HIS WEAKNESS

CHAPTER 1

Dean awoke to the sound of flesh hitting flesh. His mind felt like it was stuttering, absorbing what was happening in snippets and jolting steps.

He could hear punches, the odd, centered slapping sound that knuckles to a body made when they had enough force behind them. Five punches, then a strange kind of half-yelp half-gasp, then a woman's voice.

Mom?

Part of his memory returned. Mom was dead, had been for thirteen years. And this wasn't his mother's voice. The woman's voice was harsh, not sharp, but still steely sounding, like a blunt sword.

But even a blunt sword can kill you.

Dean struggled to open his tired eyes, and he realized the left one felt swollen, like he'd been hit. He wondered if the person being punched was him.

No, he wasn't even sore, just dizzy. His fingers were a little tingly, though, but that was only from the tight ropes that held his wrists and the rest of him to the chair.

Wait, why am I tied up?

He realized his eyes were open, had been for nearly a minute. He blinked, hard, and felt his swollen left eye tell him he had a bruise coming. He focused on what was happening around him, and the muted rushing in his ears suddenly fell away, allowing sound to crash into him fully all at once.

"Maybe you've learned your lesson, but I think we need to make absolutely sure..."

Smack.

"St-stop..."

"Shutup!"

Another smack, a gasp and a cough.

"Pleee....ple-hease..."

"You should behave more like you're brother is doing over there."

Another smack, and a crack this time with it.

"GAAAAH....aah....hagh..."

Sobs, cruel laughter, and the fading clack of high heels.

"D-dee...Deeannnn..."

Dean finally managed to make his vision align, forcing himself to see straight. The room was big; warehouse big, but not well lit. There were people, more than half a dozen, all bearing heavy duty firearms and standing like guards in front of doors or dirty windows, or else standing with the group in the center of the room, next to a huge glass box that looked oddly luminescent. The group of people in the room's center were staggered enough that Dean could see what they were making a sort-of-circle around, a broken circle, because there was a tall woman with dark hair walking away from the group, the sound from her heeled shoes echoing, and her large gun hanging by her side. The people in the group were all men, big, thick, piles of muscles save for one; one who looked to be about thirteen, one that was almost as tall as the men were except that he was on his knees, slouched and shaking. He was lanky but muscular, and had a shaggy mop of dark brown hair that was hanging over his face blocking it from Dean's view. He was cradling his ribs, and a thin strand of something shiy and red looking was falling to the ground from his face.

The rest of Dean's memory came back in a surge of color and imagery, pictures of fire and running and a baby that only stopped crying for him, flashes of monsterous faces and bleeding injuries and A+ papers, memories of Dad leaving just hours ago and glass breaking and being struck unconscious and a voice calling out his name. Dean opened his mouth wide, wanting to scream, wanting to cuss, wanting to do anything but sit there in shocked silence, because that was Sam on the floor surrounded by men with guns, that was Sam sobbing and bleeding, that was Sam saying his name right now.

Dean gritted his teeth, wide awake and furious, because that was his little brother, and nobody was allowed to hurt him and live.

"SAM!"

Faces turned, and Dean pulled against his bonds, not stopping to think much, just struggling like mad.

"Sam! Sammy!" he looked up at the faces of the guards, the guards who were breaking up the circle, going to their respective posts, leaving Sam to huddle on the ground, gasping.

"Oh, I spoke too soon."

Dean turned toward the voice, and saw the woman entering the room again, smirking at him as she walked, her high heels click-clacking. Dean cussed at her.

"Oooh," she seemed amused,"that's not a very nice thing to call a person, Dean. Besides," she walked over to Sam and grabbed his thick hair, pulling him roughly to his feet and placing the barrel of her gun hard against his throat. Dean wasn't sure what he was yelling at her, he wasn't exactly thinking too clearly, but he was yelling something, because there was a friggin' gun under his brother's chin, but the woman only smirked some more,"you wouldn't want me to get upset and have to take my feelings out on little Sammy, would you?"

Dean promptly shutup. He stopped struggling too, but he set about inching his hand up his sleeve, trying to find the pocket knife he knew he had stashed up near his elbow.

