Warnings: Spoilers in this chapter through 6.14. This story takes place between 6.14 and 6.15. Here there be major Sam whumpage. And angst.

Disclaimer: Supernatural isn't mine. I'm just happy to play in the sandbox and promise to put the toys back when I'm done.

Chapter 4

Captive

"Now we try to figure out what you Winchesters are," Walt said, tapping the crowbar in his hand.

"Human."

"And," Walt continued over Sam's interjection, "why you started the apocalypse. And how you figure into the weird monster behavior now that it's over."

Sam blinked before barking a laugh, which jarred his burning chest. He coughed and his vision tunneled for a moment as his chest constricted. When the squeezing on his lungs receded and he could breathe again, he looked at the four gathered hunters in disbelief. "You think I started the apocalypse on purpose?"

"We know about the demon blood," Reggie pointed out from a few paces behind Walt. "And the demons made it sound like Sammy Winchester couldn't be touched."

Sam groaned. "Look, I screwed up. Majorly. And you're never going to—" He swallowed against a sudden bout of dizziness, "—to be able to punish me more than I've punished myself." More than the tense, broken trust and relationship with Dean had.

Or more than Michael and Lucifer had for his part in pulling the plug on their prize fight…

He felt a twinge in the back of his mind. No. Not now. "But I was trying to stop the apocalypse." The wounds on his chest throbbed and he bit back a moan. "Not start it."

Tim pushed himself to his feet, grabbing a baseball bat from the collected armaments. "You really think we're gonna believe that, Sam?"

"Probably not." Sam tried to shrug but it only pulled at the knife wounds and he winced. "Doesn't mean it's not true."

Walt shared a look with Tim before swinging the crowbar at Sam's unprotected midsection, connecting with the already cut up flesh. Sam cried out as the knife wounds burned furiously in protest, new blood spilling out. His breath was driven from his lungs and he thought he felt a crack; he instinctively tried to curl in on himself but the ropes kept him upright, rubbing against his wrists at the jerky movement. He wheezed as he tried to catch his breath.

"Let's try again," Walt said flatly.

Sam glared but didn't say anything. It wasn't like he was going to admit to being Lucifer's vessel to these bastards—even if they would have believed him—but he was finding it hard to form words with his breath AWOL, anyway.

"What's going on with the monsters?" Tim asked as he approached.

"How should I know?"

"Oh, I think you Winchesters are right at the center of it," Tim replied as if it were the most obvious answer in the world. "Always are."

"Sorry. Not my area of expertise," Sam gritted out against the fiery ache in his chest. He barely knew anything about the strange monster behavior as it was, though he had a feeling his soulless self knew a lot more.

"Wrong answer."

Walt swung the crowbar at Sam's midsection again. Even over his own cry, Sam definitely registered a crack and his stomach turned. Air had barely returned to his lungs when something slammed into him from behind, jolting him forward. He yelled out, both in surprise and at the furious throbbing coming from all over his upper body. When his vision cleared, he only saw Walt.

Which meant Roy and his baseball bat were—

Another blunt slam against his back and a sharp snap rang through Sam's entire body. He groaned, chin dropping to his chest and eyes shutting against the angry cutting in his ribs. It hurt to try to take a breath. Sam felt something slap his cheek, the sting forcing his eyes open. He looked up to see Walt eyeing him.

"Got anything to say yet, Sammy?"

"It's… Sam."

Walt feigned a put-upon sigh. "Let's take it from the top, then." He hefted the crowbar and Sam tensed. "So, tell me about the apocalypse."

Sam realized at some point that there was light coming through the cracks in the barn walls. Day had broken. Sam had passed out when Walt had concentrated his swings on the large mess on his side where Sam was sure he'd already broken at least one rib. When he came to, Walt and Roy were nowhere to be seen.

"Just me an' Reggie for now, Sammy boy," Tim said.

Sam blinked and eyed the two hunters, who stood side to side in front of him. Taking turns like good little boys, he thought without humor. "Awesome," he replied.

"We still owe you for Garber," Tim said, eyes narrowing.

"For Steve," Reggie added darkly.

