Summary:  Because maybe winning isn't about what he gains, but about what he doesn't lose.
Warning:  Graphic violence. (Used to examine a character's growth, not just violence for violence sake.)
A/N:  I'm not sure who's to blame for this idea, though it is a bit cruel. I like to blame Gem, because most of everything I do is her fault anyway. And for some reason, I think she was the one who thought of this idea in all of its graphic glory. It's kind of intense in some ways, though not nearly as upsetting as probably some of the deathfics I've written. Still, I guess I'd warn you against ensuing Sam torture in the most literal sense. Things do get better, though, and there are two subsequent parts to this fic. Beta'ed by Gem, helped by Brenna, and therefore dedicated to both of them and the rest of the SFTCOL(AR)S gang. Pimp the limp, forever and always :)
Disclaimer:  I'm just playing in someone else's sandbox. I promise not to throw sand. Too much, anyway.

He doesn't know where he is.

It's dank and musty and smells a little like a sewer. The walls are covered in a brown sludge that he can't identify and the room is all but empty, except for a few key items he sincerely wishes weren’t there.

There's a chair--wooden and decrepit--along one wall. Right next to a table, just as dilapidated.

The other wall hosts a makeshift pegboard and is decorated with various knives and axes.

Sam shivers.

It's not cold, but the air is cool and rancid as he breathes it in and out, in and out.

He can't move.

It takes him a moment, but he cranes his head and sees he's mostly naked, save his underwear. He would be embarrassed but he is too distracted by the fact that he can't move his arms or legs.

He slowly discerns the metal shackles clasped around each appendage; his stomach drops.

He's chained.

Pulling, he tests the restraints. He finds them tight and unyielding.

He realizes then that he's being stretched across some sort of table. His hands are bound far above his head and his ankles are being pulled in the opposite direction.

There's enough light to see, but Sam doesn't know the source, and he can't see much from his limited vantage point anyway.

Just dark four grimy walls, furniture fit for the dump, and no way out.

Somewhere, water is dripping. Not a lot, but a consistent, hollow drip definitely haunts the fringes of his awareness.

It's the closest thing he has to measure time and he counts 89 drips before something changes.

Sam tenses, straining to look around, finding it just as futile as the countless other times he's tried.

His breath catches in his throat when he discerns the steady thumping.

Footfalls.

Sam grits his teeth and doesn't know whether to hope or fear.

It could be Dean, coming to save him. His brother could have found him and is there to take him out of this place.

But it could be something else. It could be whatever brought him here.

Whatever it is, it's getting louder.

Sam's no longer alone.

It's human, or pretty close.

The shadow skulks in on two legs, sporting a limp and a distinctly humped back. Sam wonders briefly if he's been captured in a bad horror flick, because it seems far too clichéd to be real.

He catches glimpses of it--a shrouded figure, wearing a tattered and stained robe. It stays out of his line of vision, tracking along the wall and coming at him above his head.

He hears its approach, senses it as it nears him.

Then he hears the humming. It's a soft melody, gentle and lilting, and Sam's anxiety skyrockets. "Who are you?"

Nothing answers, just the continued, melodic hum.

There is a rustling above his head.

"What do you want?" Sam demands, sounding more in control than he is.

The laugh that answers him tells him that whatever it is, it is not fooled by his bravado.

He hears noises--sounds that cling metallically. Something grinds and lurches, clanking with age.

Brightness flashes behind his eyes as his body protests. He breathes a curse and inhales a prayer.

He's being drawn.

The realization comes to him with a morbid disbelief.

He's on a rack, pulled tight and shackled, and he's being drawn.

It's going to torture him.

Coldness ebbs in his stomach. Why? What does it want?

It makes no sense, he can find no logic, but the tune strengthens as the crank is turned again and Sam's body is stretched even tighter across the surface.

"What do you want?" he screams finally, his entire body screaming for reprieve.

But there is no answer.

And Sam is afraid.

It has been to see him twice now, but it was just as elusive the second time around as the first. Everything was exactly the same--the hum, the crank, the stretching--and Sam feels almost giddy with fear.

He thinks he is awake between visits, but he's not entirely sure. It doesn't quite hurt yet, and for a moment he thinks maybe this won't be so bad. If he could just stop shivering...

He has to get out of here. He has to figure a way out. He needs to think. Full on geek boy mode.

His mind wants to wander, but he forces himself awake. Think, Sam, think. All the possible culprits.

Within a minute, he draws a blank, and he finds himself drifting.

He jerks back and he grimaces.

It's too human in its movements to be any kind of literal monster. Not to mention the seeming intelligence--Sam is nearly certain it can speak, or at least communicate, and it is so particular in its methods that Sam does not doubt its ability to reason and plan.

No, whatever has him here has plotted and planned and executed it all perfectly. He tries to remember how he came to be here but comes up blank, just a vague memory of a motel and his brother but nothing in between.

Sam knows this is no regular human. The setting, the techniques--it seems so strangely archaic. It doesn't make sense.

And the question why.

It makes his head hurt. He swallows hard against the dryness of his throat.

Being drawn is a means of torture, usually used to elicit information. But so far it has asked nothing of Sam, not even spoken to him. To go through all this trouble to find something out without asking the question seems unlikely.

So maybe what it wants isn't information, but him. Ritual sacrifices, appeasing some higher demonic force--something like that, but Sam isn't sure what. Because he's never heard of a sacrifice being drawn--and he hates to think that his death would come like this.

What disturbs him more is the way it seems to enjoy it. Its approach is careful and deliberate. But the hiss of laughter always rings through his ears as it pulls him farther.

Sam has never seen a rack before, but he's beginning to understand how one works. It's a mechanical device, primitive, but effective in its means.

It's a long table, wood from the feel of it, and there's a crank, or a ratchet, or something at one end. When it's turn, the table vibrates, something rolls beneath him and moves as he is stretched farther.

He tries to remember more about them, but he's not sure it matters. He can't remember any details that might help him escape, not that he could do much anyway, stretched spread eagle and manacled to a torture device.

The drip is his metronome and he swears it matches the rhythm of his heart. Sam's world is so small now that he is attuned to the slightest change. His senses are sharp, over alert. Yet so little changes.

He tries to move--again. The shackles are unforgiving, and the metal around his appendages is vicious as it cuts into him. Warm blood trickles freely from his wrist, but the flow doesn't last long, and Sam feels it as it cakes onto his skin.

It comes back with a different tune, just as cheery as it starts up the crank.

"Someone will look for me, you know," Sam says this time as it lingers above his head.

Sam recognizes the noises now, almost can sense the movements.

The hum doesn't even pause.

"You won't get away with this."

There is a clank of gears and Sam tenses a second before his body is stretched even more.

"You won't," Sam gasps, but the crank is still turning slowly, looking to find a lock.

Sam's voice fades and he can't find enough air to speak. This newest position is surprisingly difficult to adjust to and his breaths are hard and strained as he realizes how effective this torture is.

The discomfort becomes pain, though Sam can't remember when, but now the pain slices up and down the length of his body, resounding in his taut muscles.

He forces himself to wiggle his hands and feet as best he can--at least the fingers and toes--to make sure the circulation isn't cut off.

He has to keep it together, after all. Being laid out doesn't mean he shouldn't be keeping his wits about him, ready for an escape. Besides, he doesn't want his legs to be numb when Dean rescues him--he's sure as hell not letting his brother carry him out of here, no matter what.

He smiles a little. When Dean rescues him.

The song it hums sounds familiar, but Sam can't place it, doesn't even want to try, but it's distracting--so damn distracting that Sam almost doesn't hear the grinding of gears as it turns the crank.

A scream is almost ripped from his lips. But he won't allow it. He bites his tongue to keep it in and blood runs down the back of his throat.

He stopped talking to it a while ago. It just seemed amused by his words, so Sam didn't want to give it the satisfaction anymore.

