A/N: This chapter is longer, and things get pretty serious in this one.

Warnings: bleeped swearing and mistreatment of a minor

The next morning, Sam was late for breakfast. He hadn't meant to be, he was just moving slower than usual due to the soreness of his muscles and his deep, utter exhaustion. All of that paired with no breakfast, and an extra mile added to his six-mile run, and he found himself burning with resentment towards the grizzled hunter. After his run, he lashed out. First, he crossed his arms and refused to move on to his next task. He'd train some more once he had some real food. When Mark refused, he complained about how unfair things were, how he was being mistreated, how his brother and father would be angrier than him even once they found out.

That was when Mark attacked him. Well-versed in fighting, he was stronger and more agile than Sam. Not that Sam didn't fight back, of course. His instincts kicked in and he defended himself as best as possible, even getting in a few offensive blows. He was holding his own pretty well, when a particularly nasty blow made contact with the side of his head and he fell, out cold before he reached the ground.

When he came to, he was on the ground, wrists and ankles tied together. Mark was looming over him, circling like a vulture.

"What did I tell you would happen if you broke my rules, Samuel?" his voice was dark, but eerily calm. Sam kept his mouth shut resolutely, refusing to make eye contact with the man. "I would like an answer to my question, Samuel." At this, Sam made eye contact, glaring at the man with as much fury as he could muster.

"F*** you," he spat.

"Excuse me?" Mark reached down, gripping the front of Sam's shirt tightly to lift him up until their noses were nearly touching. "How about watching your tongue, boy?" Hot breath filtered over Sam's face, smelling of stale coffee. He threw him back onto the hard ground, and landed a stray kick into his ribcage, driving a sharp cough from Sam's lungs. Sensing the impending beating, Sam realized too late just how big of a mistake he had made.

"S-sorry sir," Sam tried smoothing things over.

"Sorry? Sorry doesn't begin to fix things," Mark growled, kicking him again. "You have to learn respect, that's why you're here. You're not here to learn how to shoot, or dig trenches, or speak perfect Latin. You're here to learn respect, and how to follow your d**n orders without question."

"Yes, sir. I'll work on that," Sam really hoped he could avoid whatever was in store for him.

"Oh, trust me, I know you will," Mark agreed. "For now, shut your mouth so you can take your punishment like a man." Mark grabbed his arm, dragging him over to a post that was set deep into the ground. He lifted the boy's arms up, securing them onto a hook in the post, effectively holding Sam in an upright position, his arms bearing most of his weight.

The punishment began without warning. Mark's fists flew into Sam's midsection at an absolutely horrific pace, creating bruises that were sure to last, and, as a few cracking sounds seemed to imply, fractured ribs. Two minutes later, the man was barely out of breath. He stopped hitting Sam and left, only to return, moments later, with a long, thin whip. The leather flew through the air, striking Sam's back, and drawing an unwitting scream from his lips. Fire spread from the contact and sent electricity tingling down his spine. After ten lashes, he could feel blood, warm and sticky, ooze down his back. Twenty lashes, and he was crying silent tears. Forty had him sobbing aloud, begging ashamedly for mercy. At eighty, his vision was fading in and out, and by one hundred, he was unconscious, head dropped forward. It was only then that Mark stopped, deeming his punishment sufficient.

It was five minutes before Sam roused, and waves of pain almost dragged him back under. He stayed awake on pure determination alone. At his awakening, Mark cut his feet loose, then cut the rope securing his wrists to both each other and the post. Sam collapsed onto his hands and knees and promptly emptied the contents of his stomach.

"Stand up," Mark commanded as soon as he was finished. He complied, breathing shallowly as pain and dizziness threatened to pull him under again. "Go inside and start memorizing exorcisms. You have permission to sit, but I better not see any of your blood on my upholstery, understand?"

"Yes, sir." The walk to the house was awful, and Sam almost gave up a few times. The only thing keeping him on his feet and moving forward was the thought of more punishment. Inside, he sat gingerly on a straight-backed wooden chair, careful to avoid touching his back to the chair. By the time Mark came into the room to stop him, his head was pounding.

"Stand at your feet when your authority enters the room, Samuel," Mark scowled at his slumped posture, and lack of respect. Sam stood, straightened his back, and yelped at the spikes of pain that attacked him.

"Quiet," Mark bit out sharply.

"Sorry, sir," Sam apologized.

"I said quiet," Mark snapped, sending a stray palm into the side of his head. "Or have you already forgotten the rule of 'speak only when you are given permission'? Now, recite the basic exorcism." Sam managed to recite the entire exorcism from memory, with minimal difficulty, and held his breath after, hoping Mark wouldn't find fault with his delivery.