"Say, what do you think happened to that pretty little waitress?" Tim asked Reggie, who shrugged exaggeratedly.

Alarm shot through Sam's system. Shit, Lindsey! They wouldn't… "Don't. You. Dare."

Tim raised an eyebrow. "What's this? Don't want your girlfriend getting hurt?"

Sam swallowed thickly. "She's an innocent."

Reggie shook his head. "Not when she gets involved with you."

Sam shook his head against the swimming of his thoughts. Not this. Not again. "No. I left Oklahoma right after that. Left her in peace." To keep her from getting hurt because of him, like all the other women in his life.

"Next time we're in Oklahoma we'll have to stop by the bar, Reg," Tim mused.

Reggie nodded thoughtfully. "Sounds good."

"So Sam," Tim said, gripping the handle of the bat again, slowly walking out of the captive hunter's eye line, "care to tell us about the apocalypse and the monsters now?"

"Nothin' to tell."

"Shame, that," Tim replied from somewhere behind Sam. "Cause I think you're lyin'."

Without warning, something slammed into the back of Sam's right knee and he yelled out as everything went white. He couldn't put any weight on the leg and swayed from the rafter as he lost his precarious balance. As his vision cleared, he adjusted his weight onto his left foot.

"So how'd you and Dean come back from the dead?" Reggie asked. Sam forced his attention to the man in front of him. Reggie stood, arms crossed against his chest, waiting for a reply.

"Guardian angels," Sam replied with a pained smirk.

Reggie nodded and Sam's vision suddenly went white again as something—that damned bat—smashed into the back of his left knee. The jolt ripped through his entire body. Putting weight on either leg felt impossible; he sagged and all his body weight dropped onto his shoulders like the Earth on Atlas'. He groaned at the shifting of weight that pulled on the closing knife wounds on his chest and arms. I'm really starting to hate baseball.

"Why wouldn't the demons dare touch you, Sam?" Reggie asked once Sam's vision had blearily focused again.

Well that was a loaded question…

"Guess Gordon was right when he said you were meant to fight on Hell's side," Tim said from behind. "And our best friend died because of it. Countless people died because of it."

Sam closed his eyes, grimacing faintly. Don't I know it. He could feel himself starting to drift in the sea of pain.

"Didn't think Hell'd manage to recruit Dean, too," Reggie added.

Sam jerked as though he'd been hit, eyes widening. "No."

Reggie raised a curious eyebrow. "What's that?"

"That didn't happen."

"Then what did happen?"

Sam shook his head. "Told you, you wouldn't believe me. But Dean didn't… he'd never…" He couldn't bear to complete the thought. Dean was the righteous man. He'd been Michael's vessel—the vessel of Heaven's champion.

But Sam? He'd been intended to be Lucifer's vessel since he was six months old—longer than that if you asked the damn angels. Gordon had been more right than he'd ever known.

"What about you, Sam?" Tim whispered into Sam's ear from behind.

Sam swallowed, screwed his eyes shut. "I didn't mean for—" His breath caught thickly in his throat. "The apocalypse ended, didn't it?" he bit out.

"And the world's goin' to Hell again and now you're both back just in time," Tim concluded.

"Tryin' to jumpstart the End Days again?" Reggie demanded. "Bring Satan back to Earth?"

Sam's stomach jumped into his throat at the thought. His eyes flew wide open and his breath shortened. No. God no. That's what Raphael wanted, according to Cas. But that… that couldn't happen. Sam couldn't…

"No," was all Sam could brokenly whisper.

"But," Reggie began, tilting his head.

"See, I just don't believe you," Tim finished.

And when the bat smashed into the backs of his knees again, Sam's world spun mercifully into black.

"Dammit," Dean growled, pacing in front of Bobby's desk. "How did no one see Sam?"

"Sheriff's got her feelers out, Dean," Bobby said from behind the desk.

"That's not good enough, Bobby. It's Sam."

