He was jerked awake by a hard smack. His cheek stung and his breathing quickened as his eyes snapped open, revealing a stranger standing over him. The man had dark brown hair, almost black, and twinkling blue eyes. He tilted his head, smiling satisfactorily at Sam who was just becoming aware that he couldn't move his arms.

He jerked and instantly regretted it, groaning as his wrists resisted, metal biting into his skin. His feet would barely move and he felt the weight of chains on them.

"Well, looky here boys," the man yapped gleefully. "Looks like sleeping beauty decided to join us!"

Sam blinked a few times, trying to make his eyes focus, "Wh- What's goin' on?" he asked groggily.

"Sounds like the princess had a little too much tequila last night!" the dark-haired man scoffed.

"Not very lady-like" another man's voice chuckled, echoing around the room.

"You really oughta be more careful," the first man said, grabbing onto the back of Sam's neck and leaning in, "Someone might try to take advantage of you pretty-boy." Sam cringed and leaned back as far as the chair he was chained to would allow, the man's hot breath blew across his face and neck.

He jerked his head away, trying to shake off the creep's hand. He was becoming more aware of his surroundings, including the two other men in the corner of the small, concrete room. He didn't know what was going on, but he knew his hands were cuffed tightly to something behind his back and his feet were secured to a chair with chains – normally, not good.

"Who are you? What the hell is this?" Sam growled, shifting in the chair and wincing when metal cut into his wrists again.

"Ooo," the man mocked, "aren't you a feisty one! I hate to tell ya though, Sam, it doesn't have quite the same effect when you're hog-tied and hung over. You've definitely looked better."

Sam held eye contact with the man, trying not to betray the headache currently slicing through his brain. "What. Do. You. Want." He pronounced each word slowly, uninterested in chatting with these lovely morons more than he had to.

"Not one for idle banter, huh?" the man shrugged, turning and nodding to the other men. "That's alright, I prefer gettin' down to business myself." He whipped back around, slamming a fist hard into Sam's stomach. Sam's breath was forced from his body and for a moment he was sure he was going to be sick. He gulped helplessly, trying just as hard to drag in oxygen as to keep the liquor down.

"Ya see, Sam," the man continued casually, stretching his hand. "Myself, Mack, and Dennis here don't much care for you. Been hearin' some strange things through the grapevine Sam… Strange things." Sam coughed, finally able to refill his lungs. "Somethin' about a boy with demon blood – a hunter, no less! Would you believe it?" The man's voice was almost sing-song, like he was telling a story to a child. He was enjoying this. Mocking Sam. He turned to back to face Sam, pausing for a minute, as if expecting a response, but then continued, "See, word is, this demon boy, he actually let the Devil himself out of Hell."

Sam glanced down before he could stop himself. He was sure the shame was etched all over his face. He would give anything to take back that night. To take back everything. He had let the Devil himself out into the world, but he had also betrayed the one person who relied on him the most, the one person who had been with him through everything.

Dean.

Sam's churning stomach tightened more at that thought than any other. He clenched his jaw, shaking his head slightly, wanting to force the memory from his mind. He felt a tight grip on his jaw, and his eyes shot open. The man lecturing him forced Sam's face up so that they were looking straight into each other's eyes.

"Now tell me Sam, does that sound like anyone you might know?" Sam's breath quickened. He couldn't bring himself to deny it. His glared defiantly at the stranger, his lips twitching with contempt, but he didn't feel defiant. He felt defeated. "Answer me!" the man suddenly screamed, making Sam flinch. His grip tightened on Sam's chin, his nails digging into the flesh. "Boy, you better answer me or I'll rip you skin from your bones." His voice was low, almost a whisper now.

Sam struggled to speak. He couldn't deny it, he didn't know what to say. "I'm not-" he stammered, trying to explain. There was so much more than that. Nothing justifying what he had done to Dean, but there was more.

Crack! Sam grunted as the fist hit his cheek, knuckles snapping against bone. He tasted copper and spit, blood dripped to the floor, some running down his chin.

"I don't want excuses from you, kid. I want answers! You let the Devil out. People are dying. Good. People." The man's head dipped to the side, his eyes wide, making him look deranged. "My wife. My boy. My little girl. Your fucking demon friends TORE. THEM. APART!" He screamed the last words, his face twitching with rage. Sam who instantly felt the blood drain from his face.

