Fic: Vengeance (5/9)
Chapter IV: Talking
Chapter V: Pain
Dean didn't say a word when the men left, shutting the door behind them. He didn't take their advice and say his goodbyes, because yeah right some two-bit thug like Owen Ford was going to doanything to Sam with Dean right there.
They didn't have long to wait. In the promised two minutes, the door opened again, this time bringing Ford and about a dozen men.
A couple of the men hauled Dean to his feet. They weren't gentle, but that didn't really bother him. Then they grabbed hold of Sam and pulled him roughly up, which did bother him. It bothered him even more when, without even giving Sam time to find his feet, they dragged him out the door and down the passage again.
The sight of Sam's torn, bloody back as Dean was led down the passage behind him sent a fresh wave of guilt through the older hunter. If he hadn't been so stubborn and so stupid - if he'd answered his goddamn phone - he would've been with Sam. And Sam might be bigger (it was like the freak had never learnt that you weren't supposed to grow taller than your big brother) and stronger and better at ganking supernatural fuglies these days, but nobody ever had been or ever would be better than Dean at killing people who threatened Sammy Winchester.
Dean pushed down the guilt - later, he could deal with it later - and focused on how good it was going to feel to wipe that sneer off Owen Ford's face.
The men took Dean and Sam back to the main room. Half of them stayed with Dean. The other half dragged Sam to the middle of the room, dropped him there like he was a freaking sack of potatoes - Dean forced himself to stay calm; he could kill them later - backed away to the other side of the room and trained their guns on Sam.
Gold tooth was one of the guys pointing a gun at Sam. Sammy, who was on his hands and knees on the floor trying to push himself upright. When they got out, Dean was going to practice allAlastair's tricks on him.
"Dean," Owen said. "My men are going to let you go now. But you're not going to move. If you do - if you so much as take one step or even think about trying to grab a weapon - my friend Steve is going to put a bullet through your brother's brain. Do we understand each other?"
"Perfectly," Dean growled.
"Good. Let him go, boys." The men released Dean. "Do you want to know what's going to happen next, Dean?"
"I'm sure you're going to tell me."
"You're right. I am." Owen went to Sam, standing over him, back to Dean.
Dean swallowed. It was tempting - so tempting - but he didn't dare. Not with six guns pointing at Sam, not with his brother injured and helpless.
Owen pulled something out of his pocket. He didn't bother to turn around, but he held it up so Dean could see it. It was a knife - one of Dean's own knives.
"This is yours," he said. "My son Jacob has identified it as the knife you used to kill his mother." Owen lowered his hand slowly. "What's going to happen now, Dean, is that I'm going to put this knife on the chair. Then, when I tell you to, you're going to come here, take the knife, and kill Sam." He glanced at Dean over his shoulder. "Heart, throat, how you want to do it is up to you."
Dean's brain had stopped working when Owen had said 'kill Sam'.
"Are you out of your freaking mind?" he said incredulously. "I'm going to hurt Sam? Why the hell would I do that?"
"I can make you."
Dean laughed, short and sharp, without humour. "Believe me, Ford, there is nothing, absolutely nothing, you can do to me that'll make me hurt my brother."
No, we hurt our brother just fine without any outside motivation at all. Hurt him a lot worse than what a knife can do.
Dean silenced the voice in his head and waited to see what Ford would do.
Ford gave Sam a vicious kick in the ribs and then turned to Dean. "So that's your last word, is it?" he asked. "Nothing I can do to you will make you hurt precious baby brother?" Dean didn't bother answering that. Ford grinned. "What about what I do to him?"
He walked around behind Sam and pulled him up to his knees. Sam winced.
"You see, Dean," Ford said, grabbing a handful of Sam's hair and using it to force his head up, "we're going to do this very simply. I'm going to make Sam scream. You… Well, you're going to listen. If you want me to stop hurting him, you will make a signal. Then you will come here, take the knife, and kill him. Until you do that, he's going to be in a great deal of pain."
