The sound of the heart monitor seemed loud in the otherwise silence of the room, and was the first definite sign John Winchester had that he was in fact alive. In that second before he opened his eyes he'd been rather doubtful. He'd felt for sure in that moment he was actually dead and he was in hell.

He'd dreamed of his wife and son's death. The night of the fire. Listening to Mary's and Dean's screams as the heat of the flames charred their flesh, melting it from their bones as he watched. In his dreams he hadn't even managed to save his infant son. Sam's terrified cries joining his mother's and brother's as they all perished together and there was nothing John could do to stop it. Over and over, all he could do was watch and scream along with them.

Then the dreams had shifted and he was back in that old abandoned paper mill. Back with the demon that had tortured him for no other reason than enjoying listening to him scream. His son standing there watching it all. At first Sam screaming for it to stop, but then saying nothing. Just watching. Doing nothing. Before finally turning his back and walking out. Leaving him to the demon's mercy.

When he finally woke it had taken a moment for the grips of the nightmares to leave him, and another for him to realize where he was. John blamed the painkillers for that. In a hospital, not in the mill, and not in hell after all. It took still another moment for the elder man to realize he wasn't alone in the room.

John managed to turn his head to look at his son sitting slouched in the chair next to his bed, the younger man's head bent at a slightly awkward angle from the position, and fast asleep. There were dark circles underneath Sam's eyes and he had a good couple days worth of stubble on his face, but Sam looked otherwise uninjured and John breathed a sigh of relief.

As long as his son was safe he didn't really give a damn how much like shit he felt right now.

"Sam?" He managed to whisper hoarsely, trying to rouse the younger man, thought his voice was weak from lack of use.

Sam’s sleep was haunted by a collage of dreams and nightmares. Jessica and Mike rolling their eyes when he once again refused to wear a costume to the Halloween Party in the dorm. Jessica leaning over his shoulder, blowing in his ear as he tried to study. The dream boy—man—watching him, both envious and happy for Sam. Jessica’s screams cutting through the night and slowly deepening in tone until it was his father’s. His dad was screaming his name, but Sam couldn’t find him. The place was dimly lit and he had to fight his way through obstacles and beasts and demons, casting them aside without effort, with nothing but a thought and flick of the wrist. His father’s voice grew steadily weaker and weaker until it was nothing more than a hoarse whisper calling his name.

Sam jerked awake, wild-eyed and confused as he jumped to his feet. His gaze swept the room and he discreetly twisted his wrist, dropping the silver knife from its wrist sheath into his hand. His head cleared with the recognition he was in his father’s hospital room in ICU. He drew in a deep breath to steady his nerves and slid the knife back into its sheath.

He turned his hazel eyes onto his father’s badly abused body. A pang of guilt shot through him. The man that had done this to his father he’d been taking care of. Giving him food and water and trying to make his as comfortable as he could without crossing the line of trust.

What the hell was he going to tell his dad? He’d never told his father about the dream friend. He was afraid, especially as he got older, that his father would see it as a weakness or some subconscious manifestation of the “torture” of his life. Maybe, just a little, he was afraid his father would make him pretend the boy wasn’t there and he’d lose that barely substantial friend who made him feel safe, even in the face of some of the nightmare things he’d faced. Hell, it had been six years since he’d even seen his father. He barely knew what to say to him anyhow.

“Guess it’s pretty stupid to ask how you’re feeling, huh?” Sam said, a weak smile touching his lips. “I brought Bobby and Jim along to help rescue you since I wasn’t really given much time to rally forces. They’re both okay. I am too….it’s good to see you, Dad.” Sam stepped up to his father’s bedside and laid a light hand on John’s arm.

John’s eyebrows rose slightly at the younger man’s rather violent reaction when Sam finally woke. The elder man did not fail to notice the weapon in his son’s hand a second after he stood up, ready to defend himself. While on one hand the older hunter approved, it was obvious that Sam was completely on edge and it made John worry even more than the younger man’s exhausted appearance.

What the hell had happened after he’d lost consciousness?

The look that flashed over Sam’s face when his son finally looked at him told him he must look as awful as he felt, but he tried to return the younger man a weak smile anyway. Breathing a sigh of relief when Sam told him that Jim and Bobby were fine. Hearing Sam say he was fine as well calmed him too, even though he could see that his son was well enough physically, having it confirmed still eased his mind.

“I’ve felt worse.” John finally said after clearing his throat. Though he could still manage barely more than a whisper and the weakness of his voice irritated him. The last thing Sam looked like he needed was to worry about him any more… though the fact that his son was worried about him at all was still a wonder.

“It’s good to see you too, Sam.”

When his dad said he’d felt worse, Sam’s eyes widened. Dean had almost killed his dad. What else had his father been through in the six years they were apart? What if his dad had died?

Sam’s feelings were mixed. If it had been in the first couple years they were apart, he would have probably said good riddance. With time, though, came some easing of his resentment. He’d gotten away from his father, had put his life on the track he wanted, and his father hadn’t tried to stop him. He’d let Sam go his own way. Sam had realized that after his second year of college. His dad either hated him so much he was glad Sam was gone, or loved him so much, he’d let him go. Talking with Jim and Bobby through the years, he knew the latter was much more likely than the former. After this, there could be little doubt. His dad didn’t hate him. Probably would never really approve of him, but at least John didn’t hate him.

“Uh, I’m sorry Dad, but I have to check. Cristo,” Sam said, needing to confirm his father wasn’t possessed. When all he got was an approving smile, Sam breathed a sigh of relief.

“I don’t know what you remember,” Sam said, wondering if his dad had seen the things that…well, that he thought he’d done. Moving stuff with his mind. Which wasn’t possible. It just wasn’t possible. It was just part of his nightmares.

“So I’ll just kind of start with when I came in. He cut me off from Jim and Bobby and sicced the hellhound on me. I killed the hellhound, then went up against De—the guy who’d been torturing you. I’m not really sure when you passed out. Maybe after he buried the knife in your leg.” Sam paused scratching at the stubble on his face. God, it itched. “I won the fight, got one of Bobby’s special pouches around his neck, and knocked him out. He’s someplace safe for now and he can’t use any of his mind powers. And Dad, he’s not a demon. He’s human.”

To be honest John couldn't remember much about what had happened during his capture or his torture. It kind of all got blurred into one big ball of pain.

He remembered the face of the demon who'd tortured him. He knew he'd never forget that for as long as he lived. He remembered some of the more creative ways he'd been hurt during his hours of torture. He vaguely remembered seeing Sam's face while he was hanging like a piece of meat over a pool of his own blood. More pain… That was pretty much all he could recall right now however.

Maybe that was why John frowned a little at the explanation of the events his son gave, very brief and hardly informative. But maybe Sam was only being so vague because he didn't want to tire him out, or something. Possibly upset him with the gory details… That's what he told himself anyway even though he knew it wasn't true.

He ignored the gut feeling, that was normally right, that was telling him Sam was withholding information on purpose. That his son was hiding something from him. He might not have seen or spoken to the younger man in six years, but that didn't mean he was an idiot, and it had been a hell of a lot longer than that Sam could pull one over on him. They were simply too much alike, even if Sam would absolutely hate to hear that.

He was far too tired for an argument, however, so John let it be. For now. He'd get the full story later, or from Jim or Bobby. He was just glad that Sam had managed to hold his own against the bastard. Sam was alive, Jim and Bobby were alive, that's what mattered.

John blinked in surprise however when he realized just what Sam was saying. They hadn't killed the demon, were instead holding him prisoner, not a… what the hell?

"Human? That's not possible." The elder man said in sheer disbelief. No human could possibly do what he'd seen that man do. He had to be some kind of demon. Did it even matter? If it were possible, if he were a man that somehow had the powers of a demon that only made him twice as dangerous because none of the protections they could use on a demon would work on him. He was far too dangerous to even attempt to keep a prisoner.

"Why are you keeping him? He can't live, Sam. He's already killed too many of us. He's too dangerous…"

Sam could tell John wasn’t really buying the short and sweet version. He sucked at hiding stuff from his father, ranging anywhere from the pathetic “I don’t know how that scratch got on the Impala” to the more believable “I got the black eye playing baseball” to how’d he see through “No, I don’t have a girlfriend” lie. He could tell his father wasn’t going to push at the moment. That meant his dad was really tired, really hurting, or both. Sam would put his money on the latter.

Reluctantly Sam pulled the chair over to his father’s bedside. “I know you’re tired, Dad, but a lot’s happened since you called me at Stanford.” Sam dry-scrubbed his face wishing he didn’t have to go into it all. “I’ll give you the gory details later. Here’s the short of it. My best friend was run down and killed by a demon-possessed driver. A fire started in my bedroom. I got to the bedroom to see Jessica,” Sam paused, choking up for a moment. No, he had to just push through this. Get it out and done with. “My girlfriend was on the ceiling, her gut split open, just like Mom. A yellow-eyed demon was there. Tossed me that old .45 you gave me that I kept by the bed. Said I’d need it.” Sam swallowed hard, trying to keep his emotions under control and tried to keep the shake out of his voice. “I got to Bobby’s and talked with the guy holding you. I wanted to take him alive. I wanted to know if he’d killed Jess or Mike, or the hunters. If not who was behind it. How many more of my friends were in danger and which other hunters were being targeted. Bobby has a spell bag that could bind his powers, at least for a little while. So we captured him.”

Sam paused, letting his Dad catch up to his explanations. “Still with me, Dad?”

At John’s nod, Sam continued. “I’ve talked some with him. He was raised by demons since he was a kid. I don’t know how he’s got the demon powers, but he does. Dad…he’s got Dean’s birthmark.” Seeing the dark anger in his father’s eyes, Sam stopped him before he could interrupt. “I’m not an idiot, Dad. I know it could all be a head game, but I got to thinking, if the demon that killed Jessica was there when I got there, what if the demon that killed mom was there and Dean came in. What if Dean didn’t die, but was kidnapped by the bastard. So I asked Jim to call in a favor. I’m having his DNA compared to mine. I…I think he’s Dean, Dad. I think he’s our Dean,” Sam finished in a rush, not sure how his father was going to react. They couldn’t kill him. They just couldn’t, not until they knew for sure.

John Winchester listened intently as his son spoke, filling in the gaps of what had happened between the time he’d called Sam and his capture. His heart twisting at the look of pain that flashed over the younger man’s face when he spoke of his girlfriend and friend that had been killed… People his son had cared about, a girlfriend that John had never even known about because of their estrangement… now dead.

The older man’s eyes widening when Sam spoke about how the girl had died. Exactly as his wife, Sam’s mother, had been killed and though John desperately wanted to ask Sam more about what had happened, about the demon, he remained silent. Waiting as patiently as he was able to for Sam to finish speaking. Letting his son tell him what had happened in his own words before his father started asking him questions.

Though nothing, absolutely nothing, could have ever prepared him for when Sam mentioned Dean. His four year old dead son. The birthmark… that he had, that Sam had, and that Dean, and now this… man…

Of course it had to be some kind of trick! His son, Sam’s brother, was dead! Killed along with his mother in that god damn fire. That… that man… that thing was not his baby boy!

John was already shaking his head in denial even as his thoughts were spinning out of control as Sam explained the reasoning behind his ‘theory’. He’d never found out exactly what had killed his wife and son. They’d searched for years, but never found any more clues, only dead ends.

But if it had been this demon that Sam had seen. If he had been there… no, it wasn’t possible… no. It couldn’t be true because that would mean… it would mean while he was too busy mourning the deaths of his beloved wife and son, his son had really been in the hands of a demon, and John had never even looked for him. Never even tried to save him. It couldn’t be possible. It had to be a trick… but why? How would a demon even know about Dean in the first place? He was only a boy…

Oh dear god…

John only just realized just how fast his heart monitor had started beeping, the fact that he had stopped breathing, since Sam had started talking when alarms suddenly began going off. Realizing the twisting pain in his heart wasn’t just emotional agony. He was going into cardiac arrest.

Sam saw the pain cross his father’s face, the same pain that Sam felt at the thought Dean was indeed their Dean, and that demons had reared his brother and turned him into a brutal killer. The sound of John’s increasing heart rate should have clued him in, should have made him stop telling John his theory. Instead, he’d spilled the story quickly, desperately wanting his father to know that they may have found Dean alive. He wanted to see that steel come into his father’s eyes, see that same determination Sam felt, that if this killer was their Dean then they would find a way to free him of the demons influences. Instead of seeing his father’s lips pressed firmly together in determination, he saw cyanosis around his father’s lips and instead of steel, he saw first denial then nothing but the whites of his father’s eyes as they rolled back in his head. It took a moment for the screaming alarms to penetrate Sam’s awareness and the pieces to fit together.

People poured through the doorway in their scrubs and white coats shoving Sam out of the way, lowering the bed rails and beginning CPR on John. Sam staggered back against the wall, watching as they intubated his father and put the paddles on his father’s chest. “Clear” he heard one of them shout and he saw his father’s body jerk as the electrical impulses ran through his dying body. Sam was frozen in place. Epinephrine was injected into the IV and another shout of “clear” brought on another jolt of electricity. Air was pushed into his father’s lungs. The doctor in charge was yelling at his father, telling him not to give up because they had worked too damned hard putting him back together. Another shot went into the IV and another shock went through John’s body.