But it hurts. It burns and lances, reverberating throughout every inch of him. He wants to pull away, to curl into himself, but he has no means, no recourse. He is completely helpless.

And somehow, that’s the worst part of all.

He has no real sense of time, but he guesses everything seems so ritualistic that it seems like a pattern. Each visit is the same--the lopsided gait, the haunting hum and then the turning of the crank that increases his agony.

He still doesn't know where he is, what it is, what it wants, how he got here, how he's going to get out of here.

He doesn't know where Dean is, doesn't know if there's enough of a trail for his brother to follow him here.

His logic is failing him.

It's the pain, he tells himself. The pain is clouding his judgment.

He has to stay strong. When Dean rescues him, he doesn't want his brother to see him crying.

His stomach grumbles. His bladder twinges. As if the physical stretching of his body wasn't uncomfortable enough, now he's been here long enough for his body's normal functions to feel neglected.

It has not offered him food or drink and it certainly hasn't offered him a chance to go to the bathroom. And it finally occurs to Sam that while he could survive a long time on the rack, he can't survive without water.

Then he feels the pull of sleep, though he's not sure why. Surely he hasn't been awake long enough to warrant feeling this tired.

He wonders absently how much damage was done in his capture; he doesn't imagine he went down without a fight.

Through the mist of hurts that pulse throughout his body, he suddenly discerns one in the back of his skull and as he rolls his head, it throbs. Somehow that makes him feel better.

The world is hazy, soft and ethereal. It still hurts, but in an abstract way. He doesn't hear the crank churning, barely acknowledges the minute increases of the strain exerted on his limbs. Sometimes he can't even feel it.

So when his shoulder pops it's a cruel surprise, flooding over him like ice, then searing through him like fire.

His instinct is to pull it in, draw it close to him, protect it, but the force on his body yields no give and he merely twitches in pain, his head flopping back and forth, the only part of his body free to express the torment.

He screams.

When he wakes up, his throat is raw and his voice doesn't work right anymore. It hurts and suddenly feels as stretched as the rest of him.

He is shivering, though his body is wet and sticky.

For a moment, he forgets. He doesn't remember what happened. But then just the act of breathing aggravates his shoulder and his vision dims with it.

He's had a dislocated shoulder before, but not like this. Not with it over his head, pulled so taut that he can feel the bone resting unnaturally against his muscles and ligaments.

He had thought he was helpless before. But now the pain and the knowledge that, even freed, his arm would be useless, is overwhelming.

It suddenly fills him with despair and he can't stop himself from crying.

He doesn't care if anyone sees him. He doesn't care if he's sobbing when Dean comes. As long as Dean comes.

He sleeps more. He stops waking to its footfalls. He stops his thinking, his plotting, his hoping.

In fact, he hardly even knows what's happening until he's being pulled again, and he is wrenched from his sleep sobbing and screaming, crying and begging.

He never gets an answer. Just a hum and a laugh that lingers in his dreams.

"Please," Sam begs. "Please, stop."

His pride has left him, completely.

It doesn't care. It is no more sadistic and no more sympathetic. It is the same. Unchanged. Nearly unaffected, for better or for worse, by anything Sam does.

That lack of response has begun to terrify Sam. Because he can't reason with something that doesn't respond to him. He can't explain something that doesn't seem to even interact with its victim. It makes no sense--nothing makes sense--and Sam can't take it.

"Please," Sam tries again, and his voice sounds pathetic, even to him. "Please."

When his other shoulder is pulled out of its socket, it's just as surprising, but he doesn't have the energy to scream like he did the first time, not that his voice would work anyway.

He feels like he's been here for years, though something inside of him figures it's only been a day.

He tries to shift, to move--anything. His body aches with the consistency of the pressure and yearns for any kind of reprieve.

Whatever it is, it doesn't seem to sleep, and Sam is sure its visits are getting closer and closer together.

He knows Dean is coming, Dean always comes, but Sam wonders if he’ll be fast enough.

Sam wakes up feeling wet.

It's a new sensation, different from all the pain and disconnectedness he's felt so far. His mind slowly processes it and tries to find its source.

It's his underwear. He doesn't remember doing it, but the absence of pressure in his bladder is evidence enough.

It breaks him a little more, and he feels emasculated and pathetic. He wants to bury his head into his hands, cry his shame away, but he can’t move. Even that small solace has been taken from him.

This has to end, he thinks. This has to end soon.

The world gets fuzzy again, and as his vision grays around the edges, Sam is sure he can see his brother standing above him, cocky smirk and all.

Sam wants to stay awake, to speak, to see if this is real, but as he drifts away all he can hear is his brother’s voice, "You crapping your pants, Sammy?"

Sam meets oblivion this time with a smile.

He's pretty sure he can't be stretched any further. He realizes that each churn of the crank only moves him by the merest distance, but it's gone on so long and his body feels like it's about to pull apart.

It has to be over soon.

But he hears the giggle and sees the shadow and sobs and sobs and sobs.

His arms are going to rip right off, and he'd rather be dead by the time that happens.

But he doesn't die, and this time he doesn't pass out. He just shudders and squeezes his eyes shut, wishing that it was over.

"Hey, kiddo, you look kind of green."

Sam would laugh if he had the strength. But it's getting hard to breathe--he doesn't have enough leverage to raise his chest as much as he wants to.

He coughs instead, and the process rips at his already stretched and torn muscles.

It takes a few minutes before he can breathe again and his vision returns a few seconds later. "Dean."

His brother is grinning.

Sam almost laughs again. "We need to get out of here, Dean," Sam says. "Before it comes back."

But Dean just keeps on grinning and Sam’s heart sinks.

"Dean, please."

"Kind of a tight spot you’ve got yourself in there, isn’t it?"

Sam doesn’t care. Sam doesn’t care if he looks like an amateur or a baby or a wimp or anything. He just wants to get out of here. "Please."

Dean smiles, and just cocks his head and Sam’s stomach drops. Something’s not right.

Dean sort of fades, becomes shimmering and translucent, and there is a lilting laugh that takes his brother's place.

Sam just shakes his head in denial and can’t stop crying.

When he wakes again, Sam tries to find Dean, but he doesn't seem to be there.

But that thing is. Sam is babbling before he can stop himself. "Not again. Please. I can't--I'll do anything, please, just let me go--"

It doesn't respond, just turns the crank and whistles while he screams.

The laugh is always the same. A little sinister, a little amused. It's a breathless, wispy thing, and suddenly Sam isn't sure if it isn't just in his head.

But the rack is not in his head. There is no doubting that. He may imagine the laughter, but nothing in his mind could have conjured something as horrendous as the rack.

His body no longer rests on the table. He is pulled so tight that he is suspended, his shoulders and his bottom skimming it. It offers no support but his body has no give.

His muscles burn then ache then burn again. He knows he is well passed exhaustion, and probably on his way to shock.

He thinks of Jessica on the ceiling and tells himself that there are worse ways to die.

Dean's not here.

It takes Sam awhile, but he's pretty sure on that fact now.

Sam isn't sure if it's a hallucination or some vision this thing has put into his brain but he knows it isn't Dean.

It sounds like him. It moves like him. It even smiles like him. But Sam can tell.

Because Dean wouldn't be here. Dean wouldn't have gotten trapped like this. Dean just wouldn't.

But if Dean wouldn’t be here, then maybe Sam wouldn’t either

For a moment--a brief, beautiful moment--he convinces himself that he isn't really.

"Sam."

Sam ignores him. If he’s going crazy, it doesn’t mean he has to acknowledge it.

"Sam." Dean's voice is melodic as he calls his brother.

Sam squeezes his eyes shut even more and tries to think of something else, of anything else. It hurts too much to talk to Dean and have him not be real.

"Sammy."

Sam's patience snaps. "It's Sam," he says as loudly as he can.