For a moment it felt like the world had stopped.
"You son of a bitch," Dean snarled when his brain kicked in again. "You get your rocks off hurting innocent kids? I was the one who killed your girl. You got a problem, you deal with me. Let him go."
"I like this way better. You took away the most important person in my life, Dean." Owen scraped the knife against Sam's jaw, drawing a thin trickle of blood. "It's only fair for me to reciprocate. And since you seem so handy with a knife…" He paused, and then let Sam go. Sam collapsed again. "So, Dean, what's it going to be? Are you going to put Sammy out of his misery?"
"Go to hell," Dean spat.
There was no way he was doing anything to Sam. Sam wasn't going to die. Dean was going to get them both out, get Sam to a doctor, and then spend the next couple of weeks - or however long it took Sam to get better - hovering like a hen with one chick. And Sam was going to have to freaking deal with it.
"As you wish." Owen nodded to one of the men. "Put big brother in that chair and secure him." He pointed at the chair they'd tied Sam to earlier. "Then get Sammy ready. Just the way we had him before."
"Don't call him Sammy," Dean snapped.
Owen looked at Dean, shrugged, and very deliberately nudged Sam's injured hand with the toe of his boot.
Sam flinched and curled in on himself.
Horrified, Dean opened his mouth to say something - apologize, offer himself instead, freaking anything to get the sadistic son of a bitch away from Sammy - but Owen just laughed and backed away. "Why would I bother? I have far more interesting things planned for Sam."
Dean had no idea how long it had been. Hours, definitely. Maybe even days. All he knew was that first Sam had been screaming, agonized and high, and it had gone through Dean like an accusation, like the sound of all his failures. Dean had wanted nothing more than for it to stop because Sam couldn't be making that noise, Sam couldn't be in that much pain.
And then it had stopped and there had been broken sobbing that meant Sam was too tired even to scream.
Oh, God.
The men had strung Sam up on Owen's orders, tying his wrists together and suspending him by his arms from one of the rafters. They hadn't pulled him too high, just high enough that, if he stretched, he could touch the ground with the balls of his feet.
It was a miserably uncomfortable position to be in, as Dean knew only too well.
Then they'd gone at Sam with - well, anything. Fists, belts, knives, and one guy had actually used a red-hot rod to -
Dean winced again at the memory.
That had been what had done it. The sickening smell of burning flesh had filled the air, Sam's yelling had stopped short, the first helpless sob had been wrenched from his throat, and Dean had brought up the meagre contents of his stomach.
Ford had laughed at him.
Then he'd offered Dean the knife again.
Dean had made several derogatory remarks about Ford's mother, Ford's ancestry, and Ford's ability to father children.
Ford had laughed some more and gone back to hurting Sam.
And now there was silence, because Sam was barely even conscious anymore. He was aware - Dean could tell that. He could see the glimmer of recognition in his brother's eyes whenever they met his.
Seeing that glimmer made Dean's heart break and gave him hope all at the same time.
Suddenly, Ford said, "Stop."
The men flanking Sam looked disappointed, but they stopped obediently.
"Twenty minutes," Ford told Dean. "Barely even that. And already baby brother is more dead than alive. Don't you think it would be kinder for you to -"
"Screw you," Dean said wearily.
Twenty minutes? It had seriously just been twenty minutes? The entire forty years Dean had spent in Hell had been less horrifying than Ford's freaking twenty minutes.
Ford shrugged. "Your funeral." He nodded at the men. "Let him down."
"But, boss -"
"Do it. No point now anyway. I don't think he's even feeling it anymore. Let him down and we'll start again later."
Two of the men lowered Sam to the ground. With the rope no longer supporting him, Sam sank to his knees. A third man cut the rope as soon as it was within reach, catching Sam before he could fall over.