The sun was setting outside, meaning Sam had been gone nearly a full day and they still had no leads on where to look for him. Bobby had called Sheriff Mills and filled her in on the situation and she promised to canvas the area, look for anything suspicious. But without tire tracks, a direction, or vehicle to track…

He'd considered calling Cas, but remembered the sigils on his and Sam's ribs—flying under angel radar. Cas wouldn't be able to find Sam any easier than Dean could. If he even bothered to answer a prayer, anyway.

No, this was family business; it was up to him and Bobby. Dean turned on his heel, restless; he couldn't stand remaining still when his brother was in trouble. Not when once wrong memory trigger could…

Dean shook his head, forcing the thought away. He couldn't…

"I know," Bobby replied, pulling Dean from his reverie. "But they're humans, Dean."

"As soon as they took Sam, they forfeit that," the younger hunter growled. "They've already killed him once." Killed us both. With a friggin' shotgun. "I said I'd come after them, Bobby. And I mean to keep that promise."

Bobby threw up his hands placatingly. "Hey, not disagreeing with you there, son. Just sayin', humans aren't predictable like demons or monsters."

"People are crazy," Dean muttered, suddenly back in the house of a hillbilly family that had kidnapped Sam and wanted to hunt him. He swallowed, shoving the memory aside. Sam had been fine then and he was going to be okay now, too. He had to be…

"Damn straight," Bobby agreed, leaning back wearily in his chair. "And we know the supernatural better than people."

Dean waited half a beat for Sam's sigh at the observation that didn't come before speaking.

"Still," he said gruffly, scrubbing his face with his hands, "these are hunters. Same applies to them."

"Which means?" Bobby prompted.

Dean slumped onto couch, holding his head in his hands. "How many times have we been over this, Bobby?" The older man raised an eyebrow and Dean shrugged in defeat. "Fine. They'd want somewhere secluded to take S—" Dean cut himself off as his voice shook, "a victim. But we know that. This is goddamn South Dakota. It's nothing but secluded."

Sam was a freakin' needle in an eighty-thousand square mile haystack. Assuming he was still even in the state. Who knew how far the bastards could have taken him in a day?

But no, something told Dean that Sam was somewhere within the state lines. He couldn't put his finger on it—or maybe he didn't want to—but he felt certain about that. They wouldn't go too far. They had something in mind.

"Secluded with room to stretch," Bobby added.

"Which means—"

"Farm," Bobby concluded with a grunt. They'd hunted countless nocturnal—and even some not-so-daylight-aversive—creatures that holed up in abandoned barns and farm houses over the years. Then there were the Benders… Made sense that rogue hunters might hole up in one, too.

"And how many farms in the state?" Dean asked. And that didn't count abandoned or foreclosed houses or empty buildings… Dammit, too many options. Farms were the most secluded of the bunch, though; made the most sense to take a prisoner, especially if, well, they wanted to avoid attention. He swallowed back the bile rising in his throat at the thought.

Bobby sighed. "Over thirty-thousand, according to the sheriff." This was where their conversations had run out of steam every time before.

"And how many abandoned?"

Bobby shook his head. "No way to know. Gotta be in the thousands, though."

"Which leaves us… nowhere," Dean groaned, slumping back into the cushions.

Dammit Sam, where are you?

Dean shoved himself to his feet. Bobby made to rise but Dean waved him down. He needed some space to think.

"Dean?"

"Gonna head back to the parking lot. See if we missed anything."

"Son, we looked—"

"Yeah," Dean replied, heading for the door. "Just gonna check one more time. To be sure, you know?" Dean felt his stomach clench at the way Bobby's grizzled face softened and he turned away; he couldn't handle the sympathy, even from Bobby. Not when Sam was still out there somewhere. He knew Bobby was worried about Sam, too, but Dean—he just couldn't take it from anyone right now, family or not.

"Yeah, alright."

"Sheriff doesn't have my cell, so…"

"I'll be here if she calls," Bobby supplied.

"Thanks." Dean was out the door without waiting for a reply.

Sam lost track of time, everything coming in hazes of pain and spurts of unconsciousness. Sometimes he would wake up to water in the face, other times to something hard smashing into an already bruised body part, and other times to complete stillness. But the silence, that unnerved him the most, though he couldn't pinpoint why.