Sam isn't looking, doesn't have the strength to move his head, but he knows Dean is grinning. "Sammy," he taunts. "Try to stop me."

The little brother in Sam furrows his brow petulantly and wants to move before he remembers he's strapped down so tight that he can't even breathe right.

And Dean laughs and laughs until Sam knows no more.

The hum is always in his head, in his dreams, and he can't tell when it's real and when it's not.

"Dean, I want to get out of here," he mutters to no one for no particular reason.

Except that he's tired and he's hurting and he doesn't know what else to do.

"Dean, please."

But Dean doesn't answer this time. Instead he is greeted with that laugh and the metallic grinding that sends his world to nothingness again.

He misses everything about his brother. He misses the way his brother wears the collar on his leather jacket turned up. He misses the way he leans back in the driver's seat, relaxed and confident. He misses the way he smiles at the pretty waitresses they see, all charm and flirtatiousness. He misses the way Dean holds out the credit cards with so much grace and style that no one questions the last name on the card.

He misses knowing that Dean is nearby. He misses the way Dean lies to him when he's scared. He misses the way Dean stands so close to him when danger presents itself, always assuring him, always protecting him.

A sob shudders through his body.

He wishes Dean could protect him from this.

But Dean's not here. Sam doesn't know where Dean is. Sam doesn't even remember the last time he saw his brother. He can't remember taking a full breath. He can't remember being relaxed. He can't remember peace and tranquility and happiness.

He just knows pain--shoulders out of sockets, ligaments torn and ripped, stomach empty and aching, head swimming and foggy.

He just knows he's going to die. He's almost ready for it.

Sam isn't sure when, but eventually he stops caring if Dean is really there or not. It doesn't matter if it's a hallucination or a vision or some sick trick that is slowly going to kill him--because real or not real, he needs his brother.

Then he doubts. Doubts that Dean will come. After the times he’s abandoned Dean, why would his brother come for him?

Sam has always trusted, always known, always believed: Dean would do anything for him. It is his safety net.

He has never realized just how weak he is without it.

And he has taken it for granted. Tried to run from it. Left it behind.

"I'm sorry," Sam whispers. "I'm so sorry."

But Dean doesn't come.

He doesn't even think of it anymore. He doesn't care. He never saw it to begin with. And now it's just a voice, just a laugh, just a shadow.

It comes and goes without his notice. The only thing he notices is the sound the rack makes, the way the table shakes as it is moved up a notch, the way his insides seem to stretch and tear with each passing moment.

He feels dirty. His tongue is swollen and parched and his lips begin to crack. The sweat has dried cool and sticky on his tight skin.

He doesn't know how long he's been here, or how long it was before that that he had a drink. But his skin is no longer moist with the sweat of the strain.

And he's sick. He isn't sure of the nausea is from the emptiness of his stomach or the pain of his injuries. It doesn't matter. Because if he throws up, he's not sure he can turn his head enough to keep from choking.

He can feel it when his knee starts to go.

His body is mostly numb, too exhausted to even tremble anymore. He hears the metallic clang of the crank being shifted and the quiet laughter that comes in breaths all around him.

He doesn't ask why anymore.

He doesn't even beg no.

The table vibrates with the movement and he has no recourse as he feels the chains pull at him more, yanking harshly before settling into a groove.

Somehow, somewhere in his muddled brain, he knows his body can't take it. He knows something else has to give. Both of his shoulders have both become muted pains, his synapses too abused to register the persistent onslaught, and he knows the only damage left to be done there is to sever them clean off.

His legs have resisted so far, pulled so tight his knees have no bend. The shoulders popped quickly, suddenly, like pulling a Band-Aid off in a swift swoop. But he can feel the grinding of the bone in his left leg, bone on bone, harsh and unforgiving, a second before it slips clean out of joint.

The inhale of sated joy whistles through his ears and he knows the presence in the room is watching him, studying him, waiting for him to respond.

Sam wonders what would be more entertaining--to see him struggle with a pain he cannot fight or to watch him succumb to darkness.

He doesn't get to pick but isn't upset when he does the latter.

Dean doesn't come back anymore. Sam wonders if he is so far gone that even his delusions have abandoned him.

Distantly he wonders if this is what it wanted. Because he knows if it's plan was to break him, it has succeeded in every way possible.

Yet it doesn't end.

A clang and a grate and his shoulders feel like they're floating, his knee screams, and his other leg tenses in desperation to stay together.

If it would only ask something of him, Sam would give it without question. Sam would tell it anything it wanted to know. He would perform any service. He would even willingly turn a gun on his own head to finish this.

But it asks for nothing but continues to harvest his willpower and reap his pain.

When his stomach rebels, he can't stop it. He can't even help himself. He can barely turn his head and his vomit catches in his mouth, his body not even capable of projecting it clear.

The process is excruciating, ripping through his chest painfully as he tries to heave. His eyes water uncontrollably with the effort. He writhes with it, ignoring the burning sensation in his limbs and he tries with his meager strength to lift himself off the table--anything to keep himself from suffocating.

Another mouthful is coming too fast--he can't keep up. It plugs up in his throat, stalling up the airway, blocking the upcoming bile, which triggers his gag reflex anew.

He flails his head sideways, desperate, and his mind screams for air. He thinks for a moment he is going to die, chained to this table, stretched, and drowned in his own vomit.

Finally, some of the vomit seeps out the side of his mouth, trailing down his cheek and chin. Hollowly, he feels it drip over his ear and into his hair.

It seems to take a lifetime, but eventually his stomach calms and his muscles still--but not relax, the chains still hold them in perpetual tension. Acid burns in his throat and mouth and he's choking on it still, coughing and spitting desperately to rid his mouth of the intrusion.

The vomit splatters on his face and he doesn't have the energy to move his head. His eyes are closed but he doesn't pass out.

He's dying. He's dying on this table, in this place, at the hands of some thing he can't identify.

Somewhere inside of him he knows this isn't how it should end, but he's not so sure he cares anymore.

Dean comes back.

At first Sam is giddy, overwhelmingly relieved, but then he sees Dean's face.

It is set and serious and Sam quivers. "Dean."

Dean doesn't say anything, and Sam can see why. Dean is angry--so very angry.

"I'm sorry," Sam offers, his voice somewhere between a sob and a plea.

Dean just shakes his head. "I should have known."

Sam feels a little hysterical at his brother's obvious disappointment. "Dean, please."

"You walked out once. Should have known you'd do it again."

Sam tries to shake his head but he's not sure anything is happening. He can barely see through his swollen, red eyes. "I can't do this."

"Yes, you can. You just don't want to. Everything's a choice, Sammy. The universe just pushes us until we break just to let us know who's the boss."

The words don't quite make sense--Sam's not sure what to make of them. All he knows is that he is broken, he is at the mercy of the thing, of the universe, of this torture device he's hooked up to. He knows nothing else. "It hurts, Dean," Sam whispers.

Dean moves closer, closer than ever before, leaning so close that Sam can smell the scent of his brother. "Of course it hurts, Sam. That's how you know you're still alive. That's how you know to keep fighting. Once it stops hurting, kiddo, then you quit, then you throw in the towel. Until then, you fight."

Sam can barely breathe through his hiccupping sobs and the congestion it brings in his nose. He wants to wipe his face but he has no means. "Dean."

Then his brother brings a gentle hand up and rests it on his forehead, running it softly through his hair. "And just know, Sammy, that it never stops hurting."

The motion of Dean's hand in his hair is so soothing that Sam almost feels relaxed, lets himself be lulled by it, closes his eyes to it like a lullaby.

Sam is numb now, number than ever before. It eclipses everything. He is vaguely conscious but the world is intangible to him now. He exists only within the glow of his brother's aura and he wants nothing more to effuse into it.

"Never, little brother." Dean's voice is distant and soft and Sam follows it to nowhere.

