Disclaimer: Supernatural is the property of Mr. Kripke, but you already knew that.

Mild spoilers for some of S4 in this chapter, but with my take on how it might've happened. Enjoy!

The cheap motel was nothing out of the ordinary for the Winchesters. There were the questionable stains on the graying carpet, heavy with wear. The windows were surrounded by heavy green shades tattered and frayed at the ends from age. (Naturally they were pulled closed to keep the occupants of room 117 hidden from the outside world upon arrival.) There were two lumpy mattresses covered with thinning duvets and separated by a night stand complete with a phone, lamp and Bible. The only light source in the room came from the round glass dome attached to the ceiling. The room even wreaked of mildew and something reminiscent of an ancient basement filled with damp cardboard boxes, but somehow Dean had managed to fall asleep.

A soft smile lit up Sam's features as he rubbed the rough motel towel over his head to dry his hair on his way out of the bathroom. The sight of his brother - the "protector" and self proclaimed tough guy - looking so serene and relaxed…

…it was definitely blackmail worthy.

Sam padded over to his bed, tossing the towel towards the foot as he grabbed for his phone. He pressed the buttons quickly and accurately, eyes only half looking for any alerts for new texts and voicemails that he already knew wouldn't be there. No one other than Bobby or Dean ever called him, the latter of which calling rarely since they were usually right next to each other anyways.

Tongue hanging out of his mouth in concentration, Sam lifted his phone as nonchalantly as possible to take a picture of his brother.

"Don't even think about it, twinkle toes."

A chuckle left his lips to drown out the quick click of his phone as Sam took the damning picture anyways; Dean's eyes remained closed in spite of his threat and Sam hoped he wouldn't check his phone later. A soft thud echoed through the room as Sam put his phone containing the incriminating evidence back on the night table between the double beds and turned off the lamp.

"Thought you were sleeping," he said simply as he reclined on the bed, hands tucked comfortably behind his head. He kicked slightly at the bed cover and heavy blanket he had pulled down before the shower to give his long frame a little more room.

"Yea. Gathered that," was Dean's terse response.

Sam faintly registered the rustling noise associated with moving sheets and he knew Dean had just rolled over so that his back was to him. He was glad for the routine, even if it was only a farce of what it should be.

Sam had been relieved when Dean had, as usual, called dibs on the first shower, leaving Sam with just enough hot water to scrub off the few days worth of grime that had been clinging to him. Sam had even been grateful that Dean had taken the bed closest to the door, tossing his duffel bag full of clothes and assorted weapons on top of it in a proud declaration of ownership before stealing off into the bathroom.

Dean had, however, skipped over the routine of salting the doors and windows though. It was a necessity that Sam had grown accustomed to in his brother's absence; it was also the first time since "Torch-athon" had commenced that Sam had done it himself.

He knew Dean was hiding something from him. He could just feel it in his gut. However, Sam closed his eyes in contemplation only to drift away into pleasant sleep. Dean did the same soon after.

Screams - anguished and pain-filled followed closely by the piercing shrieks of laughter. They burned his ears nearly as bad as the blade, still blindingly white with heat from the flame it came from, being twisted mercilessly in his gut by a demon that wouldn't divulge his name.

He gasped raggedly, trying to take in any oxygen against the menacing blade trapped somewhere between his stomach and diaphragm. Sweat poured down his face, partly from pain, but mostly from the searing heat planted firmly in his gut.

The barbed wire holding him in place tore at his back and legs as he trembled. He tilted his head back, immediately regretting the action as the dizziness associated with fatigue consumed him. His head lolled forward as his being ran towards unconsciousness. Even in this place, this pit with the damned rack, his only solace was that he had saved his brother. He had saved his Sammy.

A scream tore from his lips as the demon withdrew the blade, now stained dark with his blood. He could feel the crimson liquid, hot and sticky, as it poured from his gut. His ashen face contorted as he felt the familiar warmth clawing its way through his belly and up his throat.

He started coughing almost convulsively. The sanguine liquid that was quickly leaving his stomach was forcing its way up his throat with no where to go but out. Blood splattered the demon's face before him, but the creature's face wouldn't change from the grin of pure delight at the sight of his weakness - his utter despair.