The guy straightened. The switch from near insane to icily composed made him all the more frightening. This man was hanging by a thread and Sam knew it.

"Now," he said, smoothing a hand over his mouth. "We wanna know where the damn Devil is headed, what his next move is. And you," he smiled and pointed at Sam with a boney finger, " are gonna tell us."

Sam's head snapped up. His head spun, not understanding. "What?"

Another fist, this time to his ribs. A hand grasped his hair so tightly he felt strands rip from his scalp and his eyes started to water.

"Don't play dumb with me! Don't you fucking dare!" The man's voice was wild, strained with emotion. His teeth were bared, inches from Sam's face. "Tell me what the plan is! What you are planning? Hm? Where does it start?" His lips twitched with every word.

Then it dawned on Sam. They thought he was working with Lucifer? "No- I- I- don't know," Sam whispered. He was at a loss. He doubted he could say anything that would stop this man from tearing his throat out. He guessed the only reason he was still alive was that they thought he knew something. Something he simply didn't know.

He closed his eyes, waiting for another hit. Instead, a low chuckle echoed throughout the room. Sam looked up, taken aback. The man was walking away from him walking toward the other two. He nodded at the taller of the two – Dennis, if Sam remembered right. "Your turn."

Dennis leered at Sam before turning slowly to face a large metal table behind him. Sam heard shuffling, and the chinking of metal on metal. He gulped, pretty sure he didn't want Dennis to have his turn. When Dennis finally faced him, a small knife was resting in his right hand.

He sauntered slowly towards Sam. "We have to start out small," he said, holding up the blade, twirling it in his hand. Sam shifted nervously, knowing it wouldn't do any good. His wrists were already bleeding from the cuffs, his shoulders burning from his struggles to pull free.

Dennis stopped inches in front of him and kneeled, "So," he murmured, staring Sam in the eye and picking at his teeth with the knife. "Where should we start, hm?" He raised his eyebrows, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Don't do this," Sam couldn't control the shake in his voice. "Whatever you're thinking of doing, it won't do any good. I can't tell you what I don't know." He watched the blade warily as it grated against Dennis' teeth, turning and glinting. "I'm telling the truth. I. Don't. Know."

"Well, I think we'll soon know for sure either way."

Sam arched his back, pressing hard into the chair as the man brought the knife up to his throat.

In one quick motion Dennis cut through Sam's t-shirt. Sam let out a muffled yell, clenching his teeth together as the knife broke the skin across his chest. Another slash, another yell. A large 'X' was carved into his flesh, oozing red blood through the fabric of his shirt.

"Now…" Dennis backed away a couple steps, "what were you saying?"

The fresh irritation from the sudden burning and stinging gave Sam a surge of spite and anger. "Fuck. You." He panted, his hair, now wet with sweat, falling in his eyes.

"Hm. Good thing I'm just getting started here, kid, you need to learn some manners." Sam twisted his neck as the jackass took his time cutting a thin line into Sam's cheek. His tendons and muscles screamed in protest while he strained to get free.

"You know I really don't get it, boy," Dennis remarked casually, dragging the edge of the knife along Sam's shoulder. "What makes the son of a hunter take sides with the Devil, hm? I mean, we all have our dark days, but setting the goddamned Devil himself free on the world…" He knelt down in front of Sam again, grabbing his hair and yanking his head up so Sam was forced to look him in the eye. "You want to watch your own burn, you piece of shit. There don't have a word for somethin' like you."

Sam's mouth twitched but he kept it shut. There wasn't a point in arguing. If he told these guys a story they wanted to hear, whether or not it was true, they'd kill him. If he didn't, they'd torture him, then kill him.

He couldn't even blame them. It's what he'd do. But that wasn't very comforting.

Another cut on his collar bone. Another across his chest. Three more down his arm. The floor beneath him was starting to look like a splatter painting.

Sam couldn't suck in enough oxygen to repel the pain and frustration. Telling the guy to fuck himself helped, but only until the next cut.

They were getting more vicious. Dennis pulled the knife across his skin in jagged lines, digging in deeper each time, pausing only to see what Sam's reaction was. The only satisfaction Sam got was in the grimace of disappointment that told him his tormentor wasn't getting nearly the response he'd been hoping for.

"What's the plan, Sam?" Dennis hummed, digging the tip of the knife into sam's shoulder blade before slicing to the side. Sam sucked air through his teeth. His hands were shaking now. His muscles were getting tired of the tension. Beads of sweat ran down his face."Start talkin' and I'll stop slicin'."

