so, thrilled that everyone seemed to like the first chappy!! tanks so much for reading and reviewing!! hope everyone enjoys what's to come!! bambers;)

Chapter Two

The moment all the Father's men had left the room, Dean heard the sound of someone speaking over a louder speaker. He glanced around and noticed microphones hanging from the ceiling in all four corners of the room.

The Father's word is law. You will obey the Father. You are nothing without the Father to guide you. You live to serve only the Father. Over and over again, the recorded message played without fail, echoing loudly in the small expanse.

"I'm so gonna kick the Father's ass. When I get out of here, the Father is a dead man," Dean yelled repeatedly, trying to drowned out the sound of the recording, but someone must have heard him, and cranked the sound up even louder.

Next to Dean's right hand, he spied a thick clump of his hair. He inched his fingers along the ground until he was able to snag hold of it. A hard lump formed in his throat as he kneaded the tuft of golden brown hair through his fingertips, and wondered what his father would think if he saw Dean at this very moment. He could clearly imagine the look of disappointment and embarrassment in his father's eyes when he finally found Dean shaved bald, naked and chained to the ground as if he were some sort of animal instead of a human being.

His Dad would never have found himself in this kind of situation, he was much too intelligent to fall prey to men like the Father. No, his father would have sense the danger the men in the bar represented. John wouldn't have been lulled into a false sense of security by the fact that the men had kept to themselves. If anything that would have set off clear warning bells in his father's mind that something was definitely wrong. Dean, on the other hand, had been more than willing to set aside his doubts and concerns about the men, in hopes that just for once he could drink his beer in peace and then head back to the motel Sam and him were staying at.

I was so freakin' stupid. Should've known something wasn't right about those bald headed freaks. His hand clenched tightly around the damn clump of hair. Why the hell did they have to cut off my freakin' hair? Dean knew it was only hair, knew that it grow back, and also knew he'd been hurt a lot worse in his life, so couldn't understand why the hell it seemed to hurt worse than all the old injuries combine.

It was as if a small part of what made him who he was had been stolen away from him. He guessed that was what the Father's intentions had been when he'd ordered it done, and it had worked like a charm. The crazed lunatic was trying to take away Dean's identity, trying to make him into one of his freaks, but Dean would be damned if he'd let that happen.

Dean shifted his weight to one side, and slowly unfolded his cramped legs, regretting it instantly as the blood rushed back to his lower extremities. As the painful stinging ebbed, Dean began to shiver, teeth chattering loudly as he tried his best to huddle up for warmth. But with his hands shackled to the ground and without any clothes on, the chill from the cold cement floor seemed to just seep through his skin. No matter how closely Dean drew his legs up to his chest, he couldn't get warm.

As the hours dragged on with nothing but the steady sound of the voice over the loud speaker droning in his ears, real fear started to grip hold of Dean. Sam had to be searching for him by now, but as Dean had no real idea how long he'd been unconscious, he couldn't even begin to guess how far away from the bar they'd traveled. And if Dean didn't know where he was, how was his little brother ever going to find him?

"No," he assured himself, "Sammy will find me. We couldn't have traveled that far." But even as the words tumbled from his mouth, nagging doubt crept into his heart.

He glanced up at the symbol on the wall, and realized that it looked strangely familiar, but he couldn't recall where he'd seen it before. However, he now realized it was the same mark that was tattooed to all the men he'd seen at the bar earlier, but he was certain that wasn't why it seemed so familiar to him. It had to mean something important, and was possibly the reason the Father and his cult had kidnaped Dean.

So lost in thought, Dean failed to hear the loud speaker turn off. And it wasn't until he'd heard the sound of footsteps coming toward him that Dean realized he was no longer alone in the room. The Father strode to the cell, unlocked the door and entered, several of his followers waiting just outside like the last time.

"On you knees, Child," the Father commanded, and when Dean failed to do as ordered, he added, "Said, on your knees. I won't ask again."

Dean glared at him, eyes narrowing with venomous hatred, and snarled, "Go to freakin' hell, you sick sonuvabitch."