"That's much better," the woman sneered, and Dean glared back, wishing he could flip her off, or shoot her in the face, or at least kick her in the shin really hard," now I know you probably won't stay as well-mannered for very long, but that doesn't matter very much - we don't plan on keeping you for very long anyway." Dean tried not to look worried at that, but he couldn't keep himself from feeling a cold kind of chill creep up his spine.

The woman dropped Sam, who fell to the floor with a hiss of pain, grimacing and clamping his teeth. Dean gazed hard at Sam, trying to meet his eyes. Sam eventually looked up, breathing heavily, his eyelids at half mast. Dean did his best to communicate silently, and it was easy.

Nobody understood him like Sam.

Are you okay?

Sam gave a small nod, then raised an eyebrow slightly. I'm alright. You?

Dean tried to grin. I'm fine.

Sam pursed his lips. You're always 'fine'. He very nearly rolled his eyes before wincing as he cradled his ribs with his arm tighter.

Dean bit his lip to stop from swearing. He stared at Sam, setting his face into his most affirming expression. Don't try anything. I'm going to get free, and then I'll come get you. I'm going to get us out of here, okay? I've gotcha, Sammy.

Sam looked at him, his expression for once, unreadable. Then he nodded once more, before closing his eyes and blowing out what looked like a painful breath of air. I know you will, Dean.

Dean turned his attention to the woman, who had walked a ways away and started to talk to one of the guards.

It occurred to Dean that he had no idea who these people were, or why they'd decided to kidnap him and Sam. Then again, it didn't make much of a difference - they still needed to get out of here.

And his knife was proving difficult to reach.

The woman said something to the guard, and he nodded, grinning, before following her back toward Sam. He nodded at two more guards while he walked, or more like lumbered, accross the space, and they too left their posts, following him and the woman. Dean stiffened as they approached Sam, but he didn't say anything; he couldn't help Sam if they caught him trying to get loose. He pulled harder against the ropes on his arms to reach the knife up his sleeve. He thought he could feel the tips of his fingers brushing the handle.

"C'mon Sam," the woman said in a way that was falsely sweet, like syrup tainted with arsenic,"time to go for a swim." The men reached for Sam, and Dean didn't care just then that he still couldn't grasp his knife.

"Hey! Hey!" he shouted, but they ingored him, grabbing Sam's arms and pulling him up roughly, half dragging him toward the big glass box, "Get away from him! HEY! Did you hear me?! I said leave him ALONE!"

Sam was struggling and putting up a good fight; he was winning. He kicked one guy in the nuts, and swung a fist at the another guy's stomach. Both men doubled over, one wheezing and the other groaning, and at that moment the woman, who had been standing and watching with a frown, pulled out her gun and clicked off the safety.

Before Dean could get in a breath to say anything, the shot was fired.

Everybody froze, and Dean was sure his heart had stopped. Dead, he was sure Sam was dead, the woman had shot him, oh my god my brother's dead, no, please, no - wait. He felt his heart kickstart again. Sam was looking worriedly at the woman, panting, but not bleeding. She didn't shoot him. He's not dead. He's not dead. She didn't shoot him.

She hadn't shot anyone, just fired at the ceiling and then aimed her gun at Dean, which was fine with him; as long as she wasn't pointing the thing at Sam, he could deal with it.

He just needed to move the knife a little further down his arm...

The woman was speaking in her harsh, blunt-sword voice.

"This is how it is, Sammy," she said the name like an insult, and Dean narrowed his eyes at her, knowing Sam was doing the same,"you be a good boy and do what we say, or Dean will be dead, got it? I only need one of you, and it doesn't matter much to me which it is, so you'll be a compliant child or you'll be an only child."

The room was tense, the quiet was thick and bad tasting. Sam looked at the woman, then cast a quick glance at Dean. Dean was screaming at him with his eyes, but he could see that Sam was ignoring it. Sam looked back at the woman, then his shoulders slumped in defeat. He lowered his eyes to the ground, and nodded.

Dean cussed as the woman smiled at him, her aim unchanging.

"See, Dean? All it takes is a little persuasion and I'm the winner," she wasn't looking at him, she was watching Sam, but that was probably better, because Dean was fervently trying to wiggle the knife further down his arm.