"How do you think you did?" Mark questioned first.

"I think I did good, sir," Sam prayed that was the correct answer.

"Well, I think it was both slow and sloppy," of course. "On a hunt, stuff like that's going to get you killed. You're too slow reciting an exorcism, and that demon's either gonna get away, or else tear someone wide open. You mispronounce a word, you mess up the entire exorcism. Am I clear?"

"Yes sir," Sam can't help but feel irritated. He had recited that exorcism better than Dean could have, and quite possibly better than his dad even. And he'd done it all by memory. Some of his irritation must have shown on his face, because Mark spoke up again.

"Is there a problem, Samuel?" he raised an eyebrow.

"No," Sam lied.

"What was that?"

"No, sir, there is not a problem, sir," Sam made sure his tone was as sincere as possible. The man was already suspicious.

"That's what I thought," Mark nodded. "Don't worry, the 'sir' will come naturally by the end of the week. Now go into the dining room and eat your lunch."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir," Sam walked into the dining room, and was surprised to be met with a full plate of food. On the plate was some salad, a pork chop, and a scoop of mashed potatoes. Rather than question the generosity, he sat down, grabbed a fork, and started eating with gusto. It took him fifteen minutes to finish the food, and Mark came in as he was finishing his last bite. He quickly stood at attention.

"Did you enjoy your lunch, Samuel?" Mark wondered.

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir," Sam replied.

"See, what you have to understand is that I am not mistreating you. I'm training you to be a better hunter. Sometimes, hunters go for days without food, waiting out a monster. Any punishment that is dealt to you this week, has a double purpose. First and foremost, it is to teach you how to be respectful, of course. That is your main weakness, and why your father sent you to me. Secondly, though, it is to strengthen you, to set you up for success as a hunter. Now come with me so I can take a look at your back." Sam followed wordlessly, mind swirling with confusion. Why was Mark all of a sudden being so nice? Was there some sort of trap waiting? Maybe he was just waiting for Sam to mess up again, then he would turn and be angry again. Sam wasn't sure, but he was sure he didn't want to find out. Mark led him to a room he hadn't been in before. It was clean, and nearly bare, save for a cabinet, and a small table in the center.

"Go ahead and take your shirt off and lay on the table on your stomach," Mark walked over to the cabinet and opened one of the doors as Sam obeyed. Mark walked back over with a few medical supplies. "This is going to sting a bit," Mark warned, dousing a cloth in rubbing alcohol. He started to wipe down Sam's back, and yeah, it hurt.

"Ah, f***," Sam gasped before he could stop himself.

"Language," Mark's tone was far too nonchalant considering the situation. He finished cleaning Sam's wounds, slathered some kind of cream on them, and then had him stand so that he could wrap his whole chest in bandages. Mark led him outside after the bit of first aid and had him target practice with a bow and arrow. Sam could understand the importance of learning how to shoot a bow and arrow. What he couldn't understand, was how it made sense to practice for three hours straight. He kept quiet, however. There was no way he was inviting a repeat of the morning.

By the time Sam was crawling into bed that night, he was a mess of exhaustion and bitterness. A childish part of him missed Dean. Not an 'oh I haven't seen my brother in a while it sure would be nice to see him I can't wait for the end of the week' type of missing. More like, 'I'm in pain, and Dean always makes it better, and if he was here I wouldn't even be in this much pain.'

Dean always tried hard to not let Sam get hurt. Often it was subconscious. He'd stand just in between Sam and danger, or know just when to pull his punches in a sparring match. Other times it was more direct. He was the one to diffuse Dad when he was angry or had been drinking. Their dad would never hurt his sons on purpose, but he tended to err on the side of violence when he was less than sober. One instance that stuck out in Sam's mind was when he was moderately drunk, and he and Sam were arguing. Dean was observing from the sidelines until Dad pushed Sam against the wall. Dean was in between them in an instant, pushing John away, and sending Sam to their room. Sam vaguely remembers Dean harshly demanding their Dad go out and cool off. He must have been pretty convincing, because moments later Dean was in their room checking Sam for injury and reassuring him that he was okay and that Dad wouldn't touch him. If Dean knew what Mark was doing to him, all in the name of training…

Tomorrow was Wednesday, the week was almost half over. Sam took a deep breath. He could do this. He'd be just fine. All he had to do was survive three more days of training. Then he could see Dean, and Dean would make it all okay again.