The whole room seemed to pause, time seemed to stop. And then John’s heart started beating and time moved forward once again.

Sam stared wide eyed as the hospital staff busied themselves around his father. He heard one say his father was breathing on his own. A nurse approached Sam but he didn’t hear her reassurances or anything else for that matter as the tears poured down his cheeks.

What the hell had Sam been thinking? His dad was in ICU for God’s sake! How could he have laid that news on his father without warning? He barely felt the gentle tug on his arm as the nurse encouraged him to leave. He shook her off and strode forward to his father’s side, taking John’s hand in his own. They hadn’t even had a chance to make peace between themselves. His father almost died because Sam was being a selfish bastard, wanting reassurance from his father like some five year old. Had he expected his father to tell Sam he had done well? That the choices Sam was making were the right ones? When the hell had his father ever told him that or ever had any confidence in what his son believed?

“I’m sorry, Dad. I’m so sorry,” Sam whispered to him. “I know—I know you don’t believe me. I’ll take care of it. I’ll take care of all of it. I’ll save him Dad. If he’s my brother, no matter what it takes, I’ll save him.”

Sam gave his father’s hand a gentle squeeze and settled down beside him, glaring at the nurse who once again suggested that he let his father rest. No way in hell was he leaving his father’s side. He could only trust Jim and Bobby to follow his orders regarding Dean. He almost snorted at that. Okay, to do what he asked them to do.

“Mr. Abernathy?” a man said.

Sam blinked and looked up from his father, ready to tell whoever it was to go to hell if they expected him to leave. Sam forced his numbed brain to work when he realized it was his father’s doctor. “What are his chances, Dr Sykes?” Sam asked.

The man rested a consoling hand on Sam’s shoulder. “He’s suffered a lot of trauma. Did he complain to you of chest pain or anything before his heart attack? There was nothing in the history given to us to suggest he had heart problems. Is this his first heart attack?”

“I…I don’t know. My dad and I, we’ve been estranged, six years now, until this happened. I don’t think he’s had any problems. Bobby would have told me,” Sam mumbled.

“What were you discussing when this happened?”

Sam had to swallowing back the mad laughter. I was telling my dad that his oldest son wasn’t dead, that he had been kidnapped by demons and reared in Hell… ”—about my girlfriend,” Sam heard himself say. “Just filling him in a little about everything that’s happened since I went away to college.”

The doctor nodded. “When he wakes up—“

“He is going to wake up, right?” Sam asked fearfully.

The doctor hedged. “I don’t want to make you any promises, but I can tell you he’s been responding well to treatment. Apparently the trauma has put a strain on his heart. He’ll need to be kept calm and resting until he gets stronger but he’s quite a fighter. His heart seems to have normalized so his chances are very good barring any complications. When he does wake up, try to minimize talking to him about anything that might upset him.”

“Can I stay with him until he wakes up?”

“Of course but it will probably be awhile.”

Sam nodded. He knew he needed to call Bobby and Jim and tell them. He also needed to make sure they took care of Dean. Sam just couldn’t take any more terrible things happening right now. He was on the brittle edge as it stood and he felt the precipice trying to crumble beneath him. He realized a part of him didn’t want Dean to be his brother. That way it was one less struggle Sam would have to face.

Dean's head snapped up, his eyes opening wide, staring into the darkness. His heart was beating hard and fast and he didn't know why. He felt agitated, scared even, and it hadn't been a dream. Not this time. He had a… feeling… that something had happened. Something bad. Something he should care about, and he didn't know why.

The young man frowned in confusion even though the feeling was not a new one to him. He'd felt this many times actually, though usually it was stronger. Right now, considering his situation, it wasn't in the least appreciated.

Dean glanced down at the pouch hanging from the cord around his neck. He wondered if that was the reason. The same reason why he couldn't use his powers. Whatever magic was within the little bag somehow binding his mental abilities. Why was he feeling anything at all then? Maybe it was just his imagination.

That didn't stop the man from straightening up in his chair as much as the bindings would allow. Looking around the now near pitch black room he was being held in. It was obvious it was night now, considering how much darker and colder it was in the church. The blanket wrapped around his shoulders barely cutting the chill in the air anymore.

Sam wasn't here. Why did that surprise him? Just because the younger man had been there the last two times he'd woken. Though it was dark in the room where he was he could see a faint light, probably from a kerosene lamp, from the room beyond, and he could also hear the sound of voices talking quietly. He heard the other two hunters, but he didn't hear Sam's voice.

Had something happened to Sam? Why did he even care? Well, other than the fact that the only thing keeping the other hunters from killing him right now was the younger man. He had to get free, but tugging on his bonds proved them to be just as immovable as before. If he could only get the damned pouch off from around his neck, he'd strangle those damn hunters with their own intestines for keeping him like this…

It was late and Jim had suggested to Bobby it was well past time one of them should get some sleep, yet neither man had quite gotten motivated enough to crawl into a sleeping bag. Sam wasn’t back from the hospital yet. It had been hours since he had left and both men were beginning to get worried.

Still drinking coffee, sitting close to the propane heater, and talking about nothing particular both men jumped a little when Bobby’s cell phone went off in his pocket. “That’s gotta be Sam,” Bobby said as he extracted the phone and answered it, Jim watching on hopefully.

“Hello?” Bobby said gruffly. He smiled and gave a nod to Jim. “Boy, we was getting a little worried about you…That’s good. How’s your dad feeling…Yeah…So did he tell you it was a fool idea you got your brain wrapped ‘round?...What?” Bobby gasped, paling. Jim straightened, Bobby’s tone sending a spike of cold fear through him.

Bobby asked, “Did he…? Thank God…yeah, yeah, you stay…we got it covered… “ Bobby rolled his eyes and shook his head in disgust at the pastor. “God Dammit, Sam…Yeah, fine. We’ll take care of it… Don’t you be lecturing me. I know what I’m doing... Yes. Fine… Yes, I got one… Yeah and those, too…Okay. Bring breakfast. A lot of it. And coffee. A lot of that too…No, he’s been sleeping...” Bobby sighed. “I hear you, Sam. Get back to your daddy’s side. Call us when he wakes up and you’re on your way.”

Bobby flipped the phone closed. Jim looked at Bobby anxiously. “What’s going on?”

Bobby pulled off his ball cap and ran his hand through his hair after put the phone back in his pocket. “John woke up, him and Sam talked, Sam told him about that thing we’ve got locked up in there and …Johnny had a heart attack.”

“Dear Lord,” Jim whispered.

“The doctors brought him back. He seems to be doing okay,” Bobby reassured his friend. “Sam’s going to stay by him until he wakes back up, then he’s going to come back here for a spell.”

“What else?” Jim asked, seeing there was more that Sam told Bobby.

“Sam and I got the basement all set up for Sam’s buddy before Sam left except for the mattress. I found a mattress when I went out earlier, I just ain’t brought it in yet. Sam wants us to move “Dean” down there so’s he can be more comfortable,” Bobby finished sourly.

Jim leveled his gaze on Bobby. “He could try to escape and something unfortunate could happen in the process.”

“Jim! I’m surprised at you!” Bobby said then grinned. “Stealing my ideas like that.”

Both men stared at each other for several seconds each contemplating the outcome of such a deed.

Jim finally heaved a sigh. “And if the DNA test came back positive—“

“We could lie,” Bobby interrupted. “No one need know but us.”

Jim’s gaze cut to the darkened room where their prisoner slept. “But what if it is John’s son?” Jim asked softly. “We don’t have a right to take him from them.”

“I’d say the human’s long since been burned out of that thing in there,” Bobby growled. “You saw what it did to Johnny. You know what it did to the other hunters it killed. It doesn’t deserve any kind of consideration or mercy and you know it.

Jim slowly shook his head. “Salvation and forgiveness is open to all men. As much as the hunter in me wants to see that man dead, the pastor in me says we must give him—give Sam—his chance at bringing redemption to the man. We will have to make sure Sam’s idealism doesn’t make him foolish, but we owe him the opportunity to try and have some faith in him and in God. If that man is indeed Sam’s brother and John’s son, while they may have been separated by evil, perhaps God brought them back together for Dean to find his way home to his family.”

Bobby glared at Jim and shook his head. “I don’t see how God can forgive the things that man’s done.”

“Salvation is open to everyone Bobby. We don’t have the right or wisdom to judge.”

Bobby’s lips pressed together in a thin line and he finally gave a sharp nod. “After I get that damned mattress downstairs we can get to making that bastard more comfortable,” Bobby growled, picking up the tranquilizer gun and checking it before setting it aside. He zipped up his coat and slid his hands into his gloves. He gave Jim a sly grin. “Course, Sam didn’t say we couldn’t scare that demon spawn just a little ‘fores we put him to sleep and carry him down to his new prison.”

All of Dean’s struggles so far had done nothing more than piss him off. Rather than loosening, fighting against the chains that bound him only shifted them in a certain way that seemed to make them tighter. Well, that, and causing the blanket that had been wrapped around his shoulders to slip off and fall to the ground. Making him cold and adding to his annoyance.

If he could just get the shackles off from around his wrists… but they were simply bound too tight. Even with the thumb he’d broken earlier to get free from the handcuffs it wasn’t enough to let him slip his hand free. His efforts leaving his wrists beneath the cold metal were torn and bloody, dripping down his fingers, and nothing more.

Dean cursed under his breath as he slumped back into the chair. Knowing the only way he’d get the shackles off is if he somehow took off one of his hands. It had certainly crossed his mind, like a wolf caught in a trap he was willing to do whatever he had to in order to escape, even if it meant gnawing off his own leg… but he wasn’t really ready to do it at this point. Soon he might have no other choice but now he’d keep trying to get free in other ways.

Unfortunately his efforts to get the damn mojo bag, or whatever it was, off from around his neck also proved fruitless. Not that he had much mobility to begin with to try, but he had managed to bend enough to get his teeth around the strap. Trying to work it free, and a strange jolt had passed through him, almost like an electric shock, and he’d given up on that idea. The pouch’s magic obviously also extended to him removing it, meaning he couldn’t.

These hunters were annoyingly… thorough.

Dean lifted his head when he heard the approach of footsteps towards his room. A light from a hand held lamp appearing in the doorway not long after and the young man sneered at the hunter standing there. Had he come to finish the job? With Sam gone, what was to stop him? Dean remembered the uneasy feeling he’d experienced upon waking before. Of hearing the tone of the hunters’ voices even though he couldn’t pick up actual words, and couldn’t help but wonder if something had indeed happened to the younger man. Perhaps he wasn’t coming back at all.

“What’s the matter, hunter? Something happen to little Sammy?” Dean’s tone was mocking of course, but a part of him was genuinely curious.

“What’s the matter demon-bitch,” Bobby sneered back, “we get you trussed up too well to wriggle your slimy ass free? Aw and your little Jedi mind tricks are just as tightly under lock and key, aren’t they?” Bobby gave a hearty laugh. “And you lost your woobie for your troubles.” Bobby swept the fallen blanket aside with his foot.

Jim followed Bobby in, a dark satchel over his shoulder and his 9-mm pointed at the man in chains. His shoulder still throbbed dully where the man had skewered him, the cold only making the wound ache worse.

After Jim moved around and behind the man, he holstered his gun and then carefully set the satchel on the table. Bobby followed him and they both made certain then bound man couldn’t see them without twisting around to watch them. Bobby gave Jim a smirk and when he saw the man obviously tensing, ready for whatever they were going to dish out. The man was too stubborn or too proud to turn to watch them.

Bobby helped Jim get the supplies out of the bag, making sure to clink bottles together, open and close Velcroed pockets, and generally make subtle noises of preparation.

“This the one you want?” Jim asked Bobby, noisily moving more things around on the desk.

“No, that’s the last one. That’s the one that’ll hurt the most. We want to start with this one.”

“I thought that was the poison,” Jim whispered softly.

“Yeah, but it won’t kill him. Not until it starts to combine with the others, anyhow. It’ll take some time,” Bobby murmured back.

Meticulously, Bobby aligned each item in sequence for Jim. He opened the bottle of alcohol and wet down a cloth. Moving up behind the man, he ran the cold alcohol soaked cloth over the man’s neck, above the leather collar Jim had placed there with the chain that ran down to the chair’s cross bar underneath. The man’s thick muscles tightened that much more. Bobby was surprised the man hadn’t flinched. A bit annoyed by it as well. After wordlessly cleaning his neck thoroughly with the alcohol, Bobby tossed the cloth aside.

Slowly he walked around to stare down at the man. In the dim light he could barely tell the man’s eyes were green, but they smoldered as they met his gaze defiantly.

“Who’s the next target in your demonic hit parade, Bitch?” Bobby demanded.

Dean glared death at the hunter’s reply but said nothing more. Guessing their intentions immediately when he saw the other hunter, the one he’d attacked earlier and unfortunately failed to kill, enter as well with the bag over his shoulder. Though Sam had been unwilling to resort to torture to get the information they wanted out of him Dean had no doubt that these two men held no such qualms.

He wondered briefly if the younger man had told them to do this, or… what did it really matter? He didn’t need the little hunter brat to protect him.