He could see the man's frustration growing. Hell, he could feel the frustration through each new gash in his skin. This wasn't going to end well.

If he had any doubts about that they were thrown out the window once Dennis stopped trying to get him to confess to anything and graduated to simply enjoying using Sam as a canvas, painting an increasingly painful picture.

Sam's vision was starting to swim when the man finally took a decent break. He stepped back and Sam watched him, bleary-eyed but careful, making sure the man saw the defiance in him.

Salt water stung the open cuts and dripped into his eyes, his muscles ached, his wrists had chaffed so badly that they now felt like they were tied with barbed wire. But this guy had officially pissed him off. Despite the fact that Sam was a college kid, a wannabe lawyer, a bookworm, and generally thought of as the quiet one, that wasn't all of him.

The part that made him a great hunter, a scary adversary, and sometimes blurred the line between good and bad, was the part that would keep him alive here.

"Getting tired yet?" He smirked. That was probably his new friend's tipping point.

Dennis stepped forward again, slowly pressing the tip of the blade into Sam's side. Sam grimaced, his breath heaving with the effort to hold back a scream as the knife dug deeper. He glared at Dennis through sweat-soaked strands of hair, latching onto the man's eyes in a defiant staring contest, clenching his teeth so hard it made his jaw ached. His heart was hammering in his chest.

Dennis pressed harder, Sam took a sharp breath. Then, with a bitter smile, Dennis leaned in, still looking Sam straight in the eye.

Sam couldn't help it. His eyes clenched shut, and his whole body tensed like he'd been electrocuted. The strangled scream left his throat without his permission. His mind went white and coherent thought became impossible. He felt the metal scrape against his ribs as Dennis twisted it. Sam's vision went dark for a second and he felt like he might be sick. He clamped his jaw shut and swallowed that reflex. His hands were shaking so hard the noise of the metal cuffs clacking together was echoing around the room.

"Now," Dennis leaned over to Sam's ear, fist still holding tightly to the blade wedged in between Sam's ribs, "you miserable, demon-loving bastard. Where. Is. The. Devil?"

Sam's head lolled forward, coming to rest on his chest. He struggled to bring his gaze back up to meet Dennis' but black spots filled most of his vision. "I. Don't. Know!" he huffed. With a sharp jerk and the last reserves of his strength forced his head up, pulling his shoulders up and back, and spit straight into Dennis' eyes.

"Ahhhhgg!" Dennis yelled, sweeping a hand across his face. He grasped the handle of the blade more tightly, fury in his eyes, and shoved. Sam felt the hilt of the knife digging into his skin, his eyes slammed shut, willing the pain to go away.

A low wheezing escaped his throat with every breath now. He was forcing the air out of his lungs too quickly because expanding his chest caused the knife embedded in his side to grate against his ribs. He was hyperventilating.

"Dennis!" a voice shouted from the other side of the room.

"What!" Dennis snapped.

"Let me have a go at the kid before you kill 'em." The last man, Mack, held up a small vial of liquid, nodding toward Sam. "If this doesn't do it then he won't talk and it'll just kill him anyway."

Dennis glanced back at the kid in front of him for a moment. "Fine," he muttered. "But the knife stays!" he jerked at the handle, eliciting a cry from Sam before turning and walking back to lean on the table.

Sam's eye's fluttered open, aware that there was someone new in front of him.

"Sam…" Mack started, calmly. "I don't particularly like this type of stuff. Too… distasteful, for me."

"Really?" Sam breathed, his voice weak. "Seems like you're fine watchin- " he drew a shaky breath, "watchin' a person be tortured…"

Mack shrugged, "Well, the thing is, Sam… The thing is that you, well you're not really a person, per say, are you?" Sam glowered at him, but his heart sank at the notion which he himself has wrestled with ever since he found out about Azazel's plan. "No… No…" the man shook his head, "You're evil Sam."

Sam could feel his vision fading. "No," his voice was weaker now, his words more like a question than an answer. "I'm not… I'm not." He wasn't a demon. Just his blood. Not him. His head hung down to his chest again, his energy leaving him fast as the wounds in his chest and side continued to bleed.