Sam goes missing outside of a motel in southern Tennessee. They aren’t on a hunt, just driving west while they look for something to track.

Dean is enjoying the down time, catching up in bars and pools halls, while Sam tags along. Sam gives Dean skeptical looks, but Dean sees that Sam appreciates less time cooped up in the Impala's too-small interior.

And it is good and peaceful and right.

Then, Tuesday morning, Sam goes to get some coffee.

He doesn't come back.

There is no trace, no hint, no sign. No Sam.

That single fact is his only reality. Nothing else matters until he gets Sam back.

Dean searches all Tuesday and into the night, until he crashes over the laptop in the wee hours of the early morning.

He awakens appalled at 8 AM and realizes that nothing has changed.

There is still no Sam.

His world doesn't function like that. It never really did. The years without Sam were long and awkward and undefined, a flux of selfhood. He fought and hustled and hunted, but didn't really live without his little brother by his side. Everything had just felt wrong. Even when everything was right--when he and Dad were hunting side by side, reading each other without a word, taking out the bad guys--there was a piece missing that made Dean feel totally incomplete.

It makes him angry that everything seems bent on taking Sam from him again. Not when he just got him back. He has promised himself that nothing will ever take Sam. Nothing evil, nothing good. Nothing. Sam is his.

But Sam is gone. And Dean doesn't know what to do.

If Sam were here, Dean knows the kid would find a clue. Sam has this way if seeing things Dean doesn't, of looking at things that Dean overlooks. Dean is good at running in, guns blazing, but he lacks the patience to really sniff out a trail. He prefers actions to investigation.

It's why they're a good team. They complement each other.

If Sam were here, he'd look pensive, make Dean eat, find a way to make a witness talk.

Dean shudders. Sam isn't here.

Dean still doesn't know how he actually found his lead, how it came to him, but somewhere during his search of the motel premises he found the trail, nearly imperceptible, almost nothing, but he followed it anyway.

After all, no one has seen anything, heard anything, or known anything. This is a quiet town, a simple town, and Dean can’t sense that anyone is lying.

So it doesn't matter how small the trail is, how unlikely it is. He has to follow it.

Follows it into the night, down into the underbrush and toward the thickening of the woods in the mountains.

Follows it, praying that it isn't a waste, that he isn't following a dead trail for hours while his brother may be dying. May be dead.

He's a little hysterical by midnight, convinced that this is a pointless trail, that he may in fact be going in circles.

He's heading back, tears blinding him, when he stumbles over something.

He falls hard, his hands catching him against the damp ground and skinning painfully against the rocks.

He kicks in frustration at the impediment until he sees what it is.

Sam's jacket.

Holding it in his hands, he cries into it, smelling it, pulling it in, making sure it's real, it's Sam's, it's real.

In his nostrils, the scent is so Sam, so real, so pervasive, the he sobs some more at the sheer relief of it all.

He doesn't remember falling asleep, but he jerks awake when the sun is low in the sky. His stomach grumbles and his body aches, but he pushes himself up anyway, a little uncertain as to where he is or why.

The woods look foreign to him, and in the distance he can still hear the noises of the highway.

Sam.

It’s morning again. Sam has been gone two days.

With new resolve, he fumbles after the trail with new vigor, promising that Sam will be gone no longer.

It's a mine.

Abandoned by the looks of it, but certainly not completely decrepit.

And certainly not completely abandoned either, Dean reminds himself.

Dean almost laughs--it's a mine not a mile from the road, not five miles from his motel. He's holding Sam's jacket, following a trail he's not sure he could piece together again, and his brother has been missing for over two days.

He's afraid and hopeful and afraid to be hopeful. He needs to find Sam, wants to find Sam, but not sure he wants to find Sam here.

It doesn't matter. Nothing matters. Just Sam.

Dean goes inside.

He's cautious but hardly slow. He's nearly numb as he charges forward, fully prepared to kill anything that tries to stop him.

But there's no one there. Some raggedy furniture, some empty cans and the cave goes deeper and deeper and deeper.

It takes him down through thin tunnels, so tight that his head spins with claustrophobia. But he keeps going.

And then it opens.

Two bare bulbs adorn the wall on the entryway.

There is a table and a chair, but both look unusable and old.

The air is musty and tepid.

His eyes wander on.

Then he sees the table, the one in the middle of the room.

There's someone on the table, pulled tightly by shackles on both ends. When Dean gets closer, he can see the machinery and his stomach twists.

He forces himself forward and sees the long body. The muscles have been stretched so far they look almost flat and formless. It's a man and he is almost naked, and probably should be given the stained underwear. The dark hair is shaggy and greasy, slicked with sweat and something Dean can't identify.

Dean hovers over him, gaping at the damage. He can tell just by looking that the shoulders are dislocated and one of the knees doesn't look right either.

And Dean knows it's Sam, knows logically this is his brother, but he can't move, can't touch him...

He doesn't look like Sam.

He doesn't even look alive.

His fingers are shaking as he reaches out and turns Sam's face toward him. Sam's head rolls without resistance and Dean smoothes back Sam's hair. "Sammy?"

His stomach drops, bottoms out, and for a second Dean thinks he's going to be sick.

He has to get Sam off the table. He has to get Sam off the table now. He doesn't know how long Sam has been there, but he knows with acute clarity just how long Sam has been missing and he knows however much time Sam has spent chained on that contraption has been too long.

But how? Dean doesn't even know where to begin. He moves to the shackles on Sam's hands and can't see past the blood. Sam's wrists are raw and abraded from the shackles digging in and pulling him tight.

His instincts are screaming and his heart breaks. He wants to clean the blood, fix the wounds, but he can't, not until Sam is released.

He has to loosen the chains. Sam is completely immobile--any move while Sam is still drawn so tight could have devastating damage to Sam's already strained body.

Dean is shaking as he maneuvers the pick into the first lock. The entire contraption shakes, clattering metallically, and for a second, Dean fears that he has set it off to move again. From the table, Sam groans, and Dean's heart catches in his throat.

"Just hang on, Sammy," he says. "Hang on."

Sam says nothing more and the table shudders as the shackle releases Sam's arm. As the limb slackens, Dean realizes with sickening clarity just how taut Sam had been pulled.

The movement rouses Sam, who whimpers back into consciousness. A garbled sound escapes his lips, and Dean feels himself start to cry.

"It's okay," he mutters, moving to the second shackle. "It's okay."

When Sam's second arm comes loose, Sam seems to sigh, almost deflating.

Dean can hardly see as he undoes the shackles at Sam's ankles. He has to get Sam out, get Sam free, get Sam safe.

The last shackle pops open, Dean drops his tools, gently pulling Sam's foot free. But as Dean steps back to examine his rescue, he feels sick.

His brother’s arms and legs are lax now, bent at the joints, but Sam makes no effort to move them. Sam is moaning incoherently, crying and trying to move his head. It's all Sam can do, and Dean feels himself begin to panic.

He doesn't know what else to do. He doesn't know how to help Sam.

Dean swears again and his hands hover over Sam’s body, hoping to find some way to help.

Then Sam’s eyes open and there is a flash of recognition and they’re both crying again. It’s been over two days. And now there is release, there is exhaustion, there is misery. And for a moment, it’s just them and tears, together and broken.

Dean tries to stop crying, tries to get himself together. Sam needs to get out of here. But the fact is, Dean still doesn’t know how.

Sam shakes with sobs--so badly that Dean worries for a moment he's having a seizure.

But Dean can see the utter relief in Sam's eyes, can feel it rolling of his brother in waves, and suddenly Dean is broken by his brother's completely brokenness.

His brother is strong. His brother prevails. His brother doesn't give up.

But Sam's sobs are wretched, filled with desperation and need.

The rage that comes over Dean is blinding and rapid, pulsing through him with the pounding of his heart. He wishes that he could find what did this, that he could break it just like it broke Sam.