Both of the hunters moved behind him then where he couldn’t see what they were doing. Whispering to themselves, though not soft enough that he couldn’t understand them. Scare tactics, he knew them well.

Though he tensed, preparing for the pain they were about to inflict though he refused to turn around, as though he didn’t care what they were about to do to him. Refusing to give them that satisfaction. Though he tensed a little more he also almost laughed when he felt the cold wet cloth touch his neck and smelled the unmistakable scent of disinfectant. They were about to torture him and they were worried about him getting an infection?

Amateurs.

The first hunter returned to stand in his line of vision once more, demanding to know which hunter would die next, and Dean merely smiled smugly up at the man.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Bobby gave a nod to Jim who jabbed the needle into the side of the man’s neck and pushed the warm liquid into the man’s vein.

Bobby grinned at the man. “Ah, now don’t that feel nice?” he said. “Bet it’s good and warm. Maybe take the chill off you since you lost your woobie. You ought to feel it branching out through those veins of yours now.”

Bobby sat down in the chair Sam had sat in before, watching the man with amusement. He saw the man’s scorn and he really didn’t care. To be honest, he didn’t care if he put any fear into the man. It simply made him feel as if he’d done something, even if only unsettling to the man, something to touch that demonic soul since salt water wouldn’t work. Hmm. Demonic soul…

“You feel that working in your system yet? A little flushed maybe, a little twitch here or there?” Bobby cocked an eyebrow at him. “Give it a bit of time if you don’t. You will.” Bobby rubbed his chin. “So want to try that question on for size again?”

Bobby met the man’s level gaze, the man lifting his chin just a bit in defiance.

“No?” Bobby said. “Jim give him the next one.”

Jim could feel the coolness of the liquid even through the syringe. They made sure it wasn’t too cold of course. He shoved the needle into the man’s flesh and pushed the plunger.

“Now that one,” Bobby said. “That one ought to feel just a bit icy. It’ll react nicely with the warm one, once the two get together to play.”

“While we’re waiting on that one to take effect, I thought we might experiment. See, I made that magic bag you have around your neck. It won’t come off, the cord can’t be cut, can’t be broken. You got sprayed with some of that concoction by Sam. I was kinda wondering what would happen if we gave you an injection of it. Just to see, you know. Might not hurt you. Might react badly with whatever demonic powers are still bound up by my magic bag. Unless you feel like talking.”

The needle that was jabbed into the side of his neck didn’t feel comfortable in the least, but it wasn’t exactly painful. At least, not in a way he was used to. He barely felt it. However the feeling of the warm liquid being quickly carried through his veins felt odd to say the least. It didn’t feel pleasant but it wasn’t exactly painful either.

Just what the hell were they playing at?

Dean merely scowled at the hunter sitting across from him in reply, the man’s questions and threats only annoying him. Were they trying to scare him into talking? If they were they would be sorely disappointed. He hadn’t been lying to Sam when he’d said there was nothing he could do to him, no pain he could inflict, that could rival what the torturers of hell had trained him to endure.

The next shot he was given was far less pleasant of course. The icy feeling running through his veins making his muscles ache terribly and he winced slightly but made no other indication that the injection had affected him.

“I think you’re doing enough talking for the both of us.” Dean mocked. A little annoyed that his suspicions about the pouch had been confirmed, but he knew there had to be a way for it to be removed. No magic could be unbroken, that was something his father had taught him. Though that didn’t do him any good right now, especially if the two hunters were intent on killing him.

Still, he wasn’t about to cower under their threats.

“Did you come up with this game all by yourself? What’s the matter, hunter, afraid to get your hands dirty? You know, a decent whip, or a white hot blade are far more effective means. Just ask John Winchester.” Dean smirked evilly.

Bobby clenched his jaw at the man’s comment. Bobby had been debating whether or not to actually try a bit of his herbal infusion as an injection. Some of the herbal components could be deadly even in small quantities. He and Jim had discussed the merits of testing it and had decided to wait, but not now. Not after that.

The syringe was already prepped; Bobby had been very careful and measured out only a small portion and diluted it with saline. Thus far they hadn’t given Dean anything more than straight saline taken out of an IV bag. Nothing but salt water, and both of them saw the irony of injecting said salt water into this demonic bastard.

Eyes flashing, Bobby gave Jim a nod. When Jim started to reach for third syringe of saline laced with something to give it a bit of a sting, Bobby shook his head.

“No. The other one,” Bobby growled. Hell, he didn’t know if it would do anything to the man other than maybe cramp up his stomach or make him nauseous. For this particular moment in time, he hoped it would indeed do more. Give the man a taste of what he’d put John through.

Shit, with their luck? It would end up being a pain killer or the best damned high the man had ever had.

“So let’s experiment and see how it compares, eh?” Bobby said and gave Jim the signal.

After a moment of hesitation, Jim injected the smoky colored liquid into Dean’s neck.

Yes, Dean was well aware that perhaps it was foolish to goad his captors this way. His captors, that unlike Sam for reasons he still didn’t understand, would feel no hesitation in actually killing him. But seeing the look in the hunter’s eyes, seeing how his jaw clenched in anger, knowing Dean had finally hit a nerve, gave him satisfaction and pleasure. They may have him bound, cut off from his powers, but he was not helpless. They let their emotions rule their actions, and that would eventually be the leverage Dean needed to plan his escape.

Dean winced a little again when the third needle was jammed into his neck. The area beginning to get just a little bit tender from the repeated shots. Though his eyes never left the hunter’s, holding his gaze defiantly in a test of wills.

At first he felt nothing. Not a damn thing. Beginning to believe the two hunters really were only toying with him. But then, unlike the first shot he’d been given where the solution had merely felt ‘warm’ he began to feel a burning, like liquid fire, traveling quickly through his veins. He managed to keep his expression impassive through the first minute or so, as the pain steadily grew worse and worse. Until his entire body felt like it was being incinerated from the inside out and his expression finally broke, contorting in agony.

He grit his teeth, his eyes squeezing shut, trying to hold in the sounds of pain but it was in vain. It felt like every cell in his body was on fire. Exploding. Being torn apart. A tortured moan escaping his lips at first. Then a scream. Loud and unrestrained, his body arching against the chains holding him as he started to convulse.

Both the men were shocked by the violent reaction just that small amount of infusion had brought on. For a few long draws of breaths, Bobby was afraid Dean was going to flat out die from the agony they’d obviously put him in. While the hunter in him rejoiced at the vengeance, and the scholar in him was delighted that they had a new weapon, Robert Singer’s first coherent thought was that Sam was going to kill both Jim and himself.

When the man’s screams finally stopped, Bobby pulled out a sadistic smile. Sam might want to kill him for this, but he wasn’t going to waste an opportunity.

“So how was that, smart ass? Did I get my hands dirty enough for you?” He stared at the sweat drenched man shivering in front of him. “Want to answer my questions now, or should we kick it up a notch? That was only a fraction of my little magic juice.”

Bobby regretted not having another syringe with a higher dose made up and ready, but who would have thought it would be so successful? And why was it so successful, Bobby mused. He’d have to think on that. It shouldn’t do anything more to a human than make them a little sick, if that. This man before them was definitely more than human. Or maybe less than human was more accurate. Salt might not work, but this surely did. He waited on the man’s answer.

It seemed to go on forever, though Dean knew in reality it could have only been for a few moments, before the pain began to fade. He honestly hadn’t expected it to end, and that almost shocked him more than the pain itself.

Leaving him slumped, weak against the chains, now the only thing holding him up. His entire body shaking. His blood still felt like it was boiling, his muscles twitching with little aftershocks of pain, some of the solution obviously still coursing through his veins. Making him moan softly though it never quite reaching the agony from before. Agony, oddly enough, that he’d never felt before in his life.

Well, it seemed like the hunters could get creative after all…

Dean barely heard the hunter’s question over the sound of his own heart beating loud and hard in his ears. Once more demanding answers. It was almost too much effort to lift his head, but he did anyway. Forcing as much defiance as he could into his expression to cover up the signs of agony the men had put him through.

He spat at the older man. Crude, perhaps, but he was beyond caring at the moment.

“Fuck you.” He hissed. Panting hard. Bracing himself for the promised second injection. Now that he knew what to expect, he knew he could endure it. He’d endured everything else that had ever been done to him, this was no different. Even this, he knew, would be nothing compared to the agonies of hell. What he would endure if he betrayed his father.

Bobby smiled grimly. That injection had pulled the cockiness out of the man, had brought him down to an almost primitive level. It had not only hurt the man, it had shaken him. Shaken him badly. Given enough time and enough tincture, Bobby was certain he could pull the information they needed from the man. If it didn’t kill him first. To be certain it wouldn’t, Bobby would need to study it more in depth.

It had taken perhaps three minutes before the man’s demeanor broke. He had convulsed and screamed for maybe another three minutes. The man twitched even now and pain was still etched in his features. On a guess, a ten minute cycle or so for that amount of the infusion bobby had used. Would it build up in his system? What had it even done to him in the first place to hurt him so badly? More questions of his own needed to be answered before he risked a higher dose.

Then there was the sticky issue of telling Sam. That talk wasn’t going to go well, and when a Winchester blew, it was never pretty, never mind it was Sam they were talking about. Sam was more like his father than Sam would ever begin to admit. How would they convince Sam this needed to be done? The threat against his friends versus the potential death of what might or might not be his brother. Until they knew if this Dean was Dean Winchester, Sam wouldn’t let Bobby work the man over. That was a given. While they waited for the DNA results, Bobby could experiment using blood and a bit of skin scrapings perhaps. If they needed more than dead skin cells, Bobby could arrange to dig some of those out of the man, Sam or no Sam. He needed to understand this weapon rather than wield it carelessly.

“Give him that next shot, Jim,” Bobby said finally. It was the tranquilizer, but let the man panic a bit before he passed out.

After they were confident the man was out cold, Bobby would carry the bastard’s ass downstairs and re-secure him, just as Sam asked. Bobby had plenty of blood with which to get started on his investigation. He was going to need electricity, so he’d work on stealing some juice from the power company. Getting a hotel room was going to become a necessity as well if they were going to be here for as long as Bobby suspected. Darkly, Bobby wondered if the bastard had any friends out looking for him. He didn’t like the answer that he came up with.

Dean didn’t tense, didn’t even flinch, when the hunter told the other one to give him the next shot. He only continued to glare at the man, his eyes narrowed in hate, imagining all the ways he would make this foolish mortal suffer for this. He would make him beg for mercy. Make him beg for death a thousand times before he finally allowed it, and Dean would take pleasure in every minute of it.

He had learned his lessons, all of his lessons, well. Did they think that what he had done to John Winchester was all he was capable of? They would learn a new meaning of the word torture before he was through with them.

The young man’s face remained etched in stone even as a needle was once more jammed in his neck. He knew he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from screaming, but that didn’t mean he would break. He had endured hours upon hours of training for moments just like this. Tortured within an inch of his life. In the beginning he would always break, he’d only been a child, and then he had been tortured worse for his failure.

He never broke anymore. Never.

But he didn’t feel the pain of before, rather a sluggish heavy feeling creeping through his veins. His vision growing fuzzy. Darkening. It didn’t take a genius to realize he’d been given something other than the ‘promised’ second dose of ‘magic juice’ as the hunter had threatened.

“Coward.” Dean managed to slur out before the tranquilizer did its work. Funny, it was only now he realized they hadn’t answered his question… and even more disturbing perhaps, he still wanted to know the answer. Sam… had something happened to him? Now he wouldn’t know and that bothered him for some reason more than the thought of what these men might do to him while he was unconscious.

A second later he slumped against the chains, out cold.

Sam sat by his father, his hand resting lightly on the older man’s arm, needing the physical contact to reassure himself his dad was still alive. In those first few hours of waiting, he’d studied his father’s face as he had when he’d first arrived in ICU after he himself had woken from his long slumber. At least the dull throb of the headache he’d had then was long since gone.

He father’s face was bruised and swollen from the abuse Dean had rained down on the man. Sam noticed a few long healed scars his father hadn’t had when they’d parted ways so violently those years ago. He wondered how his father had gotten them and who had been watching his father’s back. Maybe no one had and that was why he’d gotten them. Sam thought he could escape the hunter’s ways and pretend to be normal, but in the process, how many times had John had come close to dying because Sam hadn’t been there for him.

Staring at his father, Sam couldn’t stop himself from gently brushing some of his father’s dark locks off his forehead. His father looked so frighteningly pale.

Jesus, he’d almost lost his dad. Again.

It wasn’t as if he couldn’t remember the fury he’d felt back then. The pure hatred he’d felt toward his father and the life his father had tried to mold him into. The life he’d now been forced back into. Grudgingly he admitted his father was right. Had always been right. Whatever had killed his mom and brother—no, just his mother, he amended with hope—would possibly come after him. He had told Sam repeatedly that Sam needed to be ready. Needed to be sharp to face it and protect himself.

Sam hadn’t been.

He had stayed in shape. He had taken all sorts of classes ranging from fencing to boxing to martial arts to hand weapons. If anything had come his way, he wanted to be certain he was ready but he had never expected anything like this.