The silence had roused him this time, his pain-dulled mind surfacing against the current of agony that roared through every nerve. He peered around the barn, noting the light coming through the cracks in the wall but found himself unable to focus on anything else. He was alone, though. That much was certain.

He had no idea how many times he'd gone under or had been brought back; how many times the sun had set and risen while he'd been in the barn. Could have been hours or days or weeks for all he knew. The only constant was the pain.

Huh, why did that seem familiar? Sam ached to pick at the throbbing itch in the back of his mind that promised answers to all his questions. To know. But no, he couldn't do that. He couldn't quite seem to remember why, though…

Sam tugged idly at his wrists, which only rubbed the rope through his already shredded skin. The four hunters had been taking turns on him, like he was a punching bag. Or a piñata. Yeah, that seemed more apt. Always questions he couldn't answer—about himself, about Dean, about the apocalypse, about dying, about the monsters…Sam couldn't give a satisfactory answer, but that seemed to suit the other hunters just fine. He never said anything coherent during those times, anyway.

Never a satisfactory answer. And always pain as punishment. And wasn't that just always the case with him? Sam was never good enough, not to his father who'd been willing to kill him, not to Jess who'd burned on the ceiling for loving him or to his friends at Stanford who he'd left behind an eternity ago, not to the demons who wanted their Boy King or to the angels who'd seen him as the boy with the demon blood, as Lucifer's vessel.

And Bobby? Dean?

Sam shivered and a sudden sound broke through the dead quiet, startling him before he realized it was a moan from his own mouth. He snorted at the realization.

That seemed funny somehow, the idea of Sam scaring himself. Wouldn't be the first time… No, Sam had a lot of practice, from the heated arguments he'd had with his father in his teens to his emerging psychic powers and the times he'd hunted alone after Dean had died—after both the Mystery Spot and when the Hellhounds had taken him.

Oh, and the demon blood. Couldn't forget that.

Sam groaned again as he tried to shift his weight from his throbbing shoulders, but he still couldn't stand to put weight on either leg. His vision tunneled for a moment as a current of pain ripped through him like a live wire, leaving him panting and slumped in the chafing rope. Every breath jarred his chest. He shut his eyes, trying to slow his heart rate and make his breaths shallower.

What had he been thinking about? (Dean always said he thought too much. Or too loudly. Usually both.) Oh yeah. Scary Sam. Another snort. There was also his soulless self… Well, Sam would be lying if he said that version of himself didn't scare the shit out of him.

So no, Sam scaring himself wasn't something new. Seemed to be something he was good at, scaring himself. Scaring Dean.

His soulless counterpart had scared the shit out of his brother, too; that much he could read in his eyes. He knew about letting Dean get turned into a vampire and nearly killing Bobby from Cas, but there was also a year unaccounted for, minus the Bristol hunt. He had a lot of amends to make… But Brenna hadn't wanted to hear it.

Neither had Bobby. Then again, he was still scaring Bobby even with his soul back.

And Dean… Sam clenched his teeth against a wave of nausea that passed over. His body shaking as the sensation faded. No, Dean didn't want to hear it either.

But Sam, he needed to know. The memories were there, just beyond the wall, beyond the itch… If he knew, he could try to make things right—or at least less shitty.

The barn door slammed open and Sam flinched as daylight spilled across the hay-covered floor, not quite reaching Sam's prone form. The appropriateness of that didn't escape even Sam's hazy mind. Walt and Tim strode in, Roy and Reggie behind. Reggie paused to close the door, returning all five hunters back to the shadows they all were so comfortable in.

Huh, Sam hadn't seen all four together in, well, in awhile. However long that happened to be. That couldn't mean anything good. Not that seeing any of them was good—though human contact was better than the oppressive silence.

"Howdy, Sam," Walt greeted.

"Go t'Hell," Sam grated out, his voice barely above a hoarse whisper. His throat burned from overuse.

"Still got some life in 'im," Walt said, tilting his head back toward the other hunters. They chuckled appreciatively. "I'm impressed, Sammy," the older hunter added, turning back to his captive.