The guy hauled Sam up in what Dean knew had to be a painful way. Dean flinched.
When another guy came to help the first one, grabbing Sam's upper arm roughly and eliciting a pained moan, Dean couldn't hold back any longer.
"Let me help him," he said, praying Ford wouldn't take it out on Sam. "He's a big kid, but I'm used to handling him. I can get him back to that stupid room." Ford looked doubtful, and Dean said impatiently, "Look, if you want to make sure I won't run, the best possible way is to give me Sam. He can barely walk. There's no way I'd be able to avoid all of you and hustle him out. And if you let your guys take him, they're only going to hurt him more. They might kill him - and you don't want that, do you?"
"No," Owen agreed. "I don't want him dead yet - not so easily. Fine, then. You can take him. Keith, untie big brother. And watch them. Keep your guns on little Sammy."
Sam had stopped being aware of anything a while ago. He could feel the pain radiating all the way down from his shoulders to the backs of his knees. It was a feeling he was used to - for a hundred and eighty years it had been so normal that he would have been surprised not to feel soul-searing agony whenever he moved.
The same. And different. Like Dean had said. The Cage was different. This was different.
But it hurt.
It hurt. And Sam didn't even understand why. With the Cage, he had understood. Lucifer had been released. Sam's pain had been the price of putting him back, the price of Dean's safety. Sam had known that. It had been a trade-off he was willing to make.
Now?
Sam knew, vaguely, that there was a reason for this. It had something to do with Amy…
Sam couldn't think. The room was swimming in and out of focus. He didn't know where he was, didn't know what was happening.
Never, not even in the Cage, had Sam felt so alone.
Then something touched his shoulder. It sparked off a fresh wave of agony. Sam flinched and tried to ride out the pain.
"Hey," a voice said gently. Sam turned towards it. He knew that voice. It was the sound of comfort and safety and big brother. "Hey. I'm sorry, kiddo. I'm so sorry. Come on, we need to get moving. You have to stand. I'll help you."
Sam didn't think he could, but when he felt Dean's arm come down around his shoulders, he tried to push himself up.
"That's it," Dean encouraged.
Then someone else was shouting something Sam couldn't hear. He heard a loud bang and felt a line of fire on his upper arm.
Dean was yelling, everyone was yelling. It made Sam's head hurt. He turned his face into Dean's arm and felt gentle fingers in his hair.
There was another bang, and then silence.
Suddenly terrified, Sam tried to reach up. His arm refused to move. He was unspeakably relieved when warm fingers closed around his wrist.
And then something happened that terrified Sam even more.
Dean yelled at him.
Sam was used to Dean yelling at him, of course - yelling was Dean's default reaction when he was feeling any strong emotion. But Dean never yelled at Sam when he was in pain. Not when he was feeling like this. Not when it hurt to breathe.
Sam must really have screwed up. But he couldn't imagine what he'd done.
"That's enough, Sam!" Dean barked at him. "We don't have time for this. Get moving." A pause, and then, "NOW!"
Dean tugged him up. In contrast to his words, Dean's hands were gentle, and the arm around his shoulders was strong and supporting.
Dean squeezed his arm. That was the only warning Sam had before his brother stood, pulling Sam up with him. Sam stumbled, staggered, and finally managed to get his balance. It helped that Dean was taking most of his weight.
"Freaking salad," Dean muttered. "Thank God you don't like hamburgers."
Then they were moving. Dean kept a faster pace than Sam liked - or than Sam could comfortably manage.
By the time they stopped moving, Sam was thoroughly confused. Dean had been gentle but had hustled him along at a pace that left him exhausted. Dean had taken his weight and kept him upright whenever he stumbled but had yelled at him whenever he'd tried to stop for a moment to catch his breath.
And now they'd stopped and Dean was asking someone for water.
Then Sam heard a door shut and the unmistakeable scrape of a bolt sliding into place.
Chapter VI: Rescue