"Enjoying yourself yet?" he crooned as he drew another line with the blade against his victim's torso.

Dean hissed, his eyes squeezing shut tight, lips in a snarl. He balled his hands and tore at the restraints only forcing the barbed wire that imprisoned him deeper into his flesh. A whimper escaped him and he felt completely helpless and defeated.

"Sc-screw you," he choked out, causing another painful spasm in his chest. He could only close his eyes and cough as more of his blood dripped from his body and pooled around him on the floor.

He had lost track of how long he had been down here - of how long the fires of his demise had been licking at his broken body and eating away at his soul. He wasn't entirely sure how he could even begin to count the days anymore. It was almost like reliving the Mystery Spot case over and over, but with much more agony and all of the memory.

That was exactly how it worked here, though. They'd torture you with excruciating brutality, kill you and then revive you the next day - completely unscathed - only to face it all again. Some days passed unbelievably slow with cuts and slices that stung as the sweat and sulfur around you clung to the wetness of your blood. On those days, it was the blood loss that finally killed you. Other days, were meant to break you completely. Hammers and black iron maces would tear into your flesh, breaking nearly every bone in your body until the pain became all consuming and your heart finally gave out.

Today, however, was a day with a point. It was a day with the purpose to completely break Dean Winchester.

"You can make this end," said the demon with a tone reminiscent of mock pity, "all you have to do is take up the sword yourself."

Dean flinched as the blade was placed under his chin. His head was forced up to the ceiling, to the image the demon had conjured day after day of his mother's body burning as it had so many years ago.

He felt the tears pricking his eyes only moments before they distorted his vision. Of course, that was when the screaming and pleading started - her voice in the last few minutes of her life with the family that she had loved so dearly. That was when the full force of her plight hit him with such ferocity that he could feel his soul beginning to crack.

"Awww, a touching family reunion," sneered the demon, never removing his gaze from his victim's face.

He could feel the shock registering in his system. Family reunion? No, it couldn't be his mother. She was an angel watching over him and his brother. She was in heaven. She had…

…made a deal with the yellow-eyed demon.

It all came crashing in on him in one vicious stroke of anguish. It wasn't an image or cheaply conjured trick meant to break him. Every day since the torture had began, he had been forced to watch her untimely death at the end of each session. He had never made the connection, never wanted to make the connection even though he had suspected…

And that was when Dean Winchester finally shattered despite the protest of his entire heart, his entire soul.

It was what they had wanted.

To break him.

To mold him.

To make him one of them.

All of the pain and bloody wounds vanished suddenly and Dean found himself on hands and knees, panting against the floor. His head was heavy, his heart and spirit weak from the abuse. He didn't know how long he had been there, but as he lifted his gaze he only found a menacing blade glinting with some unknown light in the darkness that pressed in on him. His broken spirit had agreed despite the protest that still ate away at his heart - his conscience.

"How… How long?" he gasped, glancing wearily at the blade, knowing its purpose.

"How long what, my pet?"

Dean didn't turn or make any effort to visibly acknowledge the voice that he knew so well. It was one that he would never truly be able to forget as long as he lived.

"How long have I…"

"Twenty-five years, give or take," interrupted the demon with a smile that rivaled the Cheshire Cat's own.

Dean shuddered and felt his limbs going weak at the discovery. He had known he had been hanging from the rack for ages, but 25 years? He had been here for just under the equivalence of his mortal life… and his mother had been dying everyday he was here. It wasn't fair.

"You're ready," said the demon with finality.

Limbs aching for relief, Dean reached out and touched the white hot metal surprised that it was cool in his hand. It didn't hurt. And that's when he realized it.

Nothing hurt anymore.

He was too far gone…

Dean shot up with sweat covering every inch of his body and his sheets thrown in a heap on the floor. His chest was heaving as though he had just run a marathon and his ears were still ringing with the anguished screams of those poor souls that he and whatever weapon was given to him had spent a few years...

The wave of nausea hit him so unexpectedly that the elder Winchester barely made it to the bathroom before he was painfully retching into the toilet. He could feel his heart beating wildly with the nightmare still fresh in his mind. He had been having them nearly every night since his return and no matter how fiercely he battled away the guilt while he was conscious, it would always find him while he was defenseless and dreaming.