Safe subjects the doctor had insisted. Nothing to rile the man. When had his and John’s discussions ever been pleasant exchanges? When his dad woke up, he was going to remember what Sam told him and Sam feared those memories would send his father back into cardiac arrest. He would try to find something to say to settle John down and promised himself he wouldn’t fight with John. Now wasn’t the time to be butting heads.

Sam’s thoughts turned back to his maybe-brother. He had dreamed of Dean repeatedly. What if he had told his father about those dreams, described the boy to his dad. Maybe John would have recognized the boy as Dean. They would have hunted for Dean and maybe long ago rescued him. Sam would never have left his father’s side if there was even a slim hope his brother was alive and waiting to be rescued by his family.

Sam had been too selfish to share the boy with anyone. Look what that selfishness had cost them. It was undoubtedly, irrevocably, his fault Dean had been forced to endure the things he’d seen him endure. His father was right about Sam in that regard too. Sam was a selfish bastard. Seemingly, he always had been.

Forcing himself to stop the recriminations, he reminded himself that they weren’t sure it was Dean. It might be anyone. Sam shook his head. Even if the man wasn’t their Dean, Sam had still seen the man’s suffering and done absolutely nothing to try to rescue the man. Nothing. Regardless of whether or not the man was his brother, he still felt it was his responsibility to try to help him. He hadn’t before, but now he could and he would try. Even if his trying had never been good enough for his father, he vowed it would be good enough this time. He would convinced them the man was worth saving, no matter who he was. With a soft bitter laugh, Sam realized he was being selfish again. In order to assuage his own guilt over his failures, he was trying to find a way to atone and fix it. Jesus, he couldn’t get anything right.

Feeling his father begin to shift restlessly, Sam straightened, hopeful his father was waking up. The fear clenching his heart eased when he saw his father’s eyes flutter open.

Déjà vu.

It was the first real coherent thought that traveled through John Winchester's weary mind as his eyes slowly slid open. Slowly focusing on his surroundings. Recognizing the plain pastel colored walls of his hospital room. The same continuous monotone beeping of the monitors attached to him. Though his memories were scattered and fuzzy at best he could remember more or less how he'd gotten here, being attacked, captured, rescued. He remembered seeing his son, remembered them talking... the details however kept slipping away like sand through his fingers.

He still felt pretty much the same as before, maybe worse, if that was possible, as though he'd been worked over by a trash compactor, or maybe lost a fight with a wood chip grinder. He was almost too tired to care, however. Or maybe too drugged to care was a better description. If being in a hospital was good for nothing else, they had plenty of painkillers ready to dose one up at the click of a button.

He wasn't ready to fall back into that cushion of drug induced unconsciousness however. Something important nagging at the back of his mind. His eyelids felt as though they were being dragged down by heavy weights, almost too much of an effort to keep them open, to try and focus at all. But the warm weight of the hand on his arm was enough to make him try. To make him turn his head to look at his son sitting beside him in the same chair he'd been in earlier, although if possible the younger man looked even more wrung out. Looking hopeful and scared at the same time.

"You look like someone died." John managed to wheeze out, knowing even as he said it the joke was probably in bad taste, but trying anyway to ease the worried expression on his son's face.

Sam snorted, unsure if in laughter, relief, or shock. Leave it to his father to make a crack about his own close call with a reaper. It occurred to Sam suddenly that his father probably didn’t remember that he’d almost taken that final trip to meet St. Michael.

“Yeah. You. Or you tried to. That doctor of yours was too stubborn to let you die.” Sam managed a weak if watery smile for his father, fighting back his tears. “Don’t do that again.” Sam tightened his grip on his father’s arm briefly. “Sons are supposed to scare the shit out of their dads, not the other way around.”

If his father didn’t remember going into cardiac arrest, it was possible he didn’t remember anything Sam had told him from before. This time Sam had sense enough to let it be. Let his father remember in his own time, when he was ready to deal with the implications. His subconscious was surely attempting to process what Sam had told him and would feed it back to his father as he father could handle it. He hoped.

John’s brown eyes looked dull and drugged and mildly confused. His dad looked so tired and Sam could see what an effort it was for John to stay awake. “Dad, the only thing you need to worry about right now is to get stronger and feel better. The doctor says you’re going to be fine with some time and some rest.” Seeing the concern come into his father’s eyes he reassured John, “I’m fine, just a few bumps and bruises. If I’m not here when you wake up, I’ll try to make sure Jim or Bobby are. I’ll be near by; we’re staying at a place about fifteen or twenty minutes from here. I’m not going anywhere for awhile, okay? I just wanted to be here when you woke up, make sure you were okay.” Make sure you were really going to wake up, Sam added to himself.

“I’ll stay until you go back to sleep, then I’ll be in to visit again this evening.” As an afterthought he added with a wink, “And I’ll try to sneak you in a Snicker’s bar. I guessing you haven’t lost a taste for your favorite fuel.”

Smiling at his father, he honestly hoped John would fall asleep quickly. If John were asleep, John couldn’t be worrying about him or fighting with him about anything. Sam admittedly felt pretty thrashed even though he’d gotten a good deal of sleep waiting on his father to wake up both before the heart attack and after. Not comfortable sleep sitting slumped in a chair far too small for his tall frame, but sleep none the less. With some coffee and food, he’d feel a hell of a lot better. Knowing his dad was okay lifted a tremendous burden from his shoulders, and a bit of guilt for putting so much on his father when he last awoke. Though he wanted to stay, to be by his father, he had an uneasy feeling that something had happened to Dean and felt an equal if not stronger desire to get back to the church to check on his brother—no, dammit—the man with the same name, same birthmark, and same colored eyes as his brother. But maybe not his brother.

"Get some sleep, Dad," Sam encouraged.

John managed to return his son’s smile with a weak one of his own. Though it was a great effort he also managed to lift his hand to cover the younger man’s on his arm. Squeezing Sam’s fingers, offering what reassurance he could through the touch, since it seemed an even greater effort to talk right now. But he owed his son that much at least.

Though the younger man had joked about it, he could hear the underlying tremor in his son’s voice, a remnant of the fear he’d put Sam through earlier. He was simultaneously touched that Sam cared enough to express it, and a little guilty for having put him through that fear. Sam was right about one thing, his son shouldn’t have to worry about him like that.

Though close on that thought was the realization that if he hadn’t been hurt so badly in the first place then Sam might not be here at all. It took him almost dying to, if not heal the rift between them, at least let them both forget about it for a little while. Forget about their stupid pride long enough to just be father and son again.

Sam was giving him another chance, and he promised himself he wouldn’t waste it.

When his son finally suggested he get some more rest the older man was far too tired to argue, despite the fact that he’d just woken. His concerns eased for the moment by his son’s reassurances he was quickly losing the battle to stay awake. He nodded and chuckled a little at the younger man’s offer to sneak him in some candy.

“King size.” He murmured, even though he wasn’t particularly hungry right now maybe he would be when Sam came back. John gave the younger man’s hand one last squeeze before he gave in to the pull of exhaustion and let his eyes fall closed again.

Sam carried the bags of food into the church. “Jim, Bobby?” he called out. “I brought breakfast.”

“In here,” Bobby called from the room where Dean had been chained to the chair. Sam walked in and froze in the doorway. The desk where the first aid kit had been spread out was now littered with books, bottles, and bags of herbs and miscellanea. Ropes still lay in haphazard coils on the floor and large splotches of dried blood colored the worn tile. A propane heater sat near Bobby, helping to warm the chilly room.

“What are you doing?” Sam asked, his gaze trying to take everything in. Some small glass jars sat filled with a variety of colored liquids and some had herbs mixed in. A Sterno can’s flame burned underneath another container and Bobby added a few drops of one glass container to the one being heated.

“Experimenting with some spell components, what’s it look like I’m doing?”

“Experimenting with spell components,” Sam answered dryly. Sam laughed at the dirty look Bobby gave him as he crossed the handful of steps to the desk. Gently nudging aside some of Bobby’s paraphernalia, he squeezed the bags of food onto the corner of the desk.

“You were supposed to call when you left the hospital,” Bobby said.

Sam looked blankly at him a moment. “I was? Oh, yeah, I was. Sorry. I was hungry, needed caffeine and it just slipped my mind.”

“John’s doing okay?”

“Yeah,” Sam said as he began rifling through the bags. “The doctor said he’ll be sleeping a lot for the next couple days at least. Dad was pretty out of it when he woke up but told him one of us will try to be with him most of the time.”

“And one of us needs to be. No telling when that bastard’s friends might figure out where John is holed up.”

“Is Dean okay?” Sam asked, trying to keep his voice neutral. The feeling that something had happened to Dean had long since disappeared into a mere whisper, and that almost worried Sam more. He knew he wouldn’t be satisfied until he’d seen for himself that Dean was okay.

After jotting down a few notes, Bobby pushed himself to his feet as the smell of breakfast wafted through the room. “Yeah,” Bobby said without meeting Sam’s eyes.

“Did he give you any trouble?” Sam asked, scowling a little at Bobby’s curt response and began pulling out the Styrofoam containers heavy with food. His own mouth was watering. His stomach had begun gnawing on his backbone in anticipation during the short drive from the restaurant to the church.

Bobby came to stand beside Sam, his stomach audibly growling. “No,” Bobby grunted and helped Sam empty the bags of their contents, pushing aside some more of his scrawled notes. He had made little headway understanding his concoction other than to see the rather aggressive reaction it had with the man’s blood. It wasn’t any wonder the stuff hurt like a bitch.

“Did you change out his bandages?” Sam prodded, opening the bag filled with napkins, silverware, salt, pepper, butter, jams, jellies, and syrup and dumped its contents onto the desk. He snagged two sets of silverware, napkins, and a handful of the mini-containers and put them back in the bag.

Bobby gave him the evil eye. “I know what I’m doing, Sam. Besides, I knew if I didn’t, you’d be fool enough to try it with him awake.”

Sam gave a soft huff. He wouldn’t be stupid enough to treat Dean without Bobby or Jim keeping a gun leveled on the man while he did so. Bobby’s comment only reconfirmed to Sam that the other hunters considered him an incapable idiot. So long as they obeyed his wishes regarding Dean, he tried to tell himself it didn’t matter. “Where’s Jim? How’s his shoulder?”

“He’s asleep in the next room. He’s doing okay. I’ll go wake him,” Bobby said, picking up one of the large coffees and taking a sip with a contented sigh. They’d emptied their thermoses hours ago and he’d let Jim get some much needed sleep while he stood guard.

Sam pulled out a couple vials and bottles from his pocket and set them on the old desk. “I got some more morphine, and got some Darvocet. Some bags of saline, IV tubing, needles and other supplies are out in my duffel in the Impala.”

“Good,” Bobby said approvingly. He laid a key card on the desk. “I got us a room at the motel up the road. Since it looks like we’re going to be here a while,” he renewed his glare at Sam, “we’re going to need a place for a warm’s night’s rest, a place to shower and all that. It’s got a kitchenette, too, so we don’t have to be eating out all the time. I paid for three weeks. Don’t know if John will be ready to be released by then, but we can always tack on more days.”

Sam pocketed the card key. “Thanks. I’m going to take this down to Dean,” Sam said gathering two bags. This time it was he that avoid Bobby’s eyes as he left the room, ignoring the disapproving look he felt boring into his back. He had a feeling Bobby was hiding something from him regarding Dean and was anxious to confirm Bobby’s words were true that Dean was fine.

Mid morning light filtered in through the dirt-coated narrow windows nestled high in the basement walls. Dean sat on the old mattress Bobby had found, his injured leg stretched out before him, his back against the wall. His head was tilted back, resting against that same concrete block wall until Sam started down the stairs. Sam felt an absurd surge of relief at seeing Dean was okay.

Sam was pleased to see Bobby had brought a propane heater down for Dean and the basement, while not exactly toasty warm, wasn’t that uncomfortable. Bobby also put a shirt on the man, Sam’s old red plaid flannel shirt and had left him a decent blanket that was now loosely draped over the man’s shoulders. Fresh bandages were on Dean’s leg, and gauze was now wrapped around the man’s wrists, just enough to keep the shackles from rubbing the damaged skin. Sam frowned to himself a little, but decided it was likely damage the man had done to himself in an effort to escape rather than anything Bobby or Jim had done.

He raised an eyebrow at the flash of…something…that crossed Dean’s face when he saw Sam. His insisted to himself he’d merely imagined a moment that Dean’s face had mirrored his own relief.

“I brought breakfast for us. You looked like a pancake type of guy, but I got you some scrambled eggs, toast, and plenty of bacon and sausage just in case. I got some coffee for you too, but I swear if you launch that hot coffee at me instead of drinking it, you’ll get ice water and bread from here on out.”

Dean opened his eyes and lifted his head when he heard the sound of booted footsteps coming down the stairs. Tensing as he waited for one of the hunters to appear, ready to pick up where they'd left off earlier.

He'd been waiting for some time now. It had been a couple of hours at least since he woke, not that he had any real way of measuring time down here. The small shafts of light filtering in through the dirty basement windows told him nothing except that it was daytime. It could have been morning, noon, or evening for all he knew. All he really knew was that he'd been the hunters' prisoner for about two days now, and considering the change in his surroundings, would be for quite some time.