The men led Sam toward the glass box. If Dean had to guess, he would've said it was six feet tall, a bit over two feet wide and long. He didn't get what it was for, but the panes were held together by a rusty kind of metal, large screws along the edges, and the top was hanging on a hinge. There were steps next to it, and a small platform at the guards pushed Sam up the steps, and the movement jarred the box. Dean realized that there was something inside of it.

Water. The box - not a box, a tank - was full of water. They were at the top of the platform now, and Dean started to panic.

"What are you doing," he asked no one in particular, and it came out quiet and hoarse, so it was likely no one heard him anyway. He tried again, "What the hell do you think you're doing?!" Dean found the woman, who was smirking at him again, and it clicked in his brain.

She had said that she only needed one of them. This was all just a game; a cruel, sick, deadly game.

"No..." Dean croaked, then he turned back to Sam, who was looking confused and wary on the platform next to the top of the tank,"Sam, no! Don't let them - don't do it - don't listen to them - Sam! Sammy!"

"Get in the water, Sam," the woman ordered, her voice hard and mean, "Get in or I pull the trigger."

"Sam, don't! Don't get in, they can't make you-"

"Get in or your brother dies."

"Don't you dare listen to her, Sam! You hear me?! Don't you dare do that-"

"You have three seconds."

"Sammy?!"

"One."

"Sam, please!"

"Two."

"Sam, don't listen, DON'T!"

"Thr-"

"SAAAAAM!"

Dean's shout covered the splash, but he saw how Sam's face had looked horrified when he'd understood what they would make him do; Dean saw that Sam had looked torn only for a moment, then he'd spent the seconds staring at his brother, apologizing; Dean saw his brother take a deep, painful breath before stepping off the platform into the full tank, his weight bringing him quickly to the bottom. Sam's hair was splayed about, gravity suspended, and he looked bigger than he should have in the water, his appearance slightly warped, like being inside a bubble.

Dean managed to get the knife between two fingers. He pulled, and it came down his sleeve, into his hand.

The guard on the platform started pulling the tank's top down just as Sam's head broke the surface, coming up for air, and the top pushed him back down again with bubbles coming from his mouth.

Dean was shouting, begging him to hold on, and the woman was laughing, actually laughing, while one of the guards came up behind her and whispered something in her ear. She made an outraged face, and whispered harshly back at him something that sounded like 'Well stop them, don't let them get in', and then the guard grabbed all but one of the rest and ran out the door, leaving the woman and one guard who were both watching Sam in the glass tank.

Sam was banging against the glass, kicking it hard, and Dean was pleading with god for it to break, please, please let it break, but then the woman caught Sam's gaze and shook her head, making a show of aiming at Dean again, and then putting her finger over the trigger. Sam looked at Dean, then the woman, his hands opening and closing, making fists and then shaking his hands with his fingers fluttering. He looked at Dean again, and this time he didn't look away. Sam's eyes were wild, his hands flitting around trying to think of some escape but not able - no, not allowed - to find any.

Sam was drowning, and Dean couldn't get to him.

Dean was through the rope on his left wrist and halfway through the one around his waist. He was sawing like mad, but it wasn't working fast enough, the ropes were so thick, and Sam was grabbing at his hair with his hands, making a horrible face, his eyes closed, and then one large bubble left his mouth, and his eyes flew open, and his mouth gaped, and Dean could tell he was swallowing water, he was flailing his arms, but he wasn't aiming for anything, he was simply panicking, and Dean was through the rope around his waist and trying to cut through the last of the bonds around his other arm, and then Sam stopped flailing and jerked once, twice, looking like he was being shocked, jolting, convulsing, and then he wasn't moving at all, and he was staring but he wasn't moving, just floating there, hanging in the water, staring at Dean with big, brown, lifeless eyes.

And Dean had given up shouting, but he thought he might've been sobbing, because his chest was tight and his eyes were hot, his stomach was twisting and his blood was frozen and his heart was failing and the world was spinning around him, and he cut through the last peice of rope before charging the woman and tackling her like he'd never tackled anyone before. He banged her head hard on the floor, heard a loud cracking sound, and she didn't struggle anymore. He ripped the gun from her hand and shot at the guard who was already running at him. The man fell and didn't get up again.

