Title: The Art of Losing 3/3

A/N: Again, thanks to Gem and Brenna. Also thanks to everyone who has stuck with this, despite all of its graphic darkness. I hope I redeem myself in this chapter and that I don't turn out as evil as you all may think I am. This may have started out as a torture fic, but I always wanted it to be so much more.

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

"I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,

some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.

I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster."

"The Art of Losing," by Elizabeth Bishop

PART THREE

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.

OOO

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.

OOO

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.

OOO

"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.

OOO

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.

OOO

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.

OOO

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."

OOO

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.

OOO

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."

OOO

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.

OOO

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.

OOO

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.

OOO

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...

OOO

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.

OOO

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.

OOO

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.

OOO

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.

OOO

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.

OOO

"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."

OOO

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.

OOO

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.