Dean had been rather surprised when he woke lying on an old musty smelling mattress rather than bound in the chair still. For a second he'd forgotten where he was. Thought that maybe he was back 'home' again, before he realized if he really was home right now he'd probably be far less 'comfortable' than he was now. Then he remembered what had happened.

The hunters giving him that injection and the pain it had caused him. His muscles still ached terribly from the punishment, but it was nothing he couldn't endure. Part of it could also be stiffness from being chained in one uncomfortable position for so long. It was difficult to tell. Probably both. Didn't really matter.

There were new chains around his wrists that connected to the wall and were just long enough that he could lie down, sit up, even stand. Though not long enough for him to move more than a foot away from the mattress. His ankles were also bound together with a shorter chain, probably in an effort to keep him from trying to use his legs to kick at his captors. Not quite as elaborate as before, but still effective, as long as his powers were bound.

He wasn't sure what had prompted the changes, the shirt and blanket to say the least, but he knew sooner or later the hunters would be back to make good on their threat. Therefore he was a bit surprised to see Sam rather than one of the other two men. Alone, for that matter. Carrying bags that contained food if the smell was anything to go by.

So nothing had happened to the younger man after all, Dean quickly shifting his expression to a neutral one to hide the flicker of relief he felt. Though he supposed there was nothing wrong with feeling relief. As long as Sam was here his 'friends' wouldn't touch him, right? And if nothing else it meant that he still had a chance to complete the task his father had given him. Not that that would really save him at this point.

Dean's eyes glanced down at the bags the younger man carried and then back to Sam's face, frowning a little at the threat. He was fucking tired of threats. Maybe he should eat, but he didn't feel particularly hungry right now. The smell of the food making his stomach grumble and feel queasy at the same time. Another side effect of the injection? Who knew.

"I'm not hungry." He finally replied wearily, shaking his head in refusal before leaning it back against the wall again.

Sam stopped dead in his tracks. Wasn’t hungry? How the hell couldn’t he be hungry? Dean had eaten one crappy burger and some fries in the past two days or so and who knew when he’d eaten before that. Sam was starved. Sure, he hadn’t wanted food while he was sitting beside his father, waiting to make sure he was okay, but since his father had woken up, Sam could think about other things now. Like food and coffee, and his maybe-brother.

If Dean’s look was anything to judge by, he had upset Dean with his crack about the coffee. Honestly, he wasn’t sure he had been joking. Hot coffee in the face would be something he would be tempted to pull if their situations were reversed.

Sam moved a little closer and studied the man. Dean didn’t look well. He was pale and looked like he might throw up. Crap. One of his wounds must be infected. Bobby would have told him about that, wouldn’t he? Would he have given Dean any antibiotics? No, probably not. Maybe this is what Bobby had been hiding from him.

Setting down the bags Sam eased closer to Dean. He knew the reach of the chains, and warned himself to be careful. Bobby’s words about foolishly approaching Dean echoed in the back of his mind. Okay, so maybe he was an idiot. If he couldn’t trust Bobby to tell him what was going on, that left Dean, so what choice did he have?

After a moment of hesitation, and carefully balancing his weight to shift backwards if the quick-reflexes of the man struck against him, he leaned in and put his hand on Dean’s forehead. Concern crossed his face. “Christ, you’re burning up,” Sam murmured.

Dean’s eyes followed the younger man’s every movement carefully. Watching as Sam set down the paper bags and approached him slowly. The younger man watching him just as closely and it was kind of comical really. After all, wasn’t he supposed to be the defenseless one here? Maybe the younger man wasn’t as foolish as he’d thought, then again, since they both knew Sam was effectively putting his hand into the cage of a cornered predator, and the fact he was doing it anyway…

The thought had briefly crossed his mind of attacking the younger man once he came within reach. To use his own chains to wrap around the other man’s throat, break his neck if he wanted, but what would that really gain him? Absolutely nothing. He still couldn’t get out of the chains, he still couldn’t use his powers, and one shout from the young hunter would bring the others. He would die seconds after Sam. Pointless.

Gaining the younger man’s ‘trust’, making him think he really was as weak and helpless as he looked right now, letting the foolish man believe he was falling for his tricks and acts of ‘kindness’… now that could prove invaluable in the near future. So Dean remained utterly still, tense, ready just in case he was being the trusting fool and Sam actually had something prepared he wouldn’t like…

But the younger man’s fingers merely brushed lightly across his forehead, resting his palm there, and Dean frowned wondering exactly what Sam was doing. Puzzlement crossing his own features at the expression of concern that broke out on the younger man’s face a moment later as he stated the obvious.

“It’s nothing…” Dean finally said after a moment, being careful not to move even an inch, not even to shift away from Sam’s touch so he wouldn’t appear a threat.

The man had kept a close eye on Sam, as wary of Sam as Sam was of him. That Dean hadn’t flinched away from him or seemed ready to lash out at him heartened Sam, but that small achievement was lost in his worry at the heat he felt under his hand. Of course he knew the man, even as sick as he was, was more than capable of striking against him. The stitches along his chest from the hellhound clearly reminded him that Dean had fully intended on hurting if not killing him. Likely, as far as Dean was concerned, nothing had changed and if he were free, he’d surely attack Sam again given the opportunity. At the moment he wasn’t free. At the moment, he was Sam’s responsibility. He’d failed Dean all these years by keeping Dean a secret, by leaving him at the mercy of the demons. Even if Dean wasn’t his brother, he was going to help him. Even if Dean still wanted him dead at the end of all this, Sam was going to do what his heart told him and his heart told him he had to save the man. If he couldn’t, the only alternative was to kill him. And he didn’t want that to be the result. Another death because of him just wasn’t acceptable.

“It’s not nothing, Dean,” Sam said firmly. “One of your wounds must be infected. If one of those wounds goes septic, it could kill you. I’m not going to let that happen. Bobby must have missed seeing it when he re-bandaged your wounds.” Sam tried hard to believe Bobby hadn’t seen it rather than ignoring it. “Does one feel worse than the others? I can get it cleaned out, get some antibiotics and aspirin in you. I’ll get some ice and we’ll try to get this fever broken. Which wound is it? Can you tell?”

Dean lifted an eyebrow at the younger man’s rather passionate speech. The seemingly genuine concern the younger man was showing for his health pretty much confirming to him that the younger man had nothing to do with the other hunters decision to ‘experiment’ on him before.

He’d had his doubts for a moment or two after waking up. That maybe Sam, unwilling to get his own hands dirty, had just told his friends to do the deed for him. Now it was pretty obvious that the other hunters had not even told Sam what they’d done.

That thought almost made him smirk as he finally shook his head slowly looking squarely into the younger man’s eyes.

“It has nothing to do with my wounds. More likely the injection of this,” Dean pointed to the pouch hanging around his neck, though he didn’t touch it. “That ‘Bobby’ gave me earlier.”

Dean's green eyes held a weary, almost sad laughter as he met Sam's gaze steadily. Sam's eyes flicked from Dean's and then went to the pouch. He suddenly spied the ugly red welt on Dean's neck that had been all but hidden by the shirt collar. His gaze cut back to Dean's and he knew the man wasn't lying to him. Sam felt his rage flash through him. He barely heard the chair that Bobby had brought down and set outside of Dean's reach skitter across the floor and slam into the wall. Sam slowly straightened, his hands clenched into fists at his side.

Bobby and Jim, they'd been like uncles to him. Their homes were the only places that had ever been a safe haven for his father and him. Sam had spent many days playing in the old junkyard, playing chase and tug of war with Bobby's dog. He'd spent days helping Pastor Jim straighten the church, polish the pews, and tend the flowerbeds around the building. They meant the world to him. Yet they ignored his request to let Dean be. What was so fucking hard about leaving the man alone until they knew if he was Dean Winchester? They fucking experimented on him! The spell bag worked against Dean's abilities. The infusion of oil work against Dean's abilities. Injecting the man with a solution of the spell components? Experimenting just to see what happened?

Sam took the stairs two at a time and the door swung open violently with barely a touch from his hand. As he stormed down the hall, Bobby and Jim stepped out of a side room, guns leveled on Sam. Both hunters visibly relaxed, seeing it was Sam.

"With all that ruckus, Boy, we though the bastard had gotten lose or something," Bobby said, relief coloring his words.

Stalking up to Bobby, he ripped the shotgun from Bobby' and shoved him against the wall, his hands fisted tightly in Bobby's denim coat. "What the hell were you doing Bobby? What if you'd killed him? God dammit, he might be my brother! I trusted you to watch over him, to keep him safe! And you fucking injected him with something you said yourself was still in the fucking field test stage!" Sam let go of Bobby and spun on Jim. "And you! You're supposed to be a man of God. He is not a demon! How can you justify letting Bobby do what he did?"

"Son--" Bobby began.

"I'm not your son! Apparently what I want, what I think is important doesn't mean a damned thing to you. To either of you!"

"Now you listen here, Boy," Bobby exploded. "That thing downstairs nearly killed your daddy. He tortured John for hours! He went after you, he went after us. We'd all be dead now if not for you managing to get that spell bag around his throat. You know damn good and well I'm right. Whatever he once was is gone. Even if he is your brother, he's not human anymore Sam! If I mix that infusion with his blood, it practically boils!"

Jim stepped closer to the two. "Sam, that man downstairs may not be a demon, but he has demon in him. You saw what he could do with his abilities. With hardly an effort he blocked that doorway with those massive machines and controlled half a dozen hellhounds. Nothing human can do that."

"So we should just kill him," Sam snapped at the two.

"He's evil Sam," Jim said. "Surely you've got to see that."

Sam's eyes narrowed. "I'll tell you what I see. I see a young kid beaten and tortured for years, who cried himself to sleep every time they let him rest. I see a boy forced to use his abilities to hurt people, taught to hurt people and to like it because if he didn't he'd just shatter. I see a man who has never, ever had anyone show him kindness of any sort, never tell him that he was loved, that he had value beyond being the killer they made him into."

"You can't know that," Bobby countered, discounting Sam's words as anything but outlandish imaginings. "Some people are just born to do evil."

"He wasn't!" Sam yelled, feeling the hot tears begin to spill down his face. "He was my friend! He was there for me when I needed him, and I was there for him when he needed me!"

The two hunters gaped at Sam as if he'd gone mad.

Sam turned from them. "I've dreamed about him all my life. I was there with him through some of it. I felt everything he felt when they tortured him. And when Dad tore me away from school after school, friend after friend, he was there for me. When Dad trained me so hard I cried at night because I hurt so badly, he comforted me. If he's not my brother, then why did I dream about him? Why did he dream about me? How did I know in the hospital something had happened to him?" Sam turned back to face them. "I never expected it to be my friends that did it. That went against what I asked from them. Who I asked to trust me. This one time, to have some measure of confidence in me." Sam wiped at his tears. "You do anything like that to him again and I swear you better not let me catch hold of you. I know what he did. I know what he is. I also know what he can be if someone will just try to reach him. He's my brother. I know he is. And I left him to those demons all those years. I fucked up. I failed my brother. I won't fail him now."

Sam pierced Bobby with his gaze. "He's burning up with fever. How do we fix it? Can you make anything to counter the poison you put into him?"

Bobby was struggling to keep up with everything Sam had revealed and could do little more than just stare at him, dumbfounded.

"Bobby!" Sam yelled. "Can we fix it?"

Snapping out of his stupor, Bobby rubbed his chin and he fought to get his head around it all. "Yeah. We should be able to flush it from his system. I can make up some tea that should do the job." Bobby walked to the room with all his supplies, shaking his head.

"Sam, I'm sorry," the pastor said softly.

Giving a curt nod, Sam could only collapse against the wall. The adrenaline surged through his system and he felt his hands shaking. "We could see each other. We could sort of touch, just a light ghostly type touch. We couldn't talk to one another, but we could feel each other. He always made me feel safe, Jim. He made me feel protected and cared about." Sam gave a weak laugh. "He was my best friend and he wasn't more than a ghost to me. Hell, I didn't really believe he was anything more than an imaginary friend I just never let go of."

"Then you can't blame yourself for not saving him," Jim counseled. "You can't heal him with guilt. Only love can heal him."

Bobby returned with a thermos he was vigorously shaking. "Get him started on this. It's cold, it's a little weak, but I'll get a stronger batch made up. This should get the flushing started." He handed the thermos to Sam. "I'm sorry. Don't blame Jim. It was all my idea. I still don't approve of what you're doing, but I understand it. At least I'm trying to understand it."

Sam accepted the thermos with a nod and headed back downstairs. He gave Dean a half-hearted smile. "This should help," he said and opened the thermos. He sat down next to Dean and held it out to him. If Dean was going to attack him, then Sam probably deserved it. He was too wrung out to care at the moment. When Dean just stared at him, Sam forced it into Dean's hand. "It will help. Now drink."

Dean’s eyebrows rose in surprise. His gaze shifting to where the chair flew across the room, crashing loudly against the wall, then back to Sam. The younger man giving absolutely no indication he’d heard much less realized what he’d done. The anger burning in Sam’s eyes, the air practically crackling with it, would have made the older man a little nervous if he hadn’t known it wasn’t directed at him.