He rested his back against the cool surface of the shallow bathtub as he pulled the lever on the toilet. He closed his eyes and rubbed the heels of his hands roughly against his eyes as the sound of rushing water chased away the horrible noises from his dream. He blinked against the harsh bathroom light as it mingled with the dark spots he had created from his hands and took in his surroundings, noting with immediate relief that he wasn't in the pits of Hell.

He stood slowly and pulled himself to the sink where he immediately rinsed his mouth and splashed water on his face. His heart was still trying to force its way through his chest when he finally took a look at himself in the mirror and grimaced slightly.

All in all, he didn't look that terrible. His face was a bit scruffy from the three days worth of hair growth and his short hair stuck out at awkward angles from the pressure of the thin motel pillow, but all in all, he didn't look that bad.

If I don't look so bad, why can't I look myself in the eye?

With a deep breath, he looked deep into his green gaze and felt his stomach lurch once again. His eyes. They were haunted. Dead. Anything but "okay" like he had been asserting he was.

No wonder Sam's so worried about me.

He couldn't tell his brother what had happened. Actually, he could tell his brother what had happened, but he didn't want to. Sam needed the extra burden of what Dean had unleashed just about as much as Sam needed even more random, useless facts stored somewhere in that giant brain of his.

Dean would tell Sam when he was ready.

Dean would tell Sam when he had forgiven himself for the things he had done to those other souls.

Averting his gaze from the mirror once and for all, Dean snuck towards the bathroom door and peaked his head out to where his brother was still sleeping. He was happy to see that his little night terror and the consequent aftermath hadn't disturbed his brother one bit. It would have meant too many questions that Dean just didn't want to pair with answers.

He glanced at the red numbers casting an eerie glow from the clock face and a note of derisive laughter stuck itself in his throat. It read 3:13. It figured he would find himself panicking to consciousness during the Devil's hour. With an eye roll and half a thought, Dean quietly closed the door to the bathroom and took his usual morning shower. There was no way he was going back to sleep tonight anyways.

It started as just an annoying itch, but soon grew to an extremely irritating tickling sensation right on the tip of his nose. He did the only logical thing that his sleepy brain could think to do to get rid of the itch. He slapped his hand to his face. However, the squishy stuff that plastered itself to Sam's face and most of the right side of his head was not the next logical thing that should've happened.

Dean stifled his laughter by gently biting his fist and immediately jumped back onto his bed, hiding the eagle feather they used for smudging rituals on the far side of his pillow. He quickly placed Sam's laptop on his stomach to make it look like he had been browsing the internet and doing anything but filling Sam's hand with shaving cream and tickling his nose. Dean just couldn't help himself, especially after he had discovered Sam had taken that irritatingly adorable picture of himself last night after he had been threatened.

Baby brother needed to learn his place.

"Unnggh," Sam groaned out, lifting his head up off the pillow and blinking sleepily over at his brother.

"Mornin', Princess!" Dean roared as loudly and perkily as possible.

The obnoxiously cheery tone. The nonchalant pose on the bed. The stare practically boring a hole into the laptop screen. The fact that he was even using the laptop in the first place. Can't miss the tugs of laughter that threatened to cut through the silence.

Oh yeah. Dean was guilty.

"Son of a bitch," Sam grumbled, rolling over and sitting up to keep from spreading what he now understood to be shaving cream all over his bed.

"Hey! That's my line! Sammy, don't go stealing my lines!"

Sam rolled his eyes and grabbed his pillow with his clean hand, launching it at Dean in one quick and powerful toss. A muffled "hey!" was heard and Sam grinned. At least his pillow had hit its mark.

"Guess this means I need to take a shower," Sam huffed, pulling himself to his feet and stretching away the night's sleep.

"Don't take too long," Dean replied, securing Sam's laptop in his grip before twisting his way off the bed, "I'm starving!"

"You're always hungry," shot back Sam as he stomped off to the shower.

"Just hurry up!" yelled Dean exasperatedly as Sam shut the door and started his morning ritual.

It only took Sam about 20 minutes to get himself showered, shaved and ready to roll. Dean had passed the time looking up interesting things to do in Hawthorne, Nevada and had turned up a couple of museums with antique cars, another museum about stupid laws created when the town was first settled and a place called El Capitan, a resort with a casino.

