roof
Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you
She tied you to her kitchen chair
And she broke your throne and she cut your hair
And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah

Dean watched Sam's blood as it dripped from his knife to the floor, making semi-circles of red against the cream carpet. He had to wonder if you could draw pictures like that, like a fuckin paint-by-numbers book for the grown-up kids.

Dean thought that might be kind of fun. Sam still had a lot of blood to spill.

Speaking of Sam. Dean looked up and saw Sammy still staring at him, giving him that Oh-my-god-my-own-brother-just-killed-me look.

"Quit your bitchin," Dean said. "It ain't even all that deep." And it wasn't; Dean hadn't spent all that time practicing with little Ryan just to kill Sam in the first five minutes. It was tempting. . . God, was it tempting . . . but drawing the final act out provided its own little amusements.

Dean watched Sam clench his teeth, attempting to breathe normally in and out. It was fun, watching Sam manage the pain, because it had always been something he seriously sucked at. Oh, Dean was sure the kid could convince some old lady, maybe even most people, that he was fine, but Dean knew Sam better than anyone, even if he didn't want to.

Well baby I've been here before
I've seen this room and I've walked this floor
I used to live alone before I knew ya

"So," Dean said as Jeff Buckley crooned in the background, "I figured we could use this time to catch up, have a little bit of chat. I know you're always whining at me to open up, right, share my feelings, have a heart-to-heart. Well, this is your chance, man. You get me to open up . . ." he grinned as he prodded Sam's wound, ". . . and I get you to open up too. Sounds like fun, right?"

Sam took a sharp breath as Dean sliced into his skin, dragging the tip of the knife lightly across Sam's stomach. "I guess," Sam said, in between breaths, "that when I thought we'd . . .have this conversation . . . you wouldn't have me . . . crucified . . . to a fucking . . .motel. . .wall."

Dean shrugged. "Yeah, well, next time you'll have to be a little more specific, won't you?" He laughed. "Besides, being crucified? So not even a big deal. Sure, it's a sucky way to go out, but you and me, the things we've seen? Crucifixion would be a dream, man, fucking pleasure cruise. So don't think for a second you're getting off that easy, cause I've got plans for you."

Sammy lifted his chin then, as defiantly as one could while being nailed to a wall. "Yeah?" he asked, eyebrows raised high into his forehead. "Why don't you tell me about the Demon's plans?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "The Demon? Man, the Demon doesn't given a fuck about you. You aren't the Chosen One anymore, remember? Demon doesn't care if you live or die." He prodded Sam's open wound again, tearing the sides of it a little wider with his knife. "The shit that's going on right now? Just unfinished business between you and me."

Sam snorted, coughing more than laughing. "Whatever, dude," he said, breath still hitching a little. "You . . . you're like the Demon's . . . sideshow bitch." He had to pant to get the words out, but his eyes were clear with condescension. "It's still . . . jump and how high for you . . . isn't it, Dean? You're still a soldier, still . . . taking orders. Just the Demon instead of Dad, right? You're just . . . a fucking . . . lackey."

Dean backhanded Sam with his fist, smiling coldly as blood began to gush from his brother's nose. "I'm not taking orders from no one," he snarled. "Not from Dad or the Demon or even from you."

Sam's head, which had been lolling a little, snapped back up to stare at Dean incredulously. Dean snorted. "Yeah," Dean said. "Gimme that look now, but let me tell you something, I never ran the show with us. You always bitched that I did . . . what was it you said at the asylum? 'I'm getting pretty damn tired of following your orders', right?" Dean punched Sam again, this time against the jaw. "Called me pathetic, didn't you? Wasn't that what you said?"

Dean hit Sam again, and Sam spat out blood. "But you were right, you know, because I was pathetic. Oh, I kept my game face on, pretended I was strong, pretended to be in charge, but we both know who had the power. Everything I've ever done, my entire life, everything I've done has been for you. I'd have jumped into fire if you had asked me to. I'd have done anything if you asked me to."