Even so when the younger man turned and ran up the stairs Dean let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

“Temper, temper, Sammy.” He muttered under his breath.

The whole thing should have been amusing to no end, instead Dean was left feeling quite stunned. Not because Sam was angry at what the other hunters had done, because he’d been expecting that. Why he’d decided to tell the younger man in the first place. Well, it was either that or the younger man calling him a liar, refusing to believe him. That would have been just as likely an outcome.

However he hadn’t quite been prepared for this level of rage the younger man had displayed. On his behalf no less. Perhaps Sam had been kind to him, well, after at first threatening to torture him and digging his fingers into his wounds. But the fact remained that he was still a prisoner, they were enemies, and Dean hadn’t really expected Sam to turn against his own ‘kind’ so easily.

And yet he could hear Sam’s shouts, though he couldn’t hear the actual words he could hear the outrage in his voice. If this was still all just an elaborate ‘act’ of some kind it was damn convincing. After a while it grew quiet once more upstairs and Sam came back downstairs.

Dean still watched the younger man warily, though Sam showed no hesitation as he approached him. Going so far as to sit down beside him on the mattress and the older man raised an eyebrow. There was one thing to do something foolish but at least with some caution at the same time, it was another to insanely disregard one’s own safety, which was what Sam was doing now. Was he really that trusting?

He looked between the younger man and the thermos Sam pushed into his hand, immediately distrusting whatever was inside of it, and frowning at the order to drink. For a moment Dean considered refusing, but remembering what he was trying to accomplish, he finally took a cautious sip. Making a face at the bitter taste, but he’d had worse. When it seemed to produce no ill effects, for instance the burning pain from what he’d been injected with before, he drank a little more.

Sam watched as Dean reluctantly sampled the cold tea. Sam laughed softly. “Taste’s bad? I’m not surprised. Bobby’s going to brew some stronger tea for you and this should help get the crap out of your system that he put in you. It’ll probably taste worse that that.” Glancing over at the covered bucket that was Dean’s “facilities”, Sam added, “You’ll probably be pissing a lot over the next handful of hours as it cleans you out.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” Sam said sincerely. “It won’t happen again, not if I have any say in the matter. Jim and Bobby, they’re good men, they’re like family to me and Dad. If you weren’t…who you are…this would all be going a lot differently. They’re not ready to forgive you for what you did to Dad and the other hunters.” Sam pushed himself up from the mattress and went over to the rapidly cooling food. “Don’t think I’m all soft-hearted and stupid.” He grimaced. “I get enough of that from them.” After pulling out the containers of food, he sat cross-legged on the floor and rummaged through the containers until he found what he wanted. “I know what you did. I think I understand why you did it.” A sigh whispered from between his lips and he drank a bit of his coffee. “I would imagine you enjoyed it, too. That’s what they taught you, after all.”

Staring down at the food, he paused, his mind tumbling through possibilities. How was he going to reach through the years of abuse and brain-washing? Slowly. One small victory at a time, he told himself. He poured a couple containers of syrup over his pancakes.

Looking back up at the prisoner, he told him. “I believe you’re my brother. Even if I’m wrong, I do know we were friends throughout all these years and the small bits of our lives that we shared with each other have always meant a lot to me. You know as well as I do they weren’t just dreams.

“I’m guessing you were sent after me for some reason. I haven’t hunted in years. I tried to get out of that life, but you know that. I don’t understand why any demon would care whether I live or die. I wanted out of that world and had intended to stay out of that world until Yellow Eyes—and you--dragged me back in. I don’t suppose you’d be willing to at least tell me why you came after me? Why some demon wants me dead?” Sam asked hopefully as he began to eat.

Dean scowled, clearly showing what he thought about ‘Bobby’ making him anything. He had half a mind to refuse to drink the rest of what Sam had given him. He wouldn’t put it past the other hunters to try to poison him again, maybe without even the younger man knowing it. But considering how much like shit he felt ever since he’d been injected with that crap he wondered if it would have mattered anyway.

It could be slowly killing him for all he knew. The stuff he was drinking now could kill him, he could take his chances and possibly get worse from the injection earlier, or he could drink and maybe get better.

Dean snorted a little at the younger man’s reassurance that it wouldn’t happen again, not to mention his talk about what ‘good’ men his friends were. He didn’t give a damn one way or another, but he took another drink of the bitter tea anyway. He didn’t have much to lose right now.

He didn’t know whether or not to sigh or roll his eyes when the younger man went on and on about ‘understanding’ him. Sam certainly liked to talk, it seemed, and again Dean didn’t really have a choice but to listen. Captive audience, and all that. He didn’t really care one way or another. The boy could talk, try to understand him all he wanted, it wouldn’t change anything.

He knew what he was. He knew what Sam was too. There was only one fate for the both of them.

Dean looked away when the younger man once more began speaking about their dreams. What they’d seen of each other as children… It made him uncomfortable to say the least. It dredged up confusing feelings inside of him that he didn’t want to examine. It also didn’t really matter. Whatever they were, might be, might have been, to each other, it changed nothing. Not for either of them.

He could not disobey his father, not even for… not if he didn’t want to suffer a fate worse than death. Dean knew well there were plenty of fates far worse than death.

“No.” He finally answered simply, shaking his head, to the younger man’s question. He didn’t want to believe that Sam meant anything to him. Those kinds of feelings made one weak. Foolish. Dean was neither. After a few moments of silence Dean finally looked back at the younger man.

“You know I’m not going to tell you anything. You know you’ll have to eventually kill me in the end. Why bother keeping me alive now?” Dean finally asked, genuinely curious.

That Dean didn’t believe he was safe from the injections didn’t surprise Sam. He could only be glad Dean continued to drink the tea. It wasn’t hard to see that none of his words reached the man. Trying to tell himself that Dean didn’t feel the same things he had through the years—no, dammit, Dean had! Sam had wiped the frightened boy’s tears away, figuratively, anyhow. They had shared smiles, had shared hurts, and they had shared brotherly kisses of comfort. Even when the man was in his teens, he’d asked for that gentle single kiss before he tried to fall asleep after whatever the torture of the day had been. Sam would kiss him, lay down beside him, and try to make him feel as safe as Dean had made him feel.

Sam gave slight snort at Dean’s simple “No”. He wasn’t trying to start an inquisition. He just wanted to know why some demon decided to take everything that meant anything to him away. But I guess in a way, I got back two things I never thought I would, even if only for a little while. My dad and brother, Sam thought.

He contemplated how to answer Dean’s question. What could he say? He knew it was probably the truth that they would have to kill him, purely in self-defense in nothing else. He knew if he were to let Dean go right now, Dean would try to kill him. Try to kill his father and Bobby and Jim. They couldn’t keep him locked up forever. And Dean was no idiot. If nothing else, he’d try to convince Sam that he believed Sam, that he embraced whatever Sam offered. He’d tell Sam anything to gain Sam’s trust. Like that scorpion that wanted to cross the river and convinced some animal it wouldn’t sting it if it helped the scorpion. Halfway across the river the scorpion stung it anyhow and when the animal protested it had killed them both and wanted to know why, the scorpion simply replied that the animal knew what the scorpion was when it picked it up.

That was Dean. Ready to strike no matter the cost.

Sam smiled grimly to himself. Dean would try to make Sam trust him. Somehow, Sam would have to try to spin that to his advantage, spin that illusory trust into real trust. The rub would come when Sam had to figure out if he’d succeeded or not. I guess I’ll know when I’m halfway across the river, Sam thought darkly.

Finally Sam answered Dean’s inquiry. “Because you’re my brother. We kill you and your soul goes to Hell. You failed in killing me and Dad so some demon is going to be pissed at you. I remember what they do when you fail. If I could sell my soul to get you free of whatever demon you answer to,” Sam suddenly focused all his attention on his breakfast, “I probably would.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

He honestly hadn’t known what to expect Sam to say, because he honestly didn’t know why he was being kept alive if not to be tortured for information. That’s why he’d asked, after all. But Sam’s answer… he had never expected the hunter to say something like that, even if it was a lie. He also never would have expected his own response.

Not in a thousand years.

Equal measures of confusion and red hot anger welled up inside of him. His fingers tightening around the thermos he held so tight his knuckles turned bone white. Glaring daggers at the younger man across from him and he didn’t even understand why. Why was he angry? Why did the thought of Sam trading himself, selling his soul, for him, enrage him so? Because… it was utterly ridiculous that’s why!

“You’ve no idea what you’re talking about!” He all but growled out, not bothering to hide his anger even if he didn’t understand it.

Foolish. Utterly foolish. Utterly a lie. No one would trade their life, their soul, for an enemy. No one.

“You don’t have the vaguest concept of hell. Don’t talk about things you don’t know shit about!”

Sam looked up from his meal, surprised by the outburst. It may well have been the first genuine response he’d gotten from the man that wasn’t scorn. The fury he saw in Dean’s eyes came from his very soul. Sam set his food aside and stood, walking closer to the man, but stopping before he was within striking distance. Indignity burbled inside of him and he felt his own anger coil in his belly.

“I don’t know what I’m talking about?” Sam asked. “I don’t have any idea what Hell is like?” He laughed bitterly. “It’s being slowly eaten alive by whatever the creature of the day is. It’s having your skin flayed until there’s nothing but tenderized meat, cut at with knives or anything that takes off only the top layers a fraction at a time. It’s the knowledge that this is your life. There is no hope. Nothing will ever change. When you die, you know you’ll end right back on the rack, only this time, they can do things to you they can’t now. You know that in the now, it may get worse, but it’ll never get better and no one gives a damned about you, except some little dream-boy who watches you, who you see suffer along with you.” Sam had been recalling more and more of the dreams of Dean, though this particular one he’d never forgotten. “And then one day, one day that the torture is particularly bad because you told them something you weren’t suppose to and you’re paying for that failure, you saw the little ghost boy there. The torturers had been working on you for a long time. But then they cut you especially slowly, especially deeply, across your back. And for the first time you saw that dream boy fall to his knees and scream. You saw the blood on his own back and you saw that for the first time he suffered physical damage that mirrored yours.” Sam paused and stared down at the man. “No matter what hell they put you through after that, you never told them anything again. Not ever.”

Sam’s lips twisted into a sardonic smile. He turned his back on the man and took off his shirt. The same scar that Sam had traced over Dean’s back those few days ago, from shoulder blade to kidney, ran along his own. He pulled his shirt back on and turned to face Dean again, his eyes emotionless. “No, Dean, I haven’t any idea what Hell is like. Just like those dreams were only dreams. Just like we mean nothing to each other.”

Dean all but snarled, his rage bubbling over and needing an outlet, he threw the thermos in his hand across the room. The cheep plastic thing smashing against the wall with a satisfying crack, its contents spilling out all over the floor, never mind that he might have just thrown away what would heal him, or at least keep himself from getting sicker, he didn’t care. He was on his feet in a second, the chains bringing him up short of course, his body swaying dangerously off balance, barely able to stand, but again he didn’t care. He would not let this god damn human talk down to him anymore.

“You know nothing!” Dean shouted again, and he knew he sounded half like a petulant child stomping its foot in a tantrum but he didn’t care. This man couldn’t know what he was talking about. He was lying! Somehow he was lying! Somehow it had to be all a trick! Never mind that all the evidence was stacking up against it to the point of making his continued denial seem nothing but foolish ranting.

“You can’t...” He all but whispered this time and there was a definite plea in the tone of his voice that shocked the hell out of him. But more than that he finally realized what was fueling his irrational anger. Fear. Not for himself. Fear for that boy Sam talked about. Who had been there with him through his whole life. That he forced himself to nearly forget because he was so afraid that his father would see him, see him in his mind and do something terrible to him, or worse, take him away forever.

That boy who couldn’t be Sam Winchester. Just couldn’t be... his brother... like the younger man claimed. Couldn’t be one of his father’s children. The one his father had sent him to claim, or to kill if he were unworthy of his gift. Destined to become his father’s slave. Destined to become like him. He knew his fate. Had accepted it long ago. It couldn’t be changed now. The last thing he wanted was for that boy, he had once labeled his angel, oh god his father would have killed him for that, to share his fate...

No...

Dean shook his head and dropped to his knees, his body simply too weak right now and his strength bleeding away with his anger. A hopelessness filling him he hadn’t felt in years as he curled up on the mattress putting his back to the younger man. Blaming his weakness, his sickness, for his volatile emotions, for his confusion. Dean almost laughed bitterly at the pathetically weak lie he told himself. But it was only those lies that made him feel like he was holding onto a shred of his sanity right now.

“Leave me alone...”

The launched thermos didn’t come close to hitting Sam but when Dean flew up to his feet with murder in his eyes, Sam involuntarily took a step back. Dean was challenging the truth in front of him. It had taken Sam time to digest it, to accept it. He’d struck out at Dean as Dean now tried to strike out at him. The truth that the murderous killer who they held prisoner was his brother had been unacceptable. Until Jim had threatened Dean. All rationality left Sam in that moment when he jumped to the man’s defense. At that point, he knew in his gut that their prisoner and his brother and dream-friend were one and the same. Even though he hadn’t quite been fully ready to admit that to himself. At this point, he was beyond denying it.