"Bingo," he murmured to himself and made a point to set the website as the homepage for when Sam opened his web browser. Sam would probably smack him a good one for that, but at least he would see it and (hopefully) be talked into going relatively easily.

Sam was poised at the door with the car keys jangling from the tips of his fingers like noisy bait, "I thought you said you were starving?"

"Always," he said, looking up at his brother while simultaneously closing the computer.

He crossed the room and snagged his keys as he left, leaving Sam to shut and lock the door. It had only been about 10 seconds, but Sam distinctly heard the sound of the Impala's car horn as its owner honked obnoxiously from across the parking lot.

"Ugh, its gonna be one of those days," Sam muttered to himself as he jogged off to join Dean in the car.

Sam arched an eyebrow as their shapely, brunette waitress winked at his brother while placing the apple pie in front of him. It was only 10:30am and already Dean had managed to catch the eye of a pretty little thing. Sam was pretty sure it was a new record, even for Dean.

"It's on me," she said somewhat more suggestively than was necessary before turning with a much more noticeable sway to her hips than she had approached with. Sam couldn't help but snort a little when he noticed Dean couldn't tear his eyes away either.

"Dude."

It was all Sam needed to say to grab his brother's attention.

"God, I love this town," he said with a wolfish grin. It took him only three seconds to pick up his fork and dig in to his favorite dessert.

"Dean, you don't even know what town we're in," responded Sam as he idly played with the paper place mat with local phone numbers and advertisements scattered about it in a disgustingly colorful display.

"Sure I do," he replied with a mouth full of apple pie, "We're in…"

Sam eyed his brother not wanting to back down in what was rapidly becoming an staring contest of epic proportions. Sam finally averted his gaze as Dean opened his mouth and put his chewed apple pie on display.

"Dude! Gross!"

Dean grinned, chewed once more and swallowed before speaking, "We're in Hawthorne, Sammy."

"You just guessed that," Sam replied, venturing a glance back at his brother, who continued to shovel apple pie into his mouth.

"Nope," he said between chews, "I read the welcome sign over there."

He gestured with his fork, making Sam turn his gaze out to the window. Dean took the opportunity to shoot their attractive waitress a smoldering glance that made her cheeks burn with embarrassment. He smiled, full of himself, before the rowdy truckers, the ones that had entered the diner sometime after Sam had finished his healthy veggie omelet, began to gossip.

"Man, I'm telling' yuh," began one wearing a tattered green t-shirt as he slammed down his lumberjack breakfast, "I sawr at least uh dozen uh them carcuhsses on my way in tuh town. Yuh know. Them big ones. Like deer and mountain lions and the like."

"Sam," Dean whispered over to his brother. After catching his younger brother's gaze for a moment, Dean merely flicked his eyes towards the truckers. Sam immediately took the hint and sipped on his morning tea while pretending not to eavesdrop.

"There ain't no way you saw all them out there on yer way past Aurora," said the other, chugging down his coffee like it was the only thing to keeping him alive.

The brothers exchanged a quick glance, both picking up and tucking away the mention of the name "Aurora" as quickly as it had slipped from the trucker's lips.

"I tells yuh, I did! An' the weird thing 'bout it?" he said, putting his fork noisily down on his plate as he looked his comrade in the eye, "None uh them looked like they wuz hit by anythin' at all. 'Slike they jus' dropped outta the sky!"

Dean and Sam exchanged glances and with the last bite of his apple pie finished, Dean signaled their waitress for the check. She flounced over with the piece of paper which Sam snatched eagerly. He chuckled a bit as he fished a bill from his wallet and passed the piece of paper to his brother.

Along the bottom of the bill, next to the final total, was a phone number.

"I am definitely keeping this," said Dean with a cocky grin and both brother's left the diner to head for the Impala. Sam surpressed the urge to roll his eyes as he slipped further and further into hunter mode.

"To Aurora?" asked Sam. He chanced a glance at his brother and watched Dean's face become stoic. With Dean's switch flipped, he too had become a lethal hunter.

"You betcha."

A/N: The end of another chapter. Things get a little more supernatural and serious from here on out. I hope you're enjoying this so far! Please don't for get to R&R!

xoTrebleMaker