"So, yeah. I was the pathetic one. I know you know that; I've remembered it with you." Sam opened his mouth, obviously attempting to speak, so Dean smacked him again before he could. "I was about to kill myself because I thought I lost you. How sad is that, how fucking pathetic, right? I spent 22 years looking after you, trying to save you—22 years, and you what? Left me for college? Left me for some fucking dream world where you never even bothered to call? You wanted to be free, you wanted to be safe, but did you care if I was safe? Four years and you never called to make sure I hadn't kicked it in the middle of the night?"

"Dean—"

"You know, you only left that world because I begged you to, because Dad had gone missing. You ever wonder if I had gone missing, would you have come? Would you have left your pretty little Jess for me?"

Sam tried to breathe, couldn't seem to make it happen. "Dean," he said, and Dean punched him again in the mouth.

"The Demon freed me," Dean said. "He freed me from you. Having to watch you, take care of you, make sure you don't get anyone else killed. Because that's what you do best, isn't it, Sammy? Get people killed? Isn't that what you do? You get it, don't you, that it's all pretty much your fault? Everything that's ever happened to us—wouldn't have happened if you hadn't been there. I could've been a normal kid, could've had a normal life—settled down, got married, had kids of my own. Mom, Dad, they'd both still be alive, and all the people I've killed? They'd be alive too. The little boy in the closet, he'd never know the darkness we've known, if you'd just never had been born, if you just died in your crib like you were supposed to. So, the way I figure it, I'm just restoring the balance, taking out something's that been alive 23 years longer than scheduled. What do you think of that, Sammy? What do you think of that plan?"

There was a long moment of silence as Dean stared at Sam and Sam stared at Dean.

Then, abruptly, Sam started to laugh in his face.

He was crying, too, teardrops sliding silently down his cheeks, but Sam laughed at Dean, laughed whole-heartedly, which, dude, kind of annoying. "I . . . I can't believe it," he said, in between choked breaths and tears and laughter. "I can't . . . believe it. You're actually . . . you're so . . . dude, you're so evil monologuing me right now."

Dean froze completely where he was, knife barely an inch away from Sam's skin. He stared at his brother standing there, crucified and bleeding and fucking laughing at him.

Dean realized that Sam was right.

He started to laugh too.

"You know," Dean said, "I kind of am." He had to take a few steps back and let the knife fall to his side, laughing so hard that he bent over to put his hands on his knees. "You know, of all the things I thought I could never become, all the things I never dreamt of being . . . a serial killer who does evil monologues." Dean rubbed his hands over his face. "That's just fucking hilarious."

He straightened slowly, letting the laughter die down, although the good humor didn't fade entirely from his voice. "Still, you know, I can sort of see the appeal. I mean, it is sort of fun, in a bad James Bond villain sort of way." He looked at the knife at his side, gleaming in his hand, and looked up at Sammy, who stopped laughing pretty quickly.

Well maybe there's a God above
But all I've ever learned from love
Was how to shoot somebody who'd out drew ya

"But," Dean said, "the whole psychological torture thing? You're right, it's not really my gig."

And it's not a cry that you hear at night
It's not somebody who's seen the light
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah

"This," he said, holding up the knife, "this is what I know how to do. This is what I was born to do. This is who I was meant to be."


Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah

Dean stepped forward, the knife raised in his hand. "Hallelujah," he said. "Godamned fucking right."

He shoved the knife back into Sam's side.

Three things happened very quickly.

One: Sam screamed. Sam screamed to the heavens and, at the same time, head butted Dean . . . hard.

Two: Dean stumbled backwards, the knife dropping from his hand. Before he could really comprehend what had happened, Sam had pulled his right hand away from the wall. He reached for something strapped to his ankle.

Three: Dean saw the object, moved towards it, and was shot in the leg before he realized it was.

A honest-to-god motherfucking tranq gun.

"Oh, what the fu—"

Dean fell forward, landing hard on hands and knees, as Sam stood there, still mostly pinned to the wall. He was saying something, but Dean couldn't catch most of it—the world was starting to slide around him, the motel room going in and out of a glaring focus. The look on Sam's face, though, that was pretty clear—it was superior and condescending and pretty much Sam through and through.