Dean practically pleaded with him to deny it, to tell him it was a lie. The pain in his eyes came from the depths of his soul and Sam saw not only pain, but fear. Fear perhaps that Sam was right. Fear perhaps that he’d almost killed his own brother and father. Fear, that he’d failed completing his job of killing them, and with this truth, he would not be able to follow through. Sam thought back to the things he had seen Dean do through the years. No. Dean would be able to do it. It might shatter him, but he would do it. He’d been trained to follow any order.

But he had always protected the dream-boy—Sam. Sam wondered which would be the strong drive in his brother. To kill him or to protect him.

When Dean collapsed to his knees, shaking his head in denial, Sam saw something he hadn’t seen in Dean in years. Despair. Then Dean sank to the mattress and with his back to Sam, curled up and told Sam to leave him alone.

Sam responded almost purely out of instinct, reacting from all those times he’d comforted his brother throughout their lives. He all but forgot he wasn’t just a ghost to Dean, that he was tangible now…and mortal. He went to Dean’s side, unshed tears stinging his eyes, and slid into place beside him, gently putting his arm over Dean protectively. He didn’t say anything because in the world they’d always existed in, the two couldn’t speak to one another. It didn’t occur to Sam now that anything was any different. His friend was hurting and this was how he’d always comforted him. He shut his eyes briefly as his brain caught up with his emotions, screaming at him to get away from Dean. But he couldn’t. He just couldn’t. Dean needed him.

Dean stiffened almost immediately in Sam’s arms, his muscles drawing so tight they almost shook with the strain. His mind’s instinct to lash out at his enemy warring with his body’s natural impulse to accept the comfort being offered from this boy, this man, he had needed so much throughout his lifetime.

If Sam had done anything more, if he had spoken a word, Dean probably would have shoved him away ruthlessly or perhaps even done his best to strangle the younger man with his own chains, uncaring of the consequences. But this was too damn familiar, too much like all the other times Sam had comforted him through all the worst pain in his life. The little boy who’d held him and cried with him even when he was too young to understand what was happening. Those soft sweet touches, kisses, the only bit of heaven he’d ever known in a lifetime of hell.

Slowly the tension in his body melted away, closing his eyes as he relaxed in the embrace of the younger man’s arms as he always had. Too tired, or maybe simply unwilling, to fight anymore right now. Unable to deny how much he needed this. Though it had been a while since the last time. So much the same, yet so different too.

More real. Warmer. Stronger. Sam had grown. His arms longer. His body taller, yet still fitting against his so perfectly. Dean shifted his body, turned his head. He didn’t open his eyes, and he didn’t need to. Knowing exactly where the younger man’s lips would be, brushing them with his own, just as soft, just as sweet as he remembered.

Sam felt the muscles in the fever ridden man harden as he stiffened under Sam's touch, the faintest of tremors running through Dean. Sam refused to let go, refused to be afraid of him and the potential threat he was to Sam's life. Pulling him that much closer against him, Sam kept the hug gentle and laid his cheek against Dean's head. He'd never really had a smell to associate with the older boy and now he could only smell Dean's sweat mixed with a bit of the herb-infused mineral oil that had gotten into a little of Dean's hair.

As the tension in Dean slowly drained away, Dean relaxed against him. Sam knew there was no deceit in this. Dean placed all his trust in Sam and accepted the comfort he needed in their new and confusing world. Sam was surprised by how comforted he himself felt by the familiar touch, by the familiar actions. The world disappeared for him until only he and Dean were left, both of their worlds torn asunder, and he almost clutched at Dean, trying to find something real and seeking his own reassurances. Dean's body and his touched most everywhere and that familiarity was tangible and consoling. To have Dean's solid body pressed against him made his own body relax, brought him his own measure of solace.

He felt Dean shift and only smiled, knowing exactly what Dean was doing, what Dean had always done when they lay together like this, taking comfort from one another like this. He felt the gentle brush of lips on his own, and leaned into it, responding in turn as he always had. A part of him acknowledged Dean's lips were softer and warmer than they ever had been in their ghostly world and he pressed his lips just a little firmer against his friend's. Dean had not been the only one to beg for the comforting kiss to soothe his hurts.

There was no hesitation in the soft lips pressed against his, returning his kiss. There never had been. Sam’s lips were as soft and welcoming as they’d always been. Ever since they were children, what had begun as tender kisses the younger boy had given him to the signs of tears on his cheeks, had evolved into much more. The soft brush of the younger boy’s lips had always given him more comfort than he’d ever known any other time during his life. Always so sweet, so… pure… holding a certain innocence even when they’d grown older and the soft touches sometimes stirred in him more than just feelings of comfort.

Dean turned a little more in the younger man’s embrace, enough so that he could slip his arms around Sam as well. The sound of the clinking metal chains as he moved around his wrists making him pause for a moment, but only a moment, before he tightened his hold around the other man’s waist, practically pulling Sam on top of him.

Uncaring how the younger man’s weight put a rather uncomfortable pressure against his broken ribs. Uncaring about anything except all of the things he’d never been able to feel before. Never realizing until now how much he’d longed to feel them. The warmth of Sam’s lips. The feeling of the younger man’s breath ghosting across his face. The softness of the hair at the back of his neck, so much finer than his own. His taste… Dean didn’t even realize how he’d let his lips slide apart, let his tongue dart out to lightly trace the younger man’s lips until he’d already done it. The tremble that passed through his body afterward definitely not from fear.

When Dean tuned to face him, Sam wasn’t particularly surprised. There had been times when they’d laid together that after the gentle kiss they would face each other. The ghostly one would brush the other’s tear streaked face, would lightly run fingers over their hair, trace their jaw line, even their bare chests. Sometimes they would kiss a few more times before curling up against one another. Sometimes their light kisses had stirred deeper feelings in Sam, but being nearly intangible, nothing but unfinished promises could be offered to each other and, as neither needed any additional frustrations in their sorrow filled worlds, nothing had ever been…pursued. The light touches had been chaste and innocent and meant for comfort, nothing more.

When Dean slipped his arms around Sam, Sam almost sighed in contentment. His overloaded emotional state and weary body welcomed the gentle and familiar touch. Sam was startled when Dean suddenly wrapped his arms more firmly around Sam’s waist and all but pulled Sam on top of him. The flinch he felt beneath his weight immediately drove a spike of concern through Sam, worried that his weight had to be hurting Dean’s injuries. He felt one of Dean’s chains drape across him as Dean’s hand moved to the back of his neck. As Dean’s fingers ran slowly through his hair, it sent of a shiver of delight through him. All those times he longed for the ghostly touch to be more was happening now, and his body craved that familiar touch and rejoiced that is was more than the whisper it had always been.

Dean’s tongue tasted and sampled his lips and Sam found his own mouth opening, his own tongue flicking out to touch Dean’s. He pressed his mouth a little closer to Dean’s and ran his tongue around the inside perimeter of Dean’s lips, occasionally flicking his tongue further into Dean’s mouth. Dean’s taste was salty with a hint of bitterness surely left over from the tea. He wanted that bitterness forced upon Dean gone and drove his tongue deeper into Dean’s mouth to try to steal and lick away that offending flavor. He wanted—no, he needed-- to taste Dean without anything there that wasn’t Dean. Gripping Dean tightly, he rolled onto his back, dragging Dean with him so Dean’s weight pressed down on him, freeing Dean of any painful pressure on his injuries rather than risk injuring Dean any further with his own body. The sudden weight on his groin elicited a slow but definite response as his tongue tangled more intensely with Dean’s and a soft moan escaped him.

Although he’d put his shirt back on, he hadn’t buttoned it closed yet and he could feel the heat of Dean’s body through the flannel shirt Dean wore. He wrapped one arm around Dean’s back and pulled them closer still while his other hand slid to the small of Dean’s back. One leg he wrapped around Dean’s, pressing Dean more firmly against his growing arousal and moaned into Dean’s mouth again.

Though the weight of the younger man atop of him might have been uncomfortable against his damaged ribs and other wounds, Dean was pretty much beyond caring at that point. In fact, he even welcomed the discomfort. It was only further proof how real this was. How real Sam was. Not a figment of his imagination or a dream or a ghost, but flesh and blood, bone and muscle. Something for him to touch, hold on to tightly, and wouldn’t vanish between his fingers like mist.

The warmth emanating from the younger man’s body blanketing him making his already feverish skin even hotter as the kiss between them grew even more heated. The touch of Sam’s tongue meeting his and then delving inside his mouth sending a powerful surge of pleasure through him like an electric current. The younger man’s taste flooding his senses and leaving him feeling drunk on the sudden intense spike of arousal that left him gasping against Sam’s lips as the other man shifted their positions so that he was now lying beneath Dean.

Without missing a beat Dean chased the younger man’s tongue back into his own mouth, eagerly exploring for more of Sam’s sweet taste, savoring the soft moans that slipped from the other man’s mouth. His hands exploring Sam’s body just as greedily, easily slipping inside the younger man’s already loose shirt to trace along flesh and muscle. His fingers tracing along scars he knew so well, following the curve of his spine and up along the firm flat stomach. Even though they’d never even met before he felt like he already knew Sam’s body as well as he knew his own, and at the same time every touch was new. The heat under his palms, the way Sam trembled from even his lightest touch, the strong heart beating beneath his heart as his thumb lightly circled a nipple. A moan escaping his mouth into Sam’s feeling it harden beneath his fingertips.

Though when his other hand came into contact with the bandages across the younger man’s chest, where the hellhound under his control had clawed Sam, Dean’s touch paused. His breath panting lightly across the younger man’s lips as he pulled back slightly, though he didn’t open his eyes. Unwilling to completely break the spell that had fallen over them. Even though, like the heavy chains around his wrists, the wound was a reminder of all the reasons why they should not be doing this. The hot hard press of the younger man’s arousal against him, his own answering just as eagerly, making him not want to care.

Dean said nothing, not with actual words anyway. None were really needed since long ago they’d learned their own language through touch, the lightest brush of his fingers over the bandages a silent regret and apology he could never express any other way, before his arms slipped around the younger man’s back. Closing whatever distance there was between them in every single way, kissing Sam deeply as he pressed his hips even more firmly, rubbing his arousal against the younger man’s. At the same time caressing down from Sam’s shoulder blades to his buttocks. His fingertips just brushing underneath the waistband of the younger man’s jeans.

When Dean returned the exploration with his tongue, investigating, sampling every bit of Sam’s mouth the bitterness of the tea faded and Sam could finally taste Dean. His taste was earthy and fresh and sweet, and Sam had never tasted anything so right in his life. He welcomed the intense exploration and wanted more, so much more, groaning, almost demanding Dean give him everything.

Dean responded with greater intensity in his kiss and moans of his own as his hands began to explore Sam’s flesh. Callused hands ghosted over Sam as if teasing him that Dean was once again nothing but an apparition. Then his fingers touched a little firmer and every touch was electricity that made Sam tremble and moan, his cock growing harder with each tender touch. When Dean’s thumb circled Sam’s nipple, Sam gasped into Dean’s mouth, arching against his touch, his nipple tightening almost immediately. Sam wanted Dean’s mouth there at his nipple, that sweet tongue and mouth doing things that Dean’s hands couldn’t, but he wasn’t willing to let their kiss end.

Dean’s other hand brushed over the bandages covering his stitches from the hellhound and he felt the pause then gentle touch, the apology for it. As Dean pulled away from the kiss, Dean’s hot breath brushed over Sam’s lips, almost as if waiting for Sam to deny him that forgiveness. Instead of denial, Sam captured Dean’s mouth again, this time sucking then biting Dean’s lower lip. He wanted the hellhounds, the enemy hunter he’d fought, to be a dream. He wanted this to be real, to be the future, ignoring it was his brother igniting such passion and hope in him. Dean’s arms embraced him, pulling him closer and tighter, his tongue delving back inside Sam’s mouth with insistence and demand. He pressed his arousal against Sam’s, rubbing firmly and Sam pressed back, matching his rhythm. He felt Dean’s gently work his hand down Sam’s back until he reached the waistband of Sam’s jean and dipped his fingers between denim and flesh.

The hand Sam held at the small of Dean’s back slid to Dean’s buttocks and squeezed hard a few times feeling Dean’s muscle tense in pleasure. He firmly rubbed down the seam between Dean’s cheeks and Dean groaned deeply, his own fingers delving deeper under Sam’s waistband, eliciting a similar deep groan from Sam.

“Sam! I’ve got the tea for him made,” Bobby called out from upstairs.

Sam froze, his eyelids flying open. He’d all but forgotten they weren’t alone, forgotten they were suppose to be enemies, forgotten what this man had done to his father, to Pastor Jim and to over twenty hunters. He felt the sudden stiffening of Dean beneath his hands, against his body while his body only wanted more from this man…his brother. Could it get much wronger than that?

He couldn’t let Bobby find them like this. If Bobby or Jim saw them in their current state, there would be no way to explain it. They would think Dean had ensorcered him or something and possibly take drastic measures. Sam rolled them back over so he was once again on top as he pushed himself away from the touch he craved. Dean’s eyes had opened and he stared at Sam, his eyes all but emotionless. Sam knew that look. He’d seen it a hundred times when he was but a ghost and it cut him deeper than the hellhound’s claws that had ripped his flesh.