"Super," Sam wheezed. He could already feel himself drifting, just from the effort of speaking. He was so tired…

A sharp sting brought Sam back from the brink and he flexed his jaw before looking up to see that Walt had slapped him. "No checkin' out on us now, boy. Not when the fun's about to begin."

"Fun?" the younger hunter rasped.

Walt smirked and pulled out Sam's phone from his pocket. "As much fun as this has been," Walt said, "you're not the only one we're interested in."

Sam's eyes shot wide. Dean…

"That's right," Walt replied, as if reading Sam's thoughts. "Big brother must be out of his mind at this point." Walt's voice dropped. "And as much as we don't like you, Sam, whatever the hell you are, we know you and Dean are a package deal." He leaned into Sam's personal space. Sam flinched back but had no room to maneuver away from the older hunter. "Whatever Hellspawn you're working for, big brother's in on it. And we're not gonna let either of you destroy the world."

"No."

"No?" Walt asked, seemingly amused.

"Not gonna destroy the world," Sam muttered as the room spun around him. His chin dropped back to his chest. He just wanted to curl up into a ball and float…

He felt a strong hand cup his jaw and for a brief, panicked moment, Sam was certain he'd look up to see Lucifer's sympathetic, affectionate smile. But it was just Walt. There was something…

The itch continued to throb in the back of his mind.

"I said," Walt growled, "no checking out." He held up Sam's phone and turned it on. "Don't want to miss Dean, do you?"

He flipped into the contacts page on the Blackberry and Sam scowled with as much might—which wasn't much—as he could muster. If looks could kill…

Well, he might give Walt a bloody nose with as much energy as he had.

Walt snorted as he scrolled through the contacts. "Lemme guess, you've got Dean as 'D' in here." Sam didn't dignify that with a response and Walt's smirk widened. "Cute."

He hit the green call button.

A week. A goddamned week without any news of Sam. His brother could be dead for all Dean knew. And he hadn't been able to do a damn thing to help him. But something deep inside, the radar trained solely on his baby brother, told him that Sam was still alive.

And Dean just had to believe that.

He hadn't missed anything at the pizza place. Still no one had seen him. No security footage or traffic cams in the area. Sheriff Mills had started compiling a list of abandoned farms, so Dean and Bobby had spent the week canvassing the lots in and around the area. Nothing but some squatters and a meth lab they'd carefully skirted before calling in the tip.

Dean had prayed to Cas every night since the first day of failed farm runs and hadn't heard from the angel. Apparently his war in Heaven took priority over finding the man who had kept Satan from completely destroying the Heavenly Host in the first place, Dean thought bitterly.

He would have liked to think that Cas would have at least popped down to Earth to tell Dean if Sam had died, though.

Then again, the angel hadn't been exactly forthcoming since they're reunited those months earlier. He'd reverted much to the angel Dean had first met after being pulled from the Pit, if a bit more weary and cynical. And Dean was pretty sure Cas was still pissed about the risk of putting Sam's soul back in and the constant threat of the wall. But still… Friggin' angels.

Dean groaned over the map he and Bobby were poring over. It was mid-morning on the eighth day since Sam had been taken and tens of Xs marked the map where he had Bobby had checked properties. Circles marked other farms as the sheriff called in new batches. Bobby looked up at him, his features exhausted and stressed. The older hunter hadn't been taking Sam's abduction well, either.

"This could take years, Bobby," Dean groused. Again.

Bobby glowered. "I know, boy. But you got a better idea?" He pulled his cap off and wiped a hand across his forehead. "You two are pretty well protected against detection anymore—a bit too well in this case."

"Didn't plan on this happening," Dean grumbled back, looking back down at the map. He pointed to the next grid of circles. "Check these today?"

Bobby replaced his cap and opened his mouth to answer when Dean's phone went off in his pocket. Dean started, his shin banging into the desk. He winced and Bobby rolled his eyes. Dean shrugged at pulled his phone out of his pocket and glanced at the caller ID.

He nearly dropped the phone.

Sam.

tbc…