Dean called him a bitch and then toppled slowly to his side. His head thunked against the carpet, but he never felt it.

Sam looked down at him, all superior, saying something about "psychic powers" and "guess you didn't see that one coming."

Smug bastard, Dean managed to think, and then thoughts were pretty much impossible.

IV.

Sam didn't move for almost ten minutes.

He knew he needed it to move. He needed to move now, get up, suck it up, pull this godamned knife out of his left hand. He needed to dislodge himself from the floor, pull the knives out of the tops of his feet. He needed to tie up Dean. He needed to save Dean's soul. He needed to stomp over to the radio and break the Jeff Buckley CD into a million pieces.

Because he was bleeding because Dean was evil because he had tortured him because he was evil because Sam was hurt, God, how he hurt, he hurt, and the CD was stuck on repeat. Sam was bleeding, bleeding, bleeding, because Dean was evil, and if he had to hear the word 'hallelujah' one more time, he might have to hurt somebody himself.

He needed to move, but he couldn't (even though he was bleeding, even though he needed help) he couldn't do anything but stare (even though the enemy wasn't secure). Dean, Dean was the enemy now, and Sam needed to tie him up, restrain him physically, and the Dean-In-His-Head was screaming, Get a fucking move on, Sammy, but Sam couldn't seem to move anywhere.

Shock, he knew it was shock, not so much from the blood loss as from his brother, because he knew, he knew, he knew; he knew what to expect and he hadn't known at all. Dean was evil and Dean was soulless and Dean was (his brother) a monster just like any other, and Sam had known all that going in, but he still couldn't believe it. Missouri told him and Dean-In-His-Head told him, but there just weren't words for this. There was nothing that anybody could have said to prepare Sam for what Dean had become.

There was that thumping noise again, over and over, almost frantic, and Sam sluggishly moved his head toward the sound, only to see the boy in the closet. Oh, God, the boy in the closet, I forgot, I forgot—and suddenly, that was all the motivation Sam needed. He pulled the knife out of his left hand and didn't hold back on the scream. Nobody had heard his screams, anyhow. Nobody apparently cared, place like this.

"Hold on," Sam told the boy. "I'm going to help you. It's going to be okay."

The boy didn't nod, didn't look any less terrified, but he had stopped thumping his body into the wall. Sam bent down and pulled the knives out of his feet, letting loose a string of curses to make Dean proud. The thought alone nearly undid him, but he pushed it back, couldn't think about that right now. He looked at his brother, unconscious on the floor. He shouldn't wake up for hours, but still . . .

Never turn your back on the enemy, son. Dad's voice instead of Dean's, and Sam wanted to go straight to the boy, but Dad was right, at least, about this. Never turn your back on the enemy unless it's over. Unless it's dead.

But dead and Dean were not an option, so Sam tied up his brother instead.

As soon as that was done, Sam staggered slowly over to the boy. He knew he needed to patch himself up, that bleeding to death would do nobody any good, but none of the wounds were fatal, and they'd hold a bit, until he got this kid out. He limped to the closet and slowly undid the knots around the boy's wrists.

The boy never looked at him. He just stared at his feet, crying softly.

When Sam was done, he said, "Okay," and put a hesitant hand on the kid's shoulder. "It's okay, now, all right? It's all over. It's all over."

It was a lie, Sam knew it was—it'd never be over for this kid, not really—but maybe he didn't need to know that just yet. Maybe he could hold on to some hope for just a little bit longer.

The kid unsteadily rose to his feet and abruptly gave Sam a hug, holding on to his arms with a death grip that would have rivaled a python's.

Sam startled, but held on to the boy, rubbing his hair as soothingly as he could. "Hey," he said quietly. "It's okay. You're okay, now, you're okay."

The boy didn't say anything back, couldn't, of course (because Dean ripped his tongue out, Jesus, Jesus, JESUS) but Sam figured there wasn't much to say, and they stayed like that for awhile, hugging one another. Eventually, Sam pulled back and held the kid in front of him by the arms.