But Dean doesn't know what it is, where it is, or if it's coming back. And it doesn't matter. Not now.

Now there is only Sam.

Suddenly, Dean wants to hug his brother, to hold him and ease away all the fears, put together the broken pieces, but he doesn't know how. There is no way to hold Sam with all the damage that had been inflicted.

It is the worst torture Dean has ever known.

The cell phone doesn't get reception in the mine. Dean curses.

Sam has fallen still again, mostly unconscious, though he still opens his eyes from time to time, as if to make sure Dean is really still there.

And Dean is, his hand still lingering on Sam's head, the other holding the cell, begging to catch a break.

He glances at his brother. There is nothing left to break.

He can't leave Sam. He won't. He's always taken care of his brother, and now is no different.

Sam's sobs were desperate before; they are agonized now.

It's enough to almost make Dean stop and go up to call without Sam. But Sam needs him. His brother needs him. He needs to not be alone.

Dean needs that too. Sam has been gone too much in his life, and Dean would take his brother's physical pain over the emotional trauma Sam is so clearly suffering from.

"Shh, Sam," he says softly. "I've just got to move your arms so we can get you out of here."

Sam seems to respond, makes some noises that certainly sound like it, but nothing comprehensible comes out of his brother's mouth and his eyes are only half open and glassy.

Dean hesitates as he reaches for Sam's arms. "This is going to hurt, kiddo," he warns, pleading for forgiveness.

Somehow Sam almost smiles, a drunken, relieved smile, and Dean's heart breaks, but he doesn't let himself stop.

His grip is firm but gentle, and his movements are fluid and careful. It's so simple--just pull Sam's arms down by his sides--but the instant he starts, Sam screams.

Screams and sobs, and Dean can hear the pain that colors Sam's voice so clearly that he nearly has to cover his ears from the sound.

He removes his own t-shirt to fasten Sam's arms to his torso, and by the time he's done, they're both spent.

Sam's voice has given out and he merely twitches and whimpers. Dean drops his head against his brother's and his tears fall onto Sam's face. "I'm so sorry, Sammy," he says again. "I'm so sorry."

The trip up is hard.

Sam is still surprisingly heavy and it's awkward, carrying all of Sam's weight, trying to be careful--so very careful--of Sam's damaged limbs.

Dean grunts and swears. His knees nearly give out under the strain and his arms ache, but he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow. Just keeps his pace even and steady.

When they get outside, Dean is panting and Sam has fallen far too silent, though tears still leak from his eyes.

He sets Sam on the ground—so gently--and runs his hands through Sam’s hair. He covers his brother with his jacket, trying to protect him. He has a brief thought about the thing that must have taken his brother, if it’s coming back, that it has to pay, but he can’t do anything but kneel by his brother’s side and promise to make this better.

He’s not quite sure how he explained where they were, but within 10 minutes, there are two medics traipsing through the forest toward him. One is a girl in her 20s, the other is a man in his 40s, and Dean almost falls in love with them both.

They see Sam, who is cradled in Dean’s arms, and are moving directly to him. "What happened?" the older one asks.

Dean doesn’t even know what to say. Dean doesn’t even know what happened. There are no lies worth telling. "He was kidnapped," Dean says, letting his eyes linger on Sam’s face. "It…it tortured him."

They are kneeling now, next to Dean, looking tentatively at him. "Who?"

"Whoever took him," Dean says.

The medics exchange a glance and Dean can feel them watching him. "You need to let us help him," the girl says, and her voice is soft and sweet, like a songbird.

Dean looks up at them and is surprised to find himself crying. "It tortured him," he says again. And the words sound worse, haunting him with failure.

They shush him, talk quietly to him, lulling him so carefully into a stupor that Dean doesn’t resist when they pull Sam from his arms.

The paramedics are gentle with Sam, and Dean is grateful. Sam is semi-conscious, eyes blinking lazily, and Dean is sure to never leave Sam's field of vision, though he knows his brother isn’t processing much. One of the medics probes Sam damaged joints, a look of concern and pity on her face. The other sets up an IV before retrieving the backboard to transport him.

Sam is shivering, and mumbles at their ministrations. Dean tries to whisper to him, but Sam moans on. The two medics count softly between each other, and in unison roll Sam on his side. Sam’s moaning doesn’t change its pitch, not even as their gloved hands maneuver the board beneath him and roll him back.

"How is he?" Dean asks, still hovering.

They carefully adjust the straps, securing Sam into place. "He’s dehydrated," the man says. "It’s hard to say on the amount of damage to his muscles, though."

Without a word, Dean moves to carry the stretcher, being careful as they tread over the forest floor back toward the road and the ambulance.

He doesn’t even ask if he can ride along. He just climbs in beside the other medic and takes his place at Sam’s side. The girl moves to the driver’s seat, while the other sets to hooking up more monitors and checking Sam’s vitals.

Sam's safe. He found his little brother.

But when he looks in Sam's half open eyes, Sam looks more lost than he's ever seen.

Dean's been in more stressful waiting rooms before. There was the time when Sam was 12 and got cut up by a poltergeist throwing a hissy fit. Sam had lost a lot of blood, slipped into hypovolemic shock before the hospital staff could find the source of the bleeding.

And there had been the time when Sam was 15 and fell through the floor during a hunt. Sam hadn't been conscious that time, and the head wound and risk of spinal injuries had thoroughly unnerved them all.

Even the little things--broken arms, concussions, stitches--all meant that Dean knows waiting rooms well.

But Dean doesn't know a waiting room like this.

It isn't the light blue walls or the motel room artwork. It isn't even the generic wood chairs with paisley patterned cushions. And it certainly isn't the 70s style end tables, hosting a variety of last month's magazines.

Because in this waiting room, Dean isn't worried about Sam's health. Yes, the concern about Sam’s joints put Dean on edge, more so when the doctor had predictable probable longstanding damage. But he has never waited so hard to see if Sam would be okay--truly okay, mentally, psychologically, emotionally--as he does this time.

They've been in tight spots before. But Sam has never been tortured. They've been beaten, tracked, and taunted. They've even lost more than they'd like to admit. But tortured? Dean's not even sure the demon has done this much to them.

The demon, of course, has done its share, but not like this. Not in a way that leaves them so broken so quickly. The demon leaves them with enough to fight back. To show it that it can't win. And while it's won some battles, they all know it hasn't won the war. Because at the end of the day, they're still looking it in the eyes.

But from those few coherent moments, Dean saw Sam defeated, broken, retreated. Dean isn't so proud that he begrudges his brothers fear and tears, but he's scared out of his mind as to how to make them better.

If Sam doesn't bounce back, if Sam can't overcome this--Dean doesn't know what he'll do.

And what scares Dean more is that he doesn't know if he could overcome it if he were Sam.

"He’s stable," is the first thing the doctor says, and it’s not as reassuring as Dean would like. "We’re giving him fluids, which is helping bring up his blood pressure."

Dean just stares, his eyes tired and strained, and waits for more.

"We are quite concerned about the damage to his shoulders and knee. Given how long they’ve been out of joint and the way in which they were stretched, it will be difficult to repair them. The damage to his muscles is extensive, and he's likely suffered damage to his nerves as well. We will operate to help repair the damage, but you need to realize that Sam may never recover full use of his limbs. Even in areas where Sam's bones weren't dislocated, he has experienced severe strain to his muscles and nerve damage. Sam has a long road to recovery ahead of him, but we'll know more once we finish the operation."

The doctor's litany is harsh and difficult to swallow, and Dean grinds his teeth against. "Can I see him?"

"We're just waiting to get him transferred to surgery. You can wait with him until then," the doctor offers.

Dean nods, but all he hears is Sam may never recover and his own voice promising as long as I'm around, nothing bad is going to happen to you. He hopes one is a lie; he needs the other to still be true.