With a curt nod the Father motioned for one of his men to come forward. "You see, I did ask nicely," he said as the man handed him a thick wooded cane, "but some children need to learn the hard way about disobedience."

Before Dean even had a chance to prepare himself for the blow, the cane cracked down hard against his bare back. A pain-filled scream involuntarily ripped from Dean's lips as the cane came down a second time in nearly the same spot, knocking the wind out of him. Seeing the Father raise the weapon to strike again, Dean clenched his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut tight, mentally trying to prepare himself for the next strike. With vicious force, the Father slammed the cane down hard against Dean's back again. Tears sprung to Dean's eyes as he arched his back to the side, another cry of pain escaping him.

"Now are you ready to get on your knees, Child?" the Father asked as he knelt beside Dean. "Cause we can go at this for as long as it takes for you to learn your lesson."

Every ingrain instinct screamed out for Dean to refuse to do as the Father asked. But as he eyed the thick brown cane resting loosely in the older man's hand, he knew it would just bring about more excruciating pain, and at the moment he just didn't have the strength to endure anymore.

Slowly he shifted his legs, folded his knees, and lifted himself onto them, wincing and moaning softly with extreme effort it took.

"Good." the Father smiled, although the warmth of it didn't reach his pale blue eyes. "You must learn to obey me in all things, Child. Do you understand?"

Dean scowled, hating the smirking man who knelt before him more than he'd ever hated anyone in his entire life, and refused to answer.

"I asked if you understood?" The Father glanced down at the cane in his hand, lightly traced his fingers over the blood left behind by Dean, and then looked to Dean again. "You will answer me unless you are prepared to learn another brutally valuable lesson."

Eyeing the cane for several long seconds, Dean lowered his head and looked away. "Yes," he muttered in a low almost inaudible tone.

"Say I understand, Father, and say it loud enough so everyone can hear you."

Dean swallowed hard, looked back at the Father, and snarled, "Said I understand, you freakin' sonuvabitch."

The Father quirked a brow, a sardonic grin settling on his features as he chuckled. He leaned in closer, licked his pale lips, and whispered in Dean's ear. "You have a lot of spirit, Child. Think I'm really going to enjoy breaking you."

"The name's Dean. An' when I escape I'm gonna kill you."

"Huh, Really, we'll see about that once you've been here for a week or two."

The father stood, turned his back on Dean and strode through the door of the cell. Handing the cane to a big burly man, he ordered, "Five more times, and don't go easy on him. If a child refuses to obey, he must be severely punished or he will become like a poison to the whole family." He swung back to stare at Dean. "No sleep and no food until you learn your place here." Without another word, he walked away with all but three of his minions silently following after him.

The big man, who Dean had decided to call Curly, entered the cell to do as the Father had commanded.

"Look, Curly, why don't you, Moe and Larry — " the words abruptly left him in a rush of air as Curly slammed the cane down hard on his back. Again and again he struck Dean, mind numbing agony filling Dean's entire body until at last he could endure no more and slipped into welcoming darkness.

XxXxXxXxXxXxX

Sam glanced at the digital clock on the bedside table, read 2:18 a.m. and then looked to the door again, expecting to see Dean stumbling through it any moment. When Dean had left the motel, he'd said he was going out for a drink and probably wouldn't be gone for more than a couple of hours. That was well over seven hours ago, and Sam hadn't heard a word from him since.

Every time he'd tried calling his brother's cell phone it went straight to his voice mail. He'd left several messages, and as of yet Dean still hadn't called back which was very unlike his older brother. Even if he had hooked up with some woman, which was very possible, Dean would've still called to say what time he'd be back.

Dean would never purposely let Sam worry without reason, and so Sam quickly determined there had to be something wrong. Grabbing his jacket and gun, Sam stalked out of the motel room to search for his brother. Quickly breaking into a dark blue sedan, he hot-wired it, and pulled out onto the road.