"Kid—" he started and then stopped. This kid had been through hell and back (tortured, tortured, God, his fucking TONGUE) and had earned the right to be called by his own damn name. It was a hard to be a 'kid' after something like this.

He looked around, saw the motel stationary on the bedside table, and picked it up, crossing back over to the boy. He gave the kid a pen and asked him softly, "What's your name?"

The kid held the pen in unsteady fingers—probably not left-handed, but losing three fingers could make the right a little useless—and managed to write 'RYAN' in shaky, capital letters.

"Ryan," Sam said, taking the pen and paper back. "Ryan, do you . . . do you believe in monsters?"

Ryan's nod was immediate, his eyes back to Dean. Sam gently took him by the chin and made him focus on Sam again. "I don't mean just like bad men," Sam said quietly. "I mean real monsters. Under the bed, in the closet monsters."

Ryan's eyes drifted back to Dean, but he nodded again, slowly.

Sam nodded to. "Okay," he said. "Okay." He put one hand to his chest. "My name's Sam. And that man who hurt you—his name is Dean. He's . . . he's my brother."

Ryan's eyes snapped back to Sam, suddenly looking petrified. "It's okay," Sam said again, although it wasn't. "Ryan, do you . . . do you have any brothers?"

Ryan nodded again, after a long hesitation.

"Okay, well, my brother, Dean? He's protected me my whole life. He's my big brother, you know, and he looks after me, saves me from the bad guys. See, we grew up with this stuff, fighting monsters, trying to help people. Only a couple of weeks ago, one of the monsters got my brother and turned him evil, turned him into one of them. Does that make any sense?"

Ryan's eyes were back to Dean. He nodded.

"Okay, so the thing is? Even though he's evil now, he's still Dean on the inside. Still good. And he can be fixed; I can fix him, make him my brother again. He won't be evil anymore. Can you understand that?"

Personally, Sam would be surprised if Ryan understood basic words at this point. He couldn't realistically expect this ten or twelve year old boy to understand that the man who had tortured him was anything other than evil. And everything he was saying wasn't, strictly speaking, true, but dammit, Ryan deserved some kind of explanation. Something to explain why this had happened to him.

To his extreme surprise, Ryan nodded again, assuring that he understood. Sam looked at him for a minute before continuing, knowing that what he had to say was both important and equally unfair to ask.

"I'm going to take you to the hospital," Sam said. "And the doctors are going to make you better, and you're not going to have to see either of us ever again. I promise you that, Ryan. He'll never hurt you again, not ever."

Ryan shuddered a little and Sam didn't want to go on—but he did, because this was Dean, and he had to at least try.

"At the hospital, there are going to be a lot of cops, asking you questions. They're going to want to know who hurt you, how you got here, that kind of thing." Sam took a breath. "Now. . . I'm going to take my brother away from here, and I'm going to make it so he's a person again. And if telling the cops about him makes you feel safer, even the littlest bit safer, then you go ahead and do it. You've earned the right—you've more than earned the right. You can tell them whatever you want and I won't stop you. But . . . but if you think, if you believe me, about my brother, that . . . that he's good inside . . . then the cops don't need to know about him, cause it's not really him they're looking for."

Sam stared into the boy's eyes for a minute, holding the side of his face carefully. "Do you understand?" he asked him.

Ryan didn't respond. He turned his face away from Sam and stared at his feet, at the carpet, unmoving. When he finally raised his head again, he was crying again—he'd probably be crying for a long, long time.

Ryan took the pad and pen back from Sam and wrote, in big, shaky letters, 'ARE YOU GOING TO KILL THE REAL MONSTER, THE ONE WHO HURT ME?'

Sam swallowed hard, thinking of the Yellow-Eyed Demon. He thought of Jess and Mom. Dad and Dean.

Dean.

"Yes," Sam said firmly. "Yes, I'm going to kill him.

And Ryan nodded slowly again.

'OKAY' he wrote, 'I WON'T TELL.'

TBC

A/N: Lyrics from Jeff Buckley's "Hallelujah." Hopefully, next chap will be up in about a week or so.