When Sam wakes up he's chained to the floor by his left ankle, hands shackled together. He can feel the throb of his pulse against the inside of his wrists, skin against skin, just after every beat of his heart. Dean is across the room, wrists shackled to the wall over his head. He's standing―or he would be if he weren't unconscious. His booted toes just barely graze the cobbled stone floor. If he were awake he could probably stand on his tip toes and take the pressure off of his abused wrists. But he's not awake.

"Dean?" Even to his own ears Sam's voice is brittle, like sheet metal pounded too thin.

His brother doesn't move, head hanging down, chin against his chest. Sam swallows, fear swelling in his lungs until he can't make room for breath.

"Dean?" he tries again, and there's a note of pleading in the roughness of his voice. Their prison is dim, lit only by moonlight trickling in through a barred grate near the ceiling on the wall to the left. The light leaves pale stripes across Dean's t-shirt, over his ribs and the waistband of his jeans, but it's not enough for Sam to make out whether or not he's breathing.

He has to be breathing. He has to.

If they hadn't been involved in their stupid argument they wouldn't have been caught by surprise―they would have been able to fight back―if he hadn't been so stupid―

"Dean, come on," he cajoles, trying to convince himself his brother is just messing with him. He's holding his breath on purpose, just―teaching him a lesson.

Dad had always told them that personal issues were for after the job was done. Arguments and hurt feelings had to be put aside until after the hunt, because all it took was one distraction and then it was all over.

Sam bites his lip to try and combat the tightening of his throat.

Stupid!

He tests the weight of the chain and finds it manageable, if hefty. He won't be going for a run with it, but getting closer to Dean should be doable. So he wipes his nose with the back of his wrist and then braces his hands on the floor. He drags his feet under him, but it's not until he puts real weight on them that he discovers something is wrong with the unshackled leg. A sharp cry of pain slips from his mouth and he buckles to the cold stone floor, pain dancing up and down his leg in fiery bolts.

He's still lying face down on the floor with his cheek pressed against the stone, panting, when he sees Dean's head twitch out of the corner of his eye.

The pain is forgotten in an instant. "Dean!" he breathes out and pushes up on his hands and knees, scrambling forward. His leg screams in outrage and he cries out again, dropping back to the floor until he's curled up, almost in the fetal position.

"Sam?"

Dean's voice, soft and weak as it is, sends a rush of relief through Sam so strong it washes away the lingering agony. It takes more effort this time, but he pushes up on his elbows and looks up at his brother, trying to stifle the urge to sniffle like a little kid. "Dean? Dean, oh thank God," he chokes. He takes a deep breath and swallows, stamping down the emotions threatening to overwhelm him.

Dean pulls at his restraints, trying to lower his arms, and confusion washes over his features as he discovers that they're pinned. His eyes roll up to stare at the shackles, a frown pulling at the corners of his mouth. He looks back down at Sam and rasps, "What the hell?"

Sam shakes his head. His leg is throbbing, but Dean is awake, which means he's not dead, so he's okay with that. They can figure this out together. "I don't know," he says. "I guess it got us while we were arguing."

"It," Dean repeats. "What the hell is it?" He tugs at his wrists again experimentally and his face pulls into a grimace, a sharp hiss drawing in between his teeth. His awareness is growing, as evidenced by the shuffling of his feet as he adjusts, trying to find a way to relieve the pressure on his arms.

"I don't know," Sam answers honestly. "Whatever brought us here, I guess."

Finally, Dean sighs and resigns himself to being uncomfortable. "Fantastic," he grumbles. "So what the hell do we do now?"

Sam's face twitches in a grimace. "I don't suppose you have a lock pick?"

"Of course I do," Dean retorts, "but it's not exactly like I can reach it, now is it, Princess?"

"So that's a no," Sam says with a sigh and wonders why he wanted his brother awake in the first place.

Sam can't be sure, seeing as his watch had gotten smashed somewhere between yelling at Dean and finding himself chained to the floor, but he thinks almost two hours have passed by the time the heavy door on the right wall opens.

Both he and Dean scramble to attention, watching with their hackles raised as it swings open, almost in slow motion.

There is no light from the other side.

Sam holds his hands out in front of him, even though it would be next to impossible to fend off any kind of attack with them pinned together like they are.

To his right, Dean gets the first glimpse of whatever's on the other side and he mutters, "You have got to be kidding me."

Sam frowns. Somehow, that doesn't seem like the appropriate reaction.

Then, finally, the door swings open far enough for him to see, too, and he stares.

It's a little girl.