“I’m coming up—“Sam started but his voice was raspy. He cleared his throat, still tasting Dean in his mouth. “I’ll come up and get it,” Sam called out more clearly, while staring down at Dean. Dean’s plump lips, obvious arousal, mussed hair, and even his chains, sent a fresh pulse of arousal to his cock and Sam wanted nothing more than to press down against Dean and kiss him senseless. He knew if he bent down to kiss those enticing lips again, he would be lost in his lust, and he just couldn’t risk that. He forced himself away from Dean, his eyes filled with apology.

Jesus he could barely walk he was so hard. His gaze shot over to the bathroom. “I’ll be up in just a minute Bobby,” Sam called up the stairs. He all but limped his way to the bathroom. He had to ease the painful tightness in his pants; Bobby and Jim couldn’t see this. Hardly having stepped through the door, he freed himself from his pants. Pre-come wept from his cock and he ran his thumb across the crown. His knees nearly gave when he touched his over sensitized member and he gasped, jerking, and wished it was Dean that was touching him. He used the come to lube his hand and began to jack himself off quickly. It took little to bring him to ejaculation and he spilled his seed into the commode trying to bite back his loud groan, Dean the only image in his mind.

As soon as he’d finished, he went to the sink and tried the faucet. Bobby or Jimmust have gotten the water turned on somehow. He didn’t care, he was just glad he could rinse his hands off and use his cold hands to quicken the relaxation of his cock. It wasn’t perfect, he still felt over sensitized, but at least he could be seen by the older hunters without an obvious hard on. Leaving the bathroom, he couldn’t bring himself to look over at Dean, hating that he’d been forced to leave Dean in the same painful state that he’d been in, hating that the comfort they were finding in each other’s touch was ripped from them. He denied the little voice in his mind that insisted he was a fucked up pervert for not only desiring the killer they had in chains, but that it was his brother. His dear Jessica hadn’t died but a few days ago and when he jacked off, she hadn’t even crossed his mind.

No one had ever touched him like this. Kissed him like this. Made him feel this way. The warmth of Sam’s flesh beneath his hands. The taste of the younger man in his mouth. The sounds of pleasure he pulled from the other man’s lips... It was nothing short of pure ecstasy and he never wanted it to end.

Unfortunately reality was a god damned bitch.

The illusion they had allowed themselves to become lost in effectively shattered with the intrusion of the other hunter’s voice from upstairs. Sam’s body going ridged in his arms, his own muscles tensing involuntarily as well, in that moment they both remembered who they were. What they were to each other. And in that moment Dean didn’t think he’d ever hated the rest of the world so much.

He didn’t resist as the younger man rolled them over and pushed away from him. The regret he could read in the younger man’s eyes was too much for him to deal with right now and Dean looked away. At least ignoring the needs of his own body was easy. He’d had plenty of practice. The clinking of the chains around his wrists when he was forced to release Sam yet another reminder of just how foolish he’d been just now.

Allowing himself to become so swept away. Allowing himself to become so... weak... He could blame it on the fever, or the pain of his wounds, or even the physical and mental exhaustion from the torture the other hunter’s had put him through, but none of it was any excuse. Not really. He’d been trained to endure far worse pain for far longer without breaking.

Sam had broken him with a kiss...

The worst of it was, he wanted more. His body still thrummed with the pleasure Sam had stirred inside of him. He still ached to feel the younger man’s body pressed against him. He still yearned for his kisses. His touches. The unspoken promises and reassurances... All an illusion. Only a dream. A stupid pathetic dream that would only bring unimaginable pain to both of them. Simply because they were flesh and blood to each other now did not change the world they lived in. Who they were. What they were. What they could never have. Being so close now only made the pain and longing worse.

It also only made the choices they would have to make in the near future harder. Choice? Who was he kidding. Neither of them had a choice. Sooner or later Sam would have to kill him, because Dean had never disobeyed a command his father had given him and he never would. The other hunter’s, John Winchester, would die, and sooner or later Dean would have to bring the younger man to his father... though killing him would probably be a more merciful fate. There was no other outcome. One of them was going to die before this was all over. Which one of them... That was their only real choice.

Sam got to the top of the stairs and saw the older hunters talking between themselves a half-dozen steps down the hallway. What if…what if they’d seen him and Dean kissing and touching? They’d rip him a new one right after telling him he wasn’t going back down in that basement. Fleeting thoughts of picking the locks on Dean’s shackles and the two of them escaping into the night teased his mind.

What the fuck? was all he could think. What about the man was driving him absolutely crazy with lust? He’d never laid with a man before, he had never looked at a man in that way, never had the desire to fuck any man’s brains out until they both lay panting and completely spent. But he did with Dean. Completely and fully was ready to place his full trust in the older man. He knew he’d protect Dean with his dying breath, even if that dying breath was being strangled out of him by the very same man.

Both of the hunters looked up at his approach. Sam suddenly felt gangly and young and embarrassed and all too certain he appeared flushed. He felt as if his inner perverted thoughts lay out in the open, fully exposed to the two men.

Jim eyed him with concern. “Are you okay, Sam?” Jim asked.

Sam gave a curt nod. “Yeah. Fine” he mumbled. He wasn’t fine. He knew he wasn’t when all he could taste was Dean’s sweet taste still in his mouth and all he wanted was more. It was sheer torture.

Squelching his thought with some small measure of success, he focused his attention on Bobby who held out a thermos to him. Accepting it, Sam opened it and sniffed its aroma, promptly making a face. It smelled like coffee that had sat on a stove for three days. “Damn Bobby, that smells like shit.”

Bobby shrugged. “Best I can do on short notice. It’ll get the job done and that’s what you care about, right?” Bobby voice held pure annoyance.

Sam nodded. “Can we put some sugar in it or something?”

“No,” Bobby said emphatically resisting the urge to roll his eyes. The demon-spawn was just fucking lucky Sam held enough sway with Bobby that he was even willing to brew the tea, using herbal components that he considered better spent on making more of the liquid that obviously had severe and painful effects on that monster down below and others like him. “Sugar will weaken it. He eaten anything?”

“He was too nauseous.”

“That’s probably a good thing,” Bobby grunted. “It’ll work faster and better. He finish the first batch?”

“A lot of it,” Sam said, not telling them the contents of the previous thermos was currently pooled around the broken plastic thermos launched at the wall. “I need some aspirin and cool cloths for him,” Sam said.

“I’ve got those ready,” Jim said and picked up a bucket and headed for the stairs.

“What are you doing?” Sam asked, trying to keep the panic from his voice. No, he wanted to be left alone with the man. “I’ve got him.”

Jim glanced over his shoulder. “I’m not letting you put ice and cold packs on him without someone there watching your back. Bobby needs to get some sleep, so that someone would be me.”

Sam sighed to himself. It wasn’t like he could risk picking up where they’d left off what with both of the hunters upstairs. They could show up at any minute. Sam followed Jim down the stairs, closing the door behind him. They had been careful to place Dean’s virtual prison in a place clearly visible from the top of the stairs. It made sense at the time, but now he regretted that choice, as sensible as it was.

Jim’s eyes scanned the remains of the breakfast Sam had hardly touched and noted that the other Styrofoam containers were still closed. He glared at their prisoner who glared back with equal hate. Jim set the bucket filled with half water and half ice down near the food. When Sam stopped at his side, he handed Sam the bottle of aspirin wordlessly.

Taking the bottle, the first thing Sam did was pop four aspirin into his mouth and dry swallowed them before putting the bottle in his pocket. His hellhound injuries were beginning to ache, in part surely from the passion play between Sam and his…brother. This was so fucked up. So seriously fucked up. Especially when just looking at Dean made his cock twitch and the nipple Dean had fingered ached for Dean’s touch again.

Jim moved the chair closer, sat down in it, and pulled out a 9-mm which he pointed at their prisoner. “Do what you have to Sam, but stay out of the way of the gun, got it? He makes one wrong move and I will shoot him.

Sam’s gaze drifted between Dean and Jim. Hesitantly he approached Dean, picking up the bucket to take along. He could still see the remnants of Dean’s arousal when he closed the distance to Dean. Dean had repositioned himself so the wall supported his back. His wounded leg was stretched out and the knee of the other leg was bent, but the short chain between his ankles prevented Dean from bending it as much as he would have preferred. Dean watched Sam warily, his gaze flicking to Jim momentarily then coming back to Sam.

Sam knelt by Dean, his eyes downcast to begin with, then his gaze swept up, pausing on Dean’s lips. He ground his teeth. Dammit, why did Jim have to be here? After a moment, he scolded himself that while he wanted to selfishly sweep Dean into his arms, Dean was burning up with fever, filled full of poison that might kill him. The adrenaline from their making out surely hadn’t helped matters.

“Hold out your hand,” Sam ordered, setting the thermos aside and pulling the aspirin bottle from his pocket. He could tell Dean considered ignoring the demand, but after looking over at Jim again, did as he was told. Sam dumped three aspirin into hand and placed them in Dean’s palm. “It’s just aspirin. It’ll help with the fever. Take them.”

Dean turned his head when he heard two sets of footsteps descending the stairs instead of one. Frowning when the other hunter appeared followed closely by Sam, and Dean couldn’t help but wonder who’s idea this was. If Sam had told them what had happened. If it was the other hunters who didn’t trust him to be alone with the younger man, or if it was Sam himself who was afraid that Dean might molest him again or something if they were alone.

No. He didn’t think so. If Sam had told them anything Dean knew the younger man wouldn’t be here now, and the hunter who was leveling a gun wouldn’t be threatening him with it, he would be using it. Why did it surprise him that Sam hadn’t told his friends what had happened, almost happened, between them a few minutes ago? Sam had been protecting him since the moment he’d stood in front of this very same hunter who’d threatened to shoot him before. But somehow Dean knew this went far beyond simple protection.

As far as Sam knew all that had passed between them was nothing more than a trick. For all the younger man knew Dean was using him, and even if it hadn’t been, Sam did not know for sure. Could not know, yet he was… Sam wasn’t only protecting him, he was trusting him. Dean didn’t understand why. Couldn’t understand.

He looked back and forth between Sam and the other hunter, lingering on the older man distrustfully however he didn’t move when Sam approached him. It wasn’t the threat of the gun that kept him still or even his own exhaustion and weakness. It was the look in the younger man’s eyes. The way his eyes swept over his body. The concern, and more, on Sam’s face when their eyes met.

Dean hesitated only a moment when the younger man asked him to hold out his hand, looking at the pills Sam placed there, to the hunter, and then back to Sam. He’d seen the other hunter give Sam the bottle, and that alone made him almost refuse to take them. But he’d already seen the younger man take the pills himself and anything that might harm him would also harm Sam. Of course the other men could not know this. That the same blood ran through both their veins, and he didn’t mean in regards to Sam’s belief they were truly brothers.

He put the pills in his mouth and swallowed them dry, just as Sam had, never looking away from the younger man’s eyes.

Dean’s gaze stayed locked on Sam. Sam tried to read what those eyes were saying to him. They’d spent years with looks and touches their only form of communication. Why was he having trouble reading Dean now? Sam tilted his head in question, then realized Dean was confused about something. Sam gave a small huff of amusement. He was just as confused though he wasn’t sure what had Dean confused. The possibilities were numerous.

Sam held out the thermos next. “It smells god-awful, but Bobby promised it would work to get that crap out of you.” As if in proof of its harmlessness, Sam took a swig first. It took all his willpower not to immediately spit it back out. Forcing himself, he swallowed it instead. “Okay, it tastes like ass,” Sam amended as he held the thermos back out. He saw the laughter in the man’s eyes and glared at him, but there was laughter of his own in his gaze.

Pulling the bucket of water and ice closer, Sam reached in for the cool rag. He squeezed out most of the water while Dean sipped at the hot concoction in the thermos. He didn’t grimace at its taste, which surprised Sam, but he suspected Dean was probably being stubborn and refusing to give Sam a chance to laugh at him.

Sam leaned in with the cold cloth but Dean pulled back from him. “We need to get your fever down. This will help get it down that much faster,” Sam assured him.

Dean glanced back at the older hunter with the gun once again, his jaw clenching for a moment, but relented and let Sam tend him. Sam all but felt electricity run through him whenever he touched Dean and had to bite his lip to stop himself from doing anything foolish. He patted the cool cloth over Dean’s face, feeling the heat of the feverish skin. He dropped the cloth back into the bucket and began unbuttoning Dean’s shirt, his hands almost trembling. He opened the flannel and drank in Dean’s scarred chest, glad he had his back to Jim so Jim couldn’t see his face. Sam wanted to run his hands over that chest and kiss away any hint of phantom pain those scars might have left. Sam shifted uncomfortably as he felt his arousal try to return, forcing away the image of him running his tongue along that chest, of sucking on those fine perky nipples, and licking away any sweet sweat yet clinging to the man.

Wrong, wrong, wrong, Sam scolded himself as he squeezed out the water and gently wiped the cool rag over Dean’s chest. Passing the cold wet cloth over Dean’s nipple made them harden and Sam ground his teeth, the sight nearly driving him mad.