"You're good, I'll give ya that," Mack said approvingly. "But you don't fool us, Sam. And now, either we're gonna find out what you know, or you're takin' your secrets to Hell." He held up the vial, giving it a small shake so that the pale liquid inside splashed back and fourth. "Do you know what this is Sam?" Sam didn't respond, he didn't look up. Mack landed a sharp smack on Sam's cheek, making him jerk and hiss in pain as the knife still lodged in his side moved.

"Can't have ya fallin' asleep on us Sam," the man smiled. Smiled. "Hey, Dennis," Mack called over his shoulder, "you sure he ain't gonna bleed dry before he talks?"

Dennis grunted, "Nah, the cuts aren't that deep, and the other one's plugged up by the knife. We can patch it if you wanna be sure, but he'll be around for a while. May just have to give him a wake up call every now and then," he snorted with laughter.

"Right…" Mack rolled his eyes. "So," he fixed his attention back on Sam, grabbing the kid's chin and lifting up head up. Sam groaned, wishing they'd just leave him the fuck alone for a minute. "Do you know what this is?" Mack waved the vial around in front of Sam's face.

Sam's eyes were glazing over as he looked from the bottle back to Mack. Apparently deciding that Sam's lack of response meant no, he went on. "This," he shook the vial again, "is a type of slow-acting poison."

Sam felt a small twinge of fear knot his stomach. He could survive a hell of a beating, and he had, but he knew there wouldn't be much he could do to fend off poison in his bloodstream. He would die.

After a stupid night and drinking, after hitting Dean… Dean. What would happen to Dean? Did he have any idea where Sam had gone? Would he have to live the rest of his life thinking Sam just left him? The thought made his stomach roll, and he wretched.

"Whoa, whoa," Mack said, jumping back to avoid the sudden splatter of vomit. "Rich, throw me a towel!" The black-haired man reached into his back pocket and pulled out a red cloth, covered in grease and dirt smears. He flung it to Mack who caught it easily, then turned back to Sam, wiping it over his mouth.

"There's no need to get so worked up, Sammy. You haven't even let me explain everything about this stuff." He smiled again. Annoyance shot through Sam's mind at the way that moron said his name – Sammy. Only one person in the world could call him that, and hearing that name on this idiot's lips made fires burn behind his eyes. If Mack noticed his reaction, he didn't say so.

"Now here's the thing about this particular poison, Sammy." Sam clenched his fists, his shaking muscles tightening as he heard the name again. "It won't kill you for several hours, and, even better, there's an antidote which I happen to keep on me. Thing is, in order to get some of that antidote, I'm gonna need you to tell me what your plans are with the Devil." His voice was unnaturally calm. In some ways, Sam felt more afraid of this polite, composed person than he had toward the other two who had beaten and stabbed him.

"And Sam," the calm voice continued, "after a few minutes with this stuff in your system…" his voiced trailed off for a moment. "You're gonna wanna tell me everything."

Instinctively, Sam pushed away from the vile, twisting his head to the side. "No, wait-" he slurred.

Rough hands grabbed Sam's chin again, squeezing his mouth open. Sam struggled to close his mouth, but he felt the cool liquid slide onto his tongue. He sputtered and choked, trying to spit it out, but a hand quickly covered his mouth while another pinched his nose. He couldn't breath.

He squirmed and tried to kick out, his legs fighting the restraints. Tears sprung up in his eyes as the blade dug into his flesh and more hot blood ran down his side. Then, unwillingly, his body betrayed him, and he swallowed.

"There," Mack said in a velvety voice, patting the side of Sam's face hard enough that it stung. "Not so bad was it?" Sam glared at him, but his mind was buzzing with panic.

"Boys?" Mack turned toward the other two men, "Why don't we give our friend some time alone, to think, and let his… predicament… sink in?" The other two nodded, grinning.

"You wanna plug up that hole in his side first?" the voice sounded distant.

"Might as well, but be quick."

"Just stitch it. He looks like he's 'bout to pass out anyway."

"Oh he'll be wakin' soon enough."

Sam heard footsteps and a door slam. He was aware of some shuffling and a muffled voice next to him but he couldn't understand what they were saying. His body was as far forward as the chains would allow now. The pain in his wrists had dulled even though the full weight of his body was now pulling on them. That was probably from blood loss or maybe because he was losing touch with consciousness.

He knew someone was pressing on his side, but when he felt the knife being pulled out of his muscle, scraping again against his ribs, his head spun and he finally gave in to the dark.