When they let him see Sam, Dean wants to be relieved. After two days without Sam, after finding him in that mine, after seeing his body so stretched…

He should be relieved. That Sam is back. He is safe.

And Sam doesn’t look so bad. He’s pale, but clean and clothed. There are a few IVs running from his hand and his limbs are secured to his body. The doctor tells him that Sam is sedated, that he was even alert after they really got the IV going.

But the image of his baby brother in a hospital only evokes pain and fear.

And failure.

He stays with Sam until the nurses are there, unlocking the wheels on Sam’s gurney.

And as they prep him to move, checking tubes and monitors, it occurs to Dean just how long Sam is. Though his body is obscured by the bed sheet, Sam's body just keeps going and going.

Dean always hated that Sam was taller than him. But he's never hated it as much as he does now. That image of Sam, stretched and pulled as far as he can go, will forever haunt him as he looks up into his brother's eyes.

"We'll show you to the surgery waiting room," one of them tells him.

Dean just nods as his eyes trace his brother’s body, up and down, up and down.

"Did the doctor tell you about the procedure?" she asks.

Dean just nods again.

She smiles. "We need to take him now," she says softly. "Don't worry. He'll be fine."

Dean wants to believe her, but all he can see is Sam prone and pulled and Dean doesn't know how anything can be fine again.

Dean waits. Dean waits for Sam.

Dean remembers. He remembers taking Sam to his first day of kindergarten, how Sam’s little legs had tried so hard to keep up with him, and his little voice begging Dean to wait up, to wait for him.

Dean remembers picking Sam up from middle school, waiting with a scowl while Sam worked his way through crowds of kids.

Dean remembers tracking a werewolf in the woods and pausing, waiting for Sam to catch up, nursing his hurt leg.

Dean remembers Sam walking out the door at 18 and waiting four years for him to come back.

Dean has always waited for Sam.

And he always will.

"The surgery went well," the doctor says. "As well as can be expected, anyway. The damage to his shoulders was severe. The ligaments and tendons were a mess. We've done what we can, but even with extensive therapy, he may never regain full use. We'll test his motor response when he wakes up and then we'll have a better idea of the long term consequences. He may experience some numbness, loss of dexterity--it's hard to say."

Dean has been expecting that, but it still hits him like a ton of bricks.

"As I explained before, the rest of his muscles will recover. Even his knee will regain full use, though it'll be prone to being knocked out of joint, so he may want to be careful on it," the doctor explains. He pauses and takes in Dean's devastation. "Sam is a very lucky young man."

And Dean tunes the doctor out. There's nothing lucky about being kidnapped and tortured by some thing for no apparent reason. There's nothing lucky about losing your girlfriend and mother to some demon. There's nothing lucky about a kid who only wanted normal and could only have the hunt.

He still doesn't know what took Sam.

At the time, it had seemed pretty unimportant. His focus had been so much on Sam, that he hadn't concerned himself with the necessary details to exact revenge.

Part of him wonders if he should go back, look for clues, because he knows the trail will get cold.

They tell him to go home. That Sam is fine, that nothing will happen, that nothing will change, that Sam is still sedated.

Dean doesn't listen. He doesn't care. Because they don't get it.

Sure, they look at him with sympathy and all linger sadly by Sam's bed, pitying how much his body has been through. They know better than Dean does just how much Sam has to fight to make a full recovery.

But they don't get it at all.

Sam's in traction, and it doesn't occur to Dean until Sam is waking that maybe that's not such a good idea.

Sam shifts, his mind fluttering hazily between oblivion and the real world, and his eyelids open and close as he comes to.

Dean leans forward, positioning himself above Sam with a hopeful smile on his face. "Hey, little brother."

But Sam doesn't seem to hear him. His consciousness is still a vague thing and he seems to struggle toward awareness.

Except he can't move.

Dean almost feels Sam tense as his limbs refuse to cooperate and he moves a hand to Sam's head in an attempt to soothe him. "Easy, Sam," he says. "You're okay now."

But Sam is not okay. His eyes blink open, wide and terrified. He tries to speak, to say something, but his voice is raw and broken and it comes out in strained noises only.

"Sammy, calm down. You're in the hospital."

Dean thinks he's making progress when Sam locks eyes with his, but Sam's eyes are full of tears and his head shakes in denial as his entire body begins to tremble. Sam's breathing hitches and Dean suddenly considers calling the doctor.

Sam tries to pull, to move away, but the traction is unyielding, and Dean sees how Sam's terror increases.

"Sam, you're in the hospital," Dean tries to explain to the horror in Sam's face. "We're helping you get better."

But it's pretty clear that Sam can't hear him.

Dean doesn't know how to make Sam hear him. He never has, and now is no different.

He wants it to be over. He's so ready for it to be over. For as agonizing as the two days Sam was missing was, the days since bringing him back have been a whole new kind of hell.

They sedate Sam. Every time they let Sam come to, he panics. Dean glares at them and suggests that maybe traction isn't best for someone who's just spent two days being stretched so far they can't move.

They just glare back and suggest that maybe Sam would like to move again someday.

So Dean sulks at his brother's bedside, watching the even rise and fall of Sam's chest, and wondering how long until he really gets his baby brother back.

"I'm concerned about the psychological damage of this attack," the doctor says. "Have the police learned anything more about what happened?"

Dean clenches his jaw. He told the cops he got an anonymous phone call that led him to Sam's whereabouts. They searched the area, even find the rack in the cave, but couldn’t come to any conclusions. It's been nearly two days since Sam was found, and they can't find evidence that anyone was down in the cave with Sam.

They tell Dean what he already knows. Sam was tortured. Chained to a table and pulled as far as a human can be pulled. They found urine and blood and vomit but it is all Sam's.

Dean shakes his head.

The doctor almost winces. "Sam is so agitated when he wakes--it would be harmful for him to be awake in his current mental state."

Dean knows he's right. He's seen it happen. He's watched as Sam thrashes and pulls and they all learn that traction isn't nearly as static as metal chains are.

"The repair to his muscles and tendons has to have time to heal. If he aggravates them now, it could be very detrimental."

Dean doesn't really know why the doctor is still talking. That's all they do here, is talk. They look at Sam, poke him, and then just talk and talk and talk.

"Are you listening to me?" the doctor asks, peering intently into Dean's face. "Do you understand?"

And Dean nearly laughs. Does he understand? He understands that Sam's muscles were nearly shredded, that his skin will forever sport stretch marks. He understands that Sam's mobility may never be the same. He understands that they can't find the thing that did this, that they can't explain why it happened or how to really fix anything. He understands that he has to let them drug his baby brother, subdue Sam a little more, but this time for his own good.

Dean forces an angry smile. "Yeah," he says. "I understand."

If he could, Dean would hold Sam’s hand. Somehow he knows that that physical connection would help Sam settle as he came to and found himself immobile.

But neither of Sam’s hands are able to be held. Dean settles for a hand to the forehead.

He keeps it there a lot, even when it doesn’t seem like Sam will wake up, though he wouldn’t admit to that. He’s just desperate for Sam to wake up, really wake up, so they can figure this whole mess out and move on. Now it's his mission to keep Sam calm, to keep them from filling his IV with sedatives whenever he comes to.

So when Sam begins to stir, Dean is alert and at his post, hand splayed reassuringly over his brother’s forehead.

For a second Sam seems to tense, and Dean begins to worry, but instead of thrashing, Sam merely blinks his eyes open, studying his surrounded in a suspended panic.

"Sammy?" Dean grins, his smile so wide it hurts.

Sam trembles for a beat and Dean holds his breath.

Then Sam looks at him, really looks at him, and his eyes fill with tears. "Dean?"

Sam's voice is a whisper, harsh and grating and beautiful.

This time Dean does laugh, a hearty, relieved chuckle. "Yeah, little brother," he says. "Welcome back."

