I KNOW, I KNOW, IT'S LITERALLY BEEN MONTHS. I apologize. Seriously. And I'm going to leave most of my authors notes at the end of the chapter, because I'm sure no one wants me to waste any more time giving you guys the chapter. All I'm going to say is that we have reached the apex. If you can make it past this chapter, you will have survived the worst. It's getting better from here on out. Mostly.

That being said, this chapter has morally destroyed me. It was incredibly hard to write, and I'm still not completely satisfied with how it turned out. Of course, I'm pretty sure I'm never satisfied, so whatever. Sorry for any grammar mistakes, I kind of rushed through editing so that I could post the thing as soon as I could. So now, without further ado, the second part of chapter 13!

Disclaimer: Supernatural belongs to Eric Kripke, the CW, yadda yadda. Lyrics belong to Neil Diamond.

Warnings: My goodness, where to start. Violence, abuse, molestation, strong language. Angst like whoa. More angst that could fill a swimming pool. Really. You've been warned.


Blood slicked my wrists. It ran down my arms in crimson streams, staining the crisp sheets beneath with blotches of scarlet. It was hypnotizing, really. Even as I watched, a droplet fattened along the rim of my right cuff, trembling almost imperceptibly with the flutter of my pulse. Eventually, its swollen weight became too much. It detached from the cuff, and made its lethargic way down my forearm, where the skin was tacky with congealed and drying trails. The droplet picked up speed as it neared my elbow, where the slope was steep enough for gravity to kick in. The droplet rolled its engorged body across the sensitive nerves clustered in my inner elbow, tickling, until it swept down the curve of my bicep and tumbled onto to white sheet below. Where it landed, thick, sanguine ruby bloomed, dark and beautiful.

The numbness gradually spreading through me was probably bad. There had been pain at first, agony as the vibrator rubbed against me. I'd fought and thrashed, trying with all my strength to push it out, but every movement I made only seemed to press it against that wonderful, loathsome place inside me that had delicious pleasure setting off fireworks through my bones. It was too much for me to take. Maybe I'd just finally succeeded in shutting myself off, and blocking out the pain that was all Cheverill allowed me to feel.

Another droplet escaped from underneath my left cuff. My unfocused gaze drifted away from its unhurried journey across my wrist, up and up, until I was staring at the distant ceiling, yellow sunlight painted over its smooth surface in slanted rectangles. How long had I been here? How long since Carter had ushered Cheverill out that door? How much longer until Cheverill would return? Damn Carter for taking him away, for leaving me to this unending torture. Damn him for his pitying looks and his passive sympathy.

A muffled sound came from somewhere to my right, loud in the silence of the room. Lazily, I lolled my head to glance over, and saw that a bird had lighted upon an upper sill on the outside of the bank of windows. A sparrow maybe. It tucked its small body tight against the glass, fluffing its feathers to stave off the late autumn chill. Curiously, it tilted its head and tapped its beak twice upon the pane, searching for a way in. What an idiot. Who'd want to find the entrance to somewhere like this? Go away, I told it silently. There's no place for you here, in this hell. Fly away. Fly away like I wish I could.

One beady eye fixed on me, held me pinned there for several long moments. Then the bird spread its wings, brown and flecked with white, and the sun shone through each feather and turned them translucent. The white was pure and bright, the brown soft and earthy, every vane outlined in its own radiance. My breath caught.

A breeze rushed past the windows, and the bird was gone.

Resentment tore through my chest. I screamed out a sob, wood creaking and metal tinkling as I wrenched at my chains, my reason gone. Why should he have wings and I a cage? Why should he have the freedom of the open sky, while I was trapped here, an unwilling plaything to be used and discarded on a whim? I yanked again at my restraints, and a howl ripped from my throat as my struggles shifted the vibrator shoved up my ass. Pain blazed through me, the numbness vanishing like smoke shredded on the wind. I collapsed back onto the mattress, muscles quivering, and held myself as still as possible until the agony had faded to bearable levels.

My eyelids slipped closed. I was exhausted, sick of the emotional rollercoaster that never seemed to end. A droplet of blood gathered at the edge of my left cuff and oozed over my wrist. For a second, I imagined myself, wind whipping through my feathers and ruffling my hair. I flexed my powerful wings and soared up into the sky, leaving behind all the fear, the horror and disgust that poisoned my soul like an oil slick on water. The sun caressed my face, brushed warm fingers down my back. Up here, nothing, not even Cheverill, could touch me. Up here, I was safe.