Dean ran at the glass tank and fired at the corner, the furthest point from where his brother was floating, still, staring, pale.

The tank shattered.

Water and glass burst outwards at him and everywhere. Dean knew he was cut but he didn't feel it, didn't care. He thought he could hear distant guns firing, but it didn't matter, he didn't bother to wonder what was going on outside the large room. He reached for Sam as the tank burst and pulled him close as they were pushed across the floor in the wave of water.

They rolled to a grating stop, and Dean immediately rolled Sam onto his back, checking for anywhere the glass might've stabbed him.

There was no blood that he could see, but Sam wasn't breathing, and he didn't have a pulse.

Dean bent over him and blew into his mouth, coming up and counting out fifteen chest compressions before bending down and breathing for Sam again.

"Sammy...Sammy, don't..." Dean could hear himself crying, and it didn't matter. He repeated CPR a third time, "Sam...Sam please..." he couldn't see clearly, his vision was blurred, and he felt his hands shaking, and Sam was lying there, cold and wet and not doing anything, and Dean kept trying, kept going, breathing, fifteen presses, breathe, fifteen presses, why isn't it working?, breathe, fifteen compresses, no no no no no no no no!

He was sobbing loudly now, and he made his hand a fist like he knew you were only supposed to do if nothing else worked, and he brought it down on Sam's chest, once, twice, five times, ten times, sobbing, crying and screaming at Sam to wake up, come back, please wake up...

Sam's eyes flew open, his back arched and he spit out a huge spout of water. Dean hurriedly turned him on his side as he heaved, water pouring from his mouth, and then gasping air back into his lungs.

Dean sobbed hard then, he sobbed harder than he could ever remember doing, and Sam gasped and retched and then whimpered in between sucking in harsh breaths. Dean pulled Sam into his arms and sat there, cradling his brother and crying, while Sam's heart got used to beating once more, and his lungs relished the feel of air again. Dean sat there and cried until Dad came rushing in through the door with Joshua and Caleb, all three of them bleeding from a number of superficial wounds. Dean even cried while they left the warehouse, were the guards' bodies were tied up all over the place, and they headed to the hospital.

It wasn't until Sam was able to say something that Dean managed to stop the tears.

"D-dee-dean..."

Then, only then, did Dean stop crying.

Dad didn't mention it at all. Not ever.

* * *

Sam had nightmares for weeks.

It had been some stupid cult that had a bone to pick with Dad for killing their pagan god. They'd wanted to kill Sam, then lead Dad on a wild goose chase to get Dean, only to kill him last minute and make Dad suffer.

Dad had called Joshua and Caleb for help when Sam and Dean were taken. Sam knew it had been a close call. He could remember every detail of his drowning. It haunted him.

But he were alright. At least, he was alive.

After the hospital, it had taken days for Dean to convince Sam to get into the shower. Everytime the water got turned on, Sam freaked out.

It wasn't that he was trying to be a wimp; he just couldn't help but start to think of the sound of water in his ears, wetness everywhere, unable to escape, unable to do anything, unable to breathe...

For some reason, being near any kind of water scared him. More than scared him. He was terrified of the water.

Dean told him that it was okay, that it was a normal way to feel after...what happened.

It sure didn't feel normal.

Dad didn't say anything. Sam thought that maybe Dean hadn't told him about the nightmares.

That was fine; Sam really didn't want Dad to know.

They'd left the state and headed west, settling somewhere in Texas for the new school year, where Dad promised they could stay for an entire semester.

It still took a long time for the nightmares to fade away. Sam knew that it scared Dean half to death everytime he woke up because Sam was choking in his sleep on imagined water.

But then, it scared Sam half to death, too.

One night, it had taken longer than usual to wake Sam up, and Dean had thought that he was going to dream-drown, or whatever you would call dying because you're dreaming about drowning.

Afterwards, Sam had pretended to go back to sleep, but couldn't really, because he didn't want to dream about it again, it was too much, too terrifying, to hard to face.

Dean sat on his own bed and stared at the wall for hours, then put his face in his hands and sat like that for the rest of the night. Sam thought he heard him crying for a long time.

Sam hated that he couldn't get over his fear. He hated that he had nightmares. He hated that he was scaring Dean.

Sam hated himself for his weakness.