Day and night are the same, though sometimes the light is off, and other times only darkness seeps through the slats of the shades. But it doesn't matter. The nurses still make rounds, and Dean still comes when he can, and Sam sleeps whenever the nothingness becomes too pervasive.

His sleep is dreamless and deep, and it just makes him more tired. Eyes opened, eyes closed, Sam's not sure it makes a difference anymore.

Sure, when he's awake, sometimes it's nice to talk to Dean, to laugh at his brother's jokes, to give him that skeptical glare Sam has so perfected.

But the world seems different to Sam, somehow emptier, maybe scarier. Sam has prided himself on not being afraid, but he doesn't feel secure anymore. Like anything could find him here, still weak and immobile, and do whatever they want to him.

Dean tells him he's safe. The nurses check in hourly. But safety isn't just their physical presence. It's a state of mind, so elusive now, that Sam wonders how he ever had it.

What he hates the most is that he still can't move his arms and legs. They're not pulled tight anymore, but the immobility makes him want to hyperventilate. He knows he was sedated because of that, so he tries to keep it under control, but it's hard--so hard--and takes nearly every ounce of self-control he's ever had. He's tired of having no power, and when the drugs are that strong, he feels even more defeated.

They want him to see a shrink, to have him talk about his ordeal.

Sam humors them, answers perfunctory questions to the resident on call. He's told he's coping well, considering, though everyone suspects that he'll experience some kind of PTSD down the road.

But they don't know that Sam's entire life has been one tragedy after another, one nightmare after another. When a demon is stalking him and killing the women in his life, a little PTSD doesn't seem like that big of deal.

Dean tells him what happened, or what little he knows.

He was kidnapped and tortured for two days. Dean still doesn't know what did it or where it went, but it stretched him out on a rack. Dean found him, somehow, that part is still vague, and now they're here, in this hospital, where Sam has been sedated for nearly two days. Sam has had extensive surgery to repair the damage to his shoulders and knee and will start aggressive physical therapy once he's well enough to get out of traction.

Then Dean tells him it's not his fault.

Sam knows he's right. Dean tells him that he has nothing to be ashamed of, and Sam knows that's right, too. There's a lot of freaky stuff out there, and a lot more that's dangerous, and many of those are good at what they do.

It could have happened to anyone--even Dean.

But it didn't happen to anyone—especially Dean. It happened to Sam.

"You're going to be okay, Sam," Dean tells him again and again and again. "It'll take some time, but they'll get you on PT and they'll get you back up to speed. And I'll be there. I'll always be there."

Sam nods.

"It'll be the same as it was before," Dean assures him, and he sounds so hopeful that Sam doesn't bother to tell him that he's not sure he wants it to be. And Dean is still talking, still reassuring him. "I promise, Sam. You're going to be okay."

Sam can’t bring himself to speak, to believe, to trust.

Sam only thinks about it in flashes.

The moment he woke up.

The moment it first stretched him.

The moment he first saw Dean.

The moment he threw up.

The moment he last saw Dean.

Those moments are so clear, so vivid, so real. He can’t remember everything, but he doesn’t need to. Those tell the story well enough.

His brokenness in the aftermath tells the rest.

He can't express how utterly happy he is when the traction is removed. His knee is in a stiff brace and he has to wear both arms in sturdy slings that keep them tight against his chest. He doesn't have a lot of mobility, but it's freer than he's felt since before this began.

He never knew just how much he cherished freedom. Or that freedom wasn't always the big things. It wasn't always the freedom to speech, religion, and assembly. It was the simple things like being able to go to the bathroom, take a drink, move his arms, walk.

And it tastes so sweet that he smiles for no other reason than because he can.

Dean waits longer than Sam expects to ask about it. Sam can tell the minute Dean walks in the room that Dean wants to talk, and Sam's heart rate increases involuntarily.

Dean explains that they need to find it, need to stop it from doing this again, need to make it pay.

Sam just stares ahead, studying the monochromatic wall with unbridled intensity.

"So I need to know, Sam, what you remember," Dean says softly. "Do you think you can do that?"

Sam can’t blink, can't swallow, can't move, can't even breathe right. But somehow he nods and hears himself say, "Yeah."

Sam doesn't know what it was. Sam doesn't remember how it caught him. Sam doesn't know much of anything, and the story he is piecing together is nothing more insightful than what Dean already knows.

All he knows is that he was on a rack and it pulled him tighter and tighter. It didn't say anything, just hummed—hummed and laughed. He only saw the shadow. He thinks it was close to human. He thinks it hit him over the head and dragged him away. He thinks it just wanted to hurt him.

Dean's face is a mix of rage and frustration. "It didn't say anything? Anything at all?" he presses, looking for something to work with.

Sam shakes his head.

"That doesn't make any sense," his brother laments.

And Sam wonders how anything about this ever could make sense, no matter what its motives were.

When Sam starts dreaming again, he is surprised that it's not of the rack. In fact, as time passes, he hardly remembers that part of it, just vague snippets of sensation that confuse him.

No, when he starts dreaming again, it's of himself pinned against the wall, watching everyone he loves die. He sees his mother, he sees Jess. He sees his father. He sees Dean.

He can't even struggle; he can only cry and beg as his loved ones are killed by an enemy shrouded in shadow, just beyond his line of sight.

But as it slinks from the shadows and stands in front of him, it is repulsive and ugly and indescribable, but he knows it better than he knows himself. It's the demon that stalked him his entire life.

It approaches him with a smile, relishing his vulnerability. With a flick of its eyes, it stretches Sam against the wall, and Sam hears himself scream.

"You can't fight this, Sam," it says in a melodic hiss.

Sam can't even shake his head. He wants to give up, to let it win, but he still hears Dean's voice in his head.

"Never, little brother."

Sam wants to be excited to start his physical therapy, but it hurts so bad that he can't muster anything resembling enthusiasm.

He's surprised by how weak he is, how much it aches just to move, how after a few minutes he's left exhausted and shaking.

But when he gets back to his room, Dean is all smiles, glowing even as Sam is lowered back into the bed and seems to melt into it.

"You'll be up and sparring with me in no time," he says.

Sam grunts.

"And of course I'll be putting you on your ass in no time, too," Dean adds with a mischievous grin.

Sam can only hope.

Dean comes back dirty and smudged with a smile on his face. "It's dead."

Sam doesn’t know what to say, what to think, what to feel.

Dean collapses in the chair next to his bed. "It was a sneaky SOB, but I got it."

Sam can only watch, his mouth slightly open in shock, as his brother makes himself comfortable, seeming to shift aching muscles into a relaxing slouch.

"I think it was a witch of some sort. Used to be human, maybe, but has been preying on the human spirit to keep it alive."

A voice inside Sam’s head is screaming with questions—how do you know that? Where did you find that out? Why do you think that? But all he can do is blink then stare some more.

"I looked at where it took you. The place had symbols everywhere. Even on the…the table you were on," Dean says. "They date back to medieval Europe, which is the heyday of witchcraft. So I figure, one of the witches finds a way to outlive its tormentors by feeding on the pain and life of others. And something that old would definitely use more…ancient forms."

Dean’s words are fast and hard and Sam can barely breathe. It’s all logical and Sam feels very incoherent.

Dean studies him critically. "I killed it, Sammy. Cut its head off and then burned and everything down there. It’s done. Okay?"

Sam wants to believe him, but it’s hard and he’s tired and it’s easier to sleep instead.

Sam wakes up screaming.

He can feel it—the smooth surface of the rack, the rough edges of the shackles as they dig into his wrist, the way his body pulls and pulls and pulls until Sam thinks he will pull completely apart.

And he can smell it—the sweat, the urine, the vomit, the fear.

And he can see it—the loping shadow, the plain, drudge covered walls, his own naked body stretched, and stretched and stretched--

And he can hear it—the laugh, the hum, its pure joy—

Sam shudders, wiping away the wetness at his eyes.