But then the blood dripped from my elbow, and I was lying on a bed reeking of sweat and sex, and I had no wings to carry me. The numbness was crawling back, quiet and menacing as fog, and I welcomed it. It was the only escape given to me. My glazed eyes stared sightlessly at the ceiling, and the only sound that disturbed the air was my breath as it whispered in and out. In and out. In and out.


When the door slammed, the noise it made as it reached me was muted. I registered the change more through the concussion in the air than an actual sound. My ears felt as though they had been stuffed with cotton.

"Samuel!" came a voice, distorted, like the speaker was underwater. "I trust you fared well while I was away?" Footsteps clacked across the hardwood floor and halted next to me. The voice tutted. "I find it highly implausible that you fell asleep, given the predicament I left you in, Samuel." The tip of a finger tapped against my hipbone, and a hand stroked a long line from the base of my shaft where the cock ring ended, all the way to where the ball of the sound peeked out from my slit. My eyes flew open, and I arched off the bed, wailing, as the touch sparked agony through my oversensitized nerves. "Ah, not asleep then."

The fingers lifted and I fell back to the sheets, harsh pants forcing their way between my teeth. I blinked sluggishly to clear the film from my eyes. A dark form swam into view above me, solidifying into Cheverill's stormy eyes and thin bladed nose. He quirked an eyebrow at me. "Not faring very well then?"

He pushed himself away from the bed and strode across the room, fumbling for the neck of his tie. I watched him walk away, unable to stop the panic from overtaking me. What was he waiting for? Why didn't he take off the stupid cock ring already! I opened my mouth, but all that came out was a breathy croak that Cheverill ignored. The door to the closet crashed into the wall with a bang as Cheverill flung it wide and stomped inside. Hangers knocked against wood. Clothes dropped to the floor with a fwump and more hangers clanked. It was unsettlingly quiet, save for my labored breathing and the hushed scuffling of Cheverill stripping out of his suit. That is, until Cheverill materialized from the closet, bare chested and pants unbuttoned, seized the delicate vase on his desk, and hurled it to the floor with an enraged bellow.

I jerked in surprise and fright, flinching as the vase shattered in an explosion of water and glittering shards. "That fucking little worm!" Cheverill shouted. His fingers twitched as though he was picturing them wrapped around someones neck. "How dare he back out on me like that? Does he even know who I am?!" I shrank away as he approached the bed, his face contorted in fury. "He's going to regret this, oh yes. I'm going to ruin him!" His feral eyes latched onto me, where I was doing my best to sink out of sight through the mattress. His teeth bared, and he ducked down until our noses bumped together and I could smell the sour remnants of our breakfast as he exhaled.

"What-" I began, but then his hand was grasping my jaw and he was catching my lips in a bruising kiss. His tongue crashed against mine, and blood filled my mouth as he bit down hard on my lower lip. "Stop!" I tried to choke out, but he swallowed my words and smoothed his free hand down my ribs.

"One more sound, Samuel," he growled into my mouth, "and I promise you I will whip you to the bone." He slung a leg across my waist and straddled me, scraping his teeth over the bite mark on my lip. His thigh ground against my throbbing erection and I keened pathetically into his mouth. My hips humped the air, desperately seeking enough friction to get myself off. A string of precome drooled from around the ball of the sound.

Cheverill broke the kiss and sat up, his bulk settling on top of my ribs. He exhaled heavily. His cheeks were flushed from a combination of anger and arousal, and he slid off the side of the bed to pace across the floor, seemingly unconcerned with the slivers of broken glass crunching under his shoes.

"So, Sandover doesn't think he needs my support, does he?" Cheverill muttered to himself, marching to the windows and back. It was as though he had already forgotten I was there. "Foolish, foolish mistake my friend. If you had only taken the deal, things could have been so much easier…" He sounded deranged. It was impossible not to view him like a spoiled toddler throwing a tantrum because he'd had his favorite toy taken away. A toddler with the resources and ruthlessness of a wealthy businessman. I didn't envy Sandover. God help him once Cheverill had tracked him down.

"...by the time I'm done with him, he won't even recognize himself!" Cheverill was snarling. "I'll have taken everything. His company, his family, his dignity! And then, when I've finished and he's on his knees begging me-" Cheverill paused and closed his eyes, a sick smirk on his face as though he could picture the scene he was describing. "He'll beg me, finally realizing his mistake, and I'll shoot him in the head like a dog." He nodded to himself. "Yes, yes, just like that." Faster than I could follow, he was beside the bed, cranking my head back by the hair. He bent low, lips tracing the shell of my ear and whispered, "but you know all about begging, don't you Samuel?" He smiled against my skin. "At least, you will." He feathered a kiss in the soft dip behind my ear and stood up.

"I'm not happy, Samuel," he stated, rather unnecessarily. If my mind hadn't been so scattered, I could have voiced one of the dozen sarcastic retorts that were clamoring to be used. Cheverill chewed on the inside of his cheek, examining me thoughtfully. "I had planned to wait a bit longer to give you your piercings," he mused. "But I believe doing so would cheer me up considerably. The entire day might as well not go to waste."

My eyes snapped up to meet his. "You-no! You can't!" I gasped weakly.

Cheverill scowled. "I did not give you permission to speak, Samuel. One more complaint and I shall gag you." He gave the vibrator a small nudge, bumping it over my prostate and effectively derailing whatever train of thought I was following. My body trembled with pain and I moaned piteously. "That's better," Cheverill said. I tried to muster the energy to glower, but he wiggled the vibrator again and the glower was replaced by a whimper.

"There there," Cheverill soothed. He took a careful hold on the handle and began gently withdrawing the vibrator from inside me. He seemed much calmer, now that he could turn his anger towards toying with me. The vibrator came loose with a pop and I couldn't help sighing in relief as the maddening buzzing stopped. Cheverill clicked it off and set it to the side, the black plastic shiny with lube.

"As pretty as you look with this," he told me tapping a fingernail on the ball of the sound. "I think I shall have to extricate it for the piercing. We'll return to it later, once you have finished healing. It wouldn't do for you to become infected."

"Don't you dare!" I burst out, unable to help myself. "You stay the fuck away from me!" My voice cracked hysterically, but no way was I going to let him pierce my dick for God's sake! My hips twitched away from him as he reached towards the ball of the sound.

"Samuel," Cheverill reprimanded me sharply. "We have discussed your use of profanity, as well as your childish jeremiads. I warned you of the consequences." He snatched up the ball gag from the table and held my head still while he buckled it into place. "There," he said once he was done, his words clipped with annoyance. "Perhaps later we can devote a day teaching you the proper time and place to speak." The leather straps of the gag cut roughly into my cheeks as he swung back towards my engorged cock and pinched the sound between his thumb and forefinger. "Stop!" I tried to yell through the gag, but all that emerged was an unintelligible gurgle.

If I had thought that the sound was bad going in, taking it out was five times worse. It appeared inch by reluctant inch into the open air. The metal rasped on the inside of my achingly hard length, and when the dull tip was finally pulled free, I could see that my slit was wide and inflamed. Revulsion churned in my stomach.

"Perfect!" Cheverill gloated, taking my length in hand and examining the abused tissue. He wiped the sound clean with a corner of the sheet, replaced it in its wooden case, and placed the case beside the vibrator, out of the way. Then he returned his attention to my dick and pricked the rim of my slit with a fingernail. I couldn't stop the mortifying yelp that came from behind that gag at the invasive touch. "Yes, yes," Cheverill grinned. "You see this dilation, Samuel? This makes the process exceptionally easier. Now, you wait there while I organize the necessary apparatuses."

I mumbled an inaudible protest as he hoisted himself off the bed and padded to his closet- a room I was seriously beginning to hate- and vanished inside. I threw myself against the chains, cloudy panic banishing every thought from my mind except gotta get out gotta get out now can't let him do it gotta get out get out now…! From deep down within me, the old Sam, the Sam from before this freakish nightmare, knew that it was the prolonged erection that was scrambling my thoughts. The pain and pleasure and pure overload of sensations was short-circuiting my brain and setting every nerve to its maximum capacity, so that even the silky sheets felt like razorwire on my skin. But the Sam of now, the one flung out on a bed with his pupils blown and blood-crusted shackles cinched around his wrists and ankles? All he knew was that a man was stepping out from the closet, a metal tray gripped between his fingers, and on that tray an array of polished instruments was resting in neat, glittering rows.

Terror froze my heart in my chest. Muffled grunts escaped through my gag as I yanked on the cuffs, blood dripping steadily down to the speckled sheets.

"Shh, Samuel," Cheverill hushed as he rounded the bed and set the tray on the bedside table by my head. Tools rattled maliciously on the tray's surface. "Your reaction is unwarranted. I would appreciate it if you contained yourself and ceased these dramatics. Surely you are not afraid of a tiny needle?" From the tray, he lifted a pair of latex gloves and pulled them on, snapping the rubber loudly against his wrists. "I pride myself on a sterile environment," he explained, turning back to the tray and tearing open a packet of anti-bacterial wipes. "It is most unsavory to have a piercing become infected. The first time I conducted the operation, well…" He grimaced. "The boy did not last nearly as long as I had hoped. But!"- and here he brightened considerably- "I have not made that mistake in a very long time. I was much more inexperienced then. I couldn't even recognize the symptoms of blood poisoning, can you imagine?" He snorted.

If his little speech was attempting to reassure me, he was doing a piss-poor job. The longer he went on, the more blood drained from my face at every word. The urge to pass out was getting stronger by the second. "Shh, shh," Cheverill clucked. He petted my sweaty hair consolingly, brushing damp strands away from my face. "There's no need for such agitation," he said. "As I have reiterated, I have become quite proficient at this, and I plan on keeping you alive for some time yet."

Yeah. Still not reassuring.

"Now, this will feel a bit cold, so don't be alarmed." Cheverill removed the wipes from their packaging and swabbed one over my right nipple. My skin pebbled at the chill. "How gorgeous you are going to look when I am done," Cheverill sighed. He rolled the nub between his thumb and forefinger, and my hands twitched in the cuffs with the urge to knock him away. "This is not to say that you aren't already pulchritudinous," he continued, checking to see if my nipple was hard. Satisfied, he selected a pair of forceps from the tray and held them up for inspection. "But really Samuel, with ornamentation? You're going to be irresistible. Your pigmentation is simply perfect for a couple of gold bars. And with a chain to connect them…" He trailed off, eyes dark and a crocodile smile playing across his lips.

I bit down hard on the gag, watching as he shook himself out of whatever fantasy he'd been entertaining himself with. The forceps winked in the sunlight as he bent over me and clamped the ends tightly over my prepared nipple. I squeaked at the sudden pinch, squirming as he locked the forceps in place.

"Lie still, Samuel," Cheverill ordered absently. He stroked one latex-covered finger down my stomach before twisting to poke through the instruments on the tray.

My shallow breaths were thundering in my ears. At one point during the last few minutes, my heart had somehow migrated into my throat and lodged there. Sweat prickled down my neck and back as I stared, horrified, at the forceps distending my dusky nipple. The tips were rounded into two flat rings where the needle would be pushed through. Already, the skin squeezed between them was painful and red.

"We don't want the piercing to be too large," Cheverill said, his hands hovering undecidedly over the collection of tools. "Otherwise the piercing may be rejected, and we'd have to repeat the entire procedure." He pondered for a moment, then picked up a slim needle and brought it over to me. "This is a fourteen gage," he informed me. He was using his teaching voice again, the condescending tone he adopted whenever he started lecturing. I really despised that tone.

"A fourteen gage," Cheverill went on. "Is the standard size for a nipple piercing. Later, after it has healed, we may increase the size to a twelve gage, possibly even ten. But I am getting ahead of myself." He smirked, and centered the tip of the needle on the ring of skin held taut by the forceps.

I found my tongue at last. "Stop!" I shouted through the gag, surging upwards off the bed. I raged and cursed, uncaring that my words were reduced to nothing more than meaningless babble. In a blur of motion, Cheverill was straddling my waist, pinning me down to the mattress. One hand came up to cover my lips, pressing the ball further into my mouth until the straps were digging into my cheeks and I was choking around the rubber being slowly shoved down my throat.

"Samuel," Cheverill said softly. "I'm going to have to punish you if you cannot behave yourself." My only response was to retch as the ball nudged the back of my tongue. "Nothing to say?" Cheverill asked, raising an eyebrow. "Please, speak up. If you have any grievances, now would be the time to express them." The straps were so taut across my face that my teeth were stabbing into the inside of my cheeks. I could barely breath around the gag and tears of frustration and pain were gathering in my eyes. Cheverill's weight bore down further, mashing my head back into the pillow. The lack of oxygen was making the room spin.

And then the hands were gone and I was sucking in great lungfuls of air, my cheeks and jaw aching fiercely. "No protestations for me then?" Cheverill asked, tilting his head to the side and dismounting from my hips. The needle was still between his fingers, and he repositioned it over my clamped nipple. "Well, if you're certain."

He drove the needle beneath my skin.

I screamed, any breath I'd gotten back punching out of me as the needle forced its way through my nipple and out the other side. It felt like a rusty nail had been sliced across the nub, burning heat spreading over my pectoral and into my chest. My jaw clenched around the rubber gag and a single tear crept down my temple towards my hair.

"Ah, would you look at that!" Cheverill exclaimed, metal clicking as he unlocked the forceps. Something tugged at my nipple and my gaze scuttled unwillingly back to my chest, where he was carefully inserting a straight, golden barbell into the needle's hollow shaft. He slipped the needle out, leaving just the barbell, and capped the jewelry with two small balls screwed on to each end. "Stunning," Cheverill purred. "Exactly as I predicted it would be."