He drove around, checking the parking lots of all the local bars, knowing he had a very short amount of time left before they closed for the night. If something had happened to Dean, he really didn't want to have to wait until they opened again the next day to begin his search.

At the second to last bar on the main street in town, he spotted the Impala, and pulled into the parking area. Several people walked out of the small dive, and headed toward their cars, but he still didn't see Dean. Sam slid out of the car, and strode toward the entrance, praying his brother would still be inside, but the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach had him thinking that it was highly doubtful.

He stalked through the nearly deserted bar, looking everywhere for Dean, but couldn't find him. Quickly checking in the bathroom, he then headed over to the counter. A pretty brunette stood behind the bar, washing off the counter and putting glasses away. She'd been so busy with the task at hand, Sam had to clear his throat to gain her attention.

"Excuse me," he cleared his throat again, when she failed to raise her head after the first time. "Lookin' for my brother," he hitched a thumb over his shoulder, "his car's still outside, but I can't seem to find him."

"What's he look like, darlin'," she asked with a flirtatious smile, leaning over the wooden countertop. "Lot of people in here tonight."

"About six foot, scruffy sandy-brown hair, green eyes . . . probably tried to hit on you."

The bartender thought about it for a few moments, and then her smile widened. "Was he wearin' a leather jacket?"

"Yeah, that would be him."

"Yeah, he was here. Hard to forget someone as good-looking as him. Gave him my phone number."

"Course you did." Sam rolled his eyes. "Did you see him leave with anyone?"

The young woman thought about it for another moment, and then slowly shook her head. "Nope. Saw him leaving just as I was coming out of the backroom, and he was alone."

"What time was that?"

"Think it was around 10:30."

Sam's stomach clenched even tighter hearing that. His brother had been missing for over four hours and could be practically anywhere by now. "Did you happen to see anyone follow him out of here?"

She thought about it again, frowned and then gave a quick nod. "There were these guys playing pool . . . real strange, they kinda gave me the creeps, ya know?"

"Why's that?" Sam asked, wondering if his brother had tried to hustle them, and they'd went after Dean because they'd lost all their money to him.

"Well," she paused for a moment, and bit pensively at her lower lip as if trying to recall them clearly. "They all had their hair shaved off, and had some sort of weird tattoo on their upper arms. Sharon, another girl who works here, went over to them several times throughout the night, but they never ate or drank anything."

"Did my brother happen to play pool with them?"

Again, she shook her head. "No, he stayed at the bar the whole time he was here."

"An' they followed him out of here when he left?" he asked, now thoroughly confused as to why they would go after his brother if he hadn't tried to hustle them and hadn't even spoken to them. "You're sure?"

"Yeah, pretty sure. We were kinda busy at the time, but they weren't the kinda people you could miss easily."

"How many of them were there?"

"Think about ten or eleven of them. Could have been more or less, like I said, I was kinda busy at the time."

Sam's heart nearly skipped a beat then set off at an erratic pace hearing that, panic and fear for his brother's life quickly taking hold of him. Outwardly he tried to remain calm, but knew the slight tremor in his hands gave him away. "The tattoo, what did it look like?"

"Only got a real good look at it once when one of the men came to the bar to ask for change for a twenty." She narrowed her deep blue eyes as if trying to recall the details. "Some sort of strange cross with these two, I dunno what they're call. . . you know, those long curved blades like what a grim reaper might carry."

"Sickles?"

"Yeah, that's it," she smiled, but it quickly faded as she thought more about it. "But what was really odd about it was the tattoo looked more like it had been burned into the man's skin rather than an actual tattoo."

"Like branded?" Sam asked as he mentally tried to recall if he'd ever seen a mark like that in anything he'd ever researched about the supernatural, but drew a complete blank.

"Uh huh, exactly like that."

"Anything else you can remember?"

"Nope, that's pretty much it."

"Thanks," he muttered, giving her a faint smile that didn't quite reach the depths of his hazel eyes. "You've been a lot of help," he said as he turned to leave.

"Hope you find your brother," she called out to him as he strode away, and out the door.

"Yeah, so do I."