It’s dead, Sam thinks. It can’t hurt me anymore.

But Sam knows that it being dead has nothing to do with that.

It can’t hurt him anymore because he’s not sure there’s any way to hurt him more than he’s already been hurt.

Dean is trying to make him laugh. He has run through his list of usual easy laughs and come up with nothing. Sam tries to offer a smile out of sympathy but his heart isn’t into it.

"Geez, Sammy," Dean says, slouching lower in the seat. "I'd get more response from corpses."

It's coarse and sounds wrong. Dean shifts uncomfortably.

"You can talk to me," Dean finally says. "You can always talk to me, Sammy."

But Sam doesn't know what to say. I'm sorry I got captured, I'm sorry that it broke me, I'm sorry for not knowing how to laugh anymore, just I'm sorry...

There are many kinds of torture.

Sam knows that now. Knows it like he knows breathing. It's part of him, and that knowledge pulses throughout his entire being with every beat of his heart. He even knows it in his soul, buried inside of him where all of his deepest hopes and fears reside.

Torture is the pain of his joints when he tries to move. Torture is the sympathetic looks of the nurses. Torture is the long nights alone with nothing but his nightmares.

Torture is the look on Dean’s face—that loss, that need, that fear. Torture is not knowing what comes next.

Torture is the demon taking his life and love right out from under him.

Torture is seeing it happen night after night.

Torture is seeing the future, and not knowing how to stop it.

Every breath of every day is torture, and part of Sam has always known that, but not like he does now.

Dean is there.

He comes with lunch--a smuggled bag of fried chicken and fries.

He comes with cards--a worn deck, missing the ace of spades.

He comes with a smile--casual and cocky, laden with jokes.

He just comes.

Sam's always known it, but he's never felt it like this.

No matter how much Dean gripes, moans, or complains--his brother loves him.

Sometimes he knows that's the only thought that gets him through--the only thing he can cling to when he is at his lowest. His brother loves him.

Most days, it's enough.

He stretches.

He hates to think about that, but he does it anyway. Because if he’s ever going to get better, he has to get his muscles back in shape again.

His Physical Therapist says that all his muscles are strained, that the weakness is normal in a situation like this.

Sam wonders how many situations like this actually happen.

But it doesn’t matter. His PT says that most of it will just take time and persistence. Everything should work once he gets his strength back. Even his knee, though he’s been warned enough that it will slide easily out of joint again when under duress, so he should take it easy, if he can.

Sam smiles and knows he can’t.

It’s just his shoulders they’re worried about. There’s no telling how well everything will heal and they warn him gently that he may never be like he was before. But he already knew that—better than they ever could.

But Sam takes on his therapy with a flourish. He stretches and stretches and stretches until it all makes him want to hurl. Then he just stretches more anyway.

Because this time, he's the one that decides how much and how far his body can go. There's a power in that, even when the pain is nearly more than he can bear.

Dean wants it to be over. He killed the thing, he got revenge. For himself. For Sammy. He’s done everything he needs to do to make this end.

But Sam doesn’t feel any different. He can’t change what it did to him, or how it made him feel. Whether it’s alive or dead, Sam is still broken.

Yes, now there is justice.

But justice isn’t peace.

Vengeance isn’t healing.

But that’s a lesson that Sam isn’t sure any of them are ready to learn.

Sam expects a revelation.

It never comes.

He thinks it'll be some bright light, a lightbulb over his head, some 180 degree turnaround, with the sound of swelling violins in the background.

But there is nothing as he lies there, stretching and waiting, dreaming and healing.

Nothing.

Just the beginning of a feeling he can't place and doesn't understand, but won't deny.

"I want to go, Dean," Sam says suddenly. "I want you to take me out of here."

Dean looks surprised. "But the doctors—"

"I’ll keep doing the therapy. It’s just my shoulders that have trouble now. We can do them on our own, just you and me."

Dean looks uncertain, his brow furrowed with concern.

"Dean," he says in desperation. He knows Dean is worried about him, that he’s not really better yet. He’s not better, but he knows he never really will be, that he probably never was. But he’s tired of waiting for miracles and revelations. "I just want to move on."

"But Sam—"

"It’s over, Dean," Sam tries to explain. He’s feeling stronger, but not strong. But he knows it’s time. "It’s dead and I’m not. And that’s what matters."

Awareness comes to him by the slightest of degrees, ratcheting upwards in small catches, like the turning of the gears on the rack, shuddering and grinding before finding a groove. And he begins to understand how this has changed him.

The hardest part of torture is that it always breaks you. The strong, the weak, the warriors, the wimps. It doesn't matter. Torture is anything that breaks the will. And when the will is broken, the spirit, mind, and soul come tumbling after.

It's not about guilt, but Sam knows that definitely plays a role. It's not even about shame, though it has a lot to do with it.

No, Sam knows that torture is about the loss of power, the loss of control, the loss of ability to decide even the most basic things for yourself.

Some people take that better than others, Sam supposes, and the proud and the independent probably take it worst.

Sam knows himself pretty well, and strong and independent are things he's always striven for. Ever since he was a kid, ever since he was a rebelling teenager standing in his father's face saying, "Fine, then I won't look back." It wasn't what he always wanted, but self-determination has always been high on his list of important virtues.

The demon has always tested him in this, taking the things he holds dearest and taunting him with dreams and powers he'll never truly understand. And Sam knows there will come a day when he and the demon will stand face to face and Sam will be tested beyond what he can now comprehend and that his success or failure will dictate the future for all of them.

That has always scared him, lurked in the back of his mind since knowing that his mother died above his bed, since Jessica's blood dripped on his head. His black sanctification. His dark christening.

He's always told himself that's not how it will be. That he'll do anything to keep that from happening, to stop the demon's plans from coming to fruition. But nothing--not his determination, not Dean's denial, not anything--could ever make him sure.

Until now.

Because he knows what it feels like to break. Not just a little, but completely and totally. What it feels like to be devoid of power, control, selfhood.

But more importantly, he knows what it feels like to heal.

Not completely, mind you, but enough. Sam knows he lost this time around, that he wasn't strong enough, that he was without a doubt defeated.

But he's still standing.

It doesn't matter how. It doesn't matter that Dean rescued him, or that the doctors meticulously fixed his muscles and ligaments. It is Sam who survived. He may have lost something he can never get back in that mine, but he's found a whole lot more to replace it.

The demon may break him. The demon may take everything from him. It may stretch him so thin that Sam gives up. In all ways but one.

This time Sam clung to life, to pain, to the image of his brother to guilt him to the end.

Next time...

Next time Sam will cling to the story of his mother, the goodness that Jess represented, the power and steadfastness of his brother. He will cling to who those things made him, the person he was and is and would forever be.

Because maybe winning isn't about what he gains, but about what he doesn't lose.

They're still headed west, but this time they don't stop until they're well beyond the mountains and into long, flat stretches of road. Sam knows Dean is trying to be courteous, to put those smoky peaks behind them, but something about the way the road reaches in front of them makes Sam sick. It looks so long, so unnaturally long, pulled taut by the ever-falling sun on the horizon line.

Part of him wants to close his eyes to it, to sleep until the sun is gone and he can't see anything, but he doesn't. He swallows hard against it, and rotates his shoulders slightly in their slings.

"You doing okay?" Dean asks with a wayward glance at him.

Sam glances back and feels the strength that has always been his brother. "Yeah," Sam says. Then he lets his eyes turn back out to the lonely road, and a new feeling washes over him suddenly.

It's not peace, it's not contentment, and it certainly isn't confidence. But it's strong and it's real and it's the most certain thing he's ever felt.

He settles back into the seat, and a smile almost plays on the edges of his lips.

Because it may be a long stretch of road, and he certainly can't see the end, but he knows without a doubt that he'll make it.