For a minute, we both absorbed the sight of my puffy nipple and the metal spearing it. As I inhaled and exhaled, the barbell shifted under my skin, scraping the overworked nerves. I thought I might throw up.

"Well!" Cheverill clapped his hands enthusiastically, breaking my stunned stupor. "On to the next one then. Shall we?" A wet chill enveloped my left nipple as he cleaned it with another antibacterial wipe. Then he was fastening the forceps over it and oh God, oh God it was happening again. Nonononono, please stop, please please no. I tossed my head back and forth across the pillows, a broken-sounding moan emanating from my throat, like a wounded animal.

"Shh, shh Samuel," Cheverill cooed. He combed his fingers twice through my tangled hair, then jammed the second needle under my skin.

It was a shame he didn't miss and impale my heart instead.

When he had repeated the process, and a new barbell was sparkling from my left nipple, Cheverill tossed the forceps to the side and cupped my chin in his hand. His lips grazed over my cheeks, my mouth, my eyelids. "You're such a good boy, Samuel," he murmured. "I'm so proud of you. You handled that wonderfully." I closed my eyes, crushing the urge to sob as he lightly kissed his way down the bridge of my nose. "You're so beautiful, you have no idea. You've done so well. Just one more, alright?" His tone was almost loving, and I hated myself for listening to that honeyed praise, for craving more.

I blinked tiredly at him as he moved back to his tray and skimmed his fingertips over the lines of tools. The pain in my nipples had tapered off to a low, thumping ache, and I was finding it hard to concentrate on anything else.

"For this last piercing, I'm going to need for you to hold very still, Samuel." Cheverill had chosen a thin, plastic rod from the tray and was leaning on the bed frame by my waist. "Once I finish this, I'll also take the ring off, okay?" he asked. He cradled my balls in his palm and the agony spiking from my rock-hard dick- that I had managed to stave off until now- came surging forward with a vengeance. Instinctively, I shrank away from his touch, cringing, a high whine resonating through the gag.

Cheverill's nails dug warningly into my hip. "Did I not enunciate myself clearly, Samuel? Stay still." He hefted the clear rod and lined it up with my stretched slit. My eyes widened, and a burst of adrenaline had me yelling out a "wait, no-!" which was lost around the gag as Cheverill pressed the first inch of the plastic into my urethra.

"Much less resistance than the first time," Cheverill beamed, shushing me as I mewled in discomfort. "And it does not need to go in nearly as far." He slid the rod in an inch more, keeping one hand splayed across my lower stomach to steady me. His thumb smoothed rhythmic circles over my navel. "There," he said after a minute, giving the plastic a final tweak as it settled into place. He grabbed a wipe from his tray and rubbed it thoroughly over the head of my dick, gentle where the rod protruded. "This tube," he told me, giving it a tap. "Is hollow. The most manageable method for performing a Prince Albert piercing is to pierce the needle from the outside into a receiving shaft."

I shook my head frantically, a sob rattling in my chest. A tear clung to my eyelashes before following the salty path the first had left down my temple. Cheverill brushed it away with a smile and sauntered back to his tray. When he turned back to face me, a curved needle was clutched in his fingers.

My vision tunneled, narrowed down to the wicked point. A pounding was shaking the entire room, like a sudden earthquake had rumbled through the foundations of the house. I wondered why Cheverill didn't stumble from the strenght of the tremors, until it dawned on me that the earthquake was not an earthquake at all, just the stampeding of my pulse.

Cheverill stooped between my spread legs, and I was so paralyzed by terror that I could not even try to fight as he fondled my diamond hard length and placed the needle against my heated skin. The tiny pinprick was enough to send the reality of the situation smashing through the protective daze I had wrapped myself in. I wasn't dreaming, as I had been praying for ever since Cheverill had stormed his way through the door. This was really happening, and my dick was about to be shish-kebabed in the most brutal way possible, and I don't think I'd ever been more scared in my life, and, and, and seriously, how can anyone be expected to deal with something like that? I wasn't Dean. I wasn't Dad. I was just a kid, and I was exhausted and frightened and so blindingly turned on, and it wasn't my fault that I couldn't be strong like them.

"Puh-hee." The word slipped out from behind my gag before I could stop it.

Cheverill paused, and swivelled his head to look at me. "Pardon?"

I squeezed my eyes shut. "Puh-lee."

A dazzling grin lit up Cheverill's face. "Was that a 'please', Samuel?"

I kept my eyes closed.

"It was!" Cheverill crowed. "I knew we'd get there! The appropriate motivation can work wonders, wouldn't you agree? That was marