Another chappy up, kinda gruesome, but not that bad...hope everyone is still enjoying!! thanks so much for reading and reviewing, it really means a lot to me to hear what people are thinking!! bambers;)

Chapter Nine

Dean breathed hard against the excruciating pain as he felt his overly-taut skin tear, blood seeping out from beneath the hooks that held him suspended in midair. He tried to remain as still as possible, knowing that if his skin ripped apart they would just start the whole process all over again, and he just didn't think he had the strength to endure the pain of it again.

After the Father had left him, Dean mentally went over all possible reasons Sam might not have come to rescue him. He'd tried to make up excuses for his brother, but couldn't manage to come up with any that satisfied his need for understanding. Somehow no matter what plausible excuse he'd made for Sam's lack of action, it always circled around to the fact that his little brother just didn't give a damn if Dean lived or died.

Dean wasn't stupid, he knew the way cults worked, knew that the leaders tried to alienate a person from their family. He also understood that people like the Father would make it virtually impossible for the families of the victims to find their loved ones. But the Winchesters weren't like normal families, they knew how to find things most other people couldn't. Sam was especially good at tracking down any leads he came across. He could take the smallest detail that anyone else would pass over as nothing, and twist it around in his mind until he found what he was looking for.

As far as the Winchesters were concerned, people never just disappeared without a trace, they left clues behind. It had always been a part of their job to find out just what happened when no one else could mange it. Of course, Dean had to concede that most of the time they'd only dealt with things of the supernatural nature, but he was certain that Sam should have been able to find some sort of lead by now. He just wasn't searching. He just didn't care.

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Any conscious thought Dean might have had dwindled to nothingness after the first several hours of hanging by the cruel suspension gear. More and more, he found it increasingly impossible to stay completely still. His body trembled with exertion as sweat dripped from his forehead and the nape of his neck. A fine sheen of sweat covered his muscular chest and abs as all his muscles jerked and spasmed involuntarily from the strain of being kept taut.

Several times he felt as if his mind was separating from his body to float dreamlike above the darkened room. He looked down on his body and watched in fascination as it twitched and jerked uncontrollably. With trembling fingers, he reached out and touched his own face, trailing transparent fingertips lightly over his dried, split lips as he looked into his own dull green eyes, and could've sworn he looked back at himself. In his own eyes he now could clearly see what everyone else saw when they looked at him. There was nothing in their inky depths, they were hollow and lifeless. He'd given everything that might have brought life and happiness to them away and had gotten nothing in return.

His ghostly fingers trailed further downward to his scarred chest as he relived every hunt that had caused them, and wondered if it was really worth all the pain he'd endured. The life he'd led separated him from anything or anyone he might have ever wanted for himself. And in truth, he'd lived a ghostlike life, no one ever really knowing he was there. He'd always crept into most towns under the radar and left the same way, never taking the time to get to know anyone. Realization struck him then as he moved away from his body to float above the room once more that he'd been dead for as long as he'd been alive. No one really knew him, and no one really cared to either, least of all Sam. His life was nothing more than a meaningless and shallow existence, and he'd never realized it until this very moment.

Slowly he felt himself return to his body to feel the pain once again, and wished more than anything that all his suffering would come to an end. He clenched his fists, consciously willing them to stop trembling. If he could still at least control one part of his body, the Father hadn't won completely. He failed miserably. Dejectedly, he realized that the Father had taken everything from him, and in the end even his own body had betrayed him. He was every bit as weak and pathetic as they'd said.

Somewhere through the haze of his dismal thoughts and pain, Dean heard the Father's voice as he sauntered into the cellar and over to where Dean was suspended. The Father glanced up at Dean for a moment, their eyes locking briefly before Dean lowered his head.

"Who is your Father?" he asked Dean, eyes narrowing slightly as a grin slowly spread across his face.

Swallowing hard, Dean closed his eyes, and muttered, "You are."

"And what is your name?" He licked his thin pale lips in anticipation of Dean's response.

A thick lump formed in Dean's throat, making it hard to breathe much less respond, but he forced out the word, "Child."

The Father quirked a sardonic brow. "Tell me, Child, who's word is law?"

"Y-yours." Dean lowered his head in utter and complete humiliation as he tried desperately to block out the sound of the jeering laughter coming from the Father's men.

"Say that you want to be my child . . . that you want nothing more than to be a member of my family," the Father ordered. He gripped a hold of Dean's chin, and forced Dean to look him in the eyes.

Dean closed his mind off to the images of his real father and Sam that flashed through his head. They hadn't come for him. They had never cared. His lips quivered as he finally uttered, "W-wanna be your child," he hesitated for a moment, having trouble forming the words the man demanded to hear from him. Swallowing down his last bit of pride, he finally continued, "More than anything I — I wanna be part of your family."

"Cut him down," the Father commanded of his men, his gloating smirk a testament to the fact that he was more than satisfied with Dean's responses. "It's time to brand him."

Larry stepped forward with a sharpened blade in hand, and turned toward the Father. For several moments he silently stood waiting as if he didn't know how to cut the ropes and needed the older man to guide him. "The ropes?" he finally questioned, and then looked to the hooks deeply embedded into Dean's chest before returning his attention to the Father. "Or the skin?"

"The skin," the Father replied as if the answer should be obvious.

"Thought so." Without anymore warning than that, he swung around and slashed the knife through Dean's flesh right below the metal hook, releasing it from Dean's skin.

"Guhh . . . you sonuvabitch," Dean snared through tightly clenched teeth, "g-gonna freakin' kill you."

A snide grin slipped across Larry's face as he made to cut out the other hook. Instinctively, Dean balled his fists and swung at the man, catching him the lower jaw. The bald-headed man stumbled backwards a few steps before catching himself, and then lunged at Dean with knife poised to plunge it into Dean's heart. The Father caught hold of his arm at the last moment, and swung the man around to face him.

"No, wait," he said in a low menacing manner as he nudged his head in Dean's direction. "Give me the knife." Almost reluctantly, Larry complied and took a subservient backward step as the Father moved to stand directly in front of Dean. The Father stared at Dean for the longest time before his gaze briefly flitted to the knife he held in his hand and then back again. "Lower your fists," he commanded with a look that dared Dean to defy him.

Dean hesitated, every ingrained instinct shouting at him not to obey. The Father gave a curt nod of his head, and lowered the knife to his side.

"Still the defiant child, I see." The Father reached out, and trailed his fingers over the blood seeping down Dean's chest. "I can imagine that probably hurt," he said as he pressed his hand flat against Dean's chest and pushed him away. "But probably not as much as you skin ripping apart will."

Only tethered by the one hook, Dean swung precariously above the ground. Excruciating pain wracked his body as his skin slowly began to jaggedly tear away from the his chest. A pained cry burst from his lips as the Father pushed him again, and he felt his skin rip a little more, blood oozing from beneath the hook to drip down his chest.

"Beg me to cut you down," the Father said in a cruel and calculating manner. "Say, please Father, cut me down. I am nothing but a stupid insolent child and beg for your forgiveness."

"N-no." Dean's breath caught in his throat as his skin ripped a little more, stark searing pain coursing through his already bruised and battered body.

"Say it or when your skin does finally tear through, I will drag you across the room, chain you up again, and whip you until every bit of defiance is gone from you." The Father moved slightly to the side so Dean had a clear view of the chains he'd been shackled to a few days before. The older man glanced back in that direction, and then returned his attention to Dean, a cocksure grin settling on his features. "Be a good little boy and do as you're told . . . beg me, and I'll end the pain."

Dean held out for a few more moments, and then with quivering lips, he muttered, "Pl-please, Father, cut me down." He breathed hard against the burning pain of his skin ripping a little more. His body shook uncontrollably as he surrendered the last shreds of his self-worth and groveled, "I'm nothing but a stupid insolent child an' b-beg for your forgiveness."

"You're forgiven," the Father said as sliced the rest of the way through Dean's skin, releasing him the hook.

Without the hooks to hold him, Dean dropped to the ground and curled up in a heap. Intense hatred welled inside him for Sam and his own father for not caring enough to find him. It may not have been them who had done this to him physically, but they hadn't even tried to prevent it. They had left him alone. They had broken him beyond repair, and he hated them with every fiber of his being.

"Chain him up," the Father ordered to his men as he nudged his head toward Dean.

Dean's head shot up and he glared at the older man, tears burning in his eyes. "Did what you said . . . please don't do this to me . . . c-can't take anymore."

The Father squat beside Dean, and Dean thought for a moment he could detect a look of compassion in the man's pale blue eyes. It quickly disappeared as the Father's expression hardened, and he shook his head. "You openly defied me in front of the family, I can't allow that. What kind of Father would I be if I allowed such disobedience?"

"I-I won't . . . I s-swear it won't happen again, Father," Dean begged as he saw Larry once again step forward, although this time he carried the long leather whip in his hand. "I can be a g-good little soldier . . . c-can be a good son, Father."

"Will you ever disobey me again?" The Father lightly touched Dean's face, and Dean leaned into his hand as if he were a small child looking for comfort and forgiveness when he'd done something horribly wrong.

Dean shook his head, and lowered his gaze from the man's intense scrutiny. "No, Father . . . pl-please forgive me."

"Alright," the Father said as his hand fell away from Dean's face, and he rose to stand. "Prove it to me. Prove that you are my child solely and will do as I say."

"How, Father?" Dean asked as he glanced up at the man who towered menacingly above him. "Whatever you ask, I'll do it . . . anything."

"Grovel at my feet . . . kiss them, and tell me that you belong to me."

Without giving it a second thought, Dean lowered his head and kissed the man's feet. When he was finished, he allowed his head to drop backward so he could look up at the man standing before him. "I am your child, Father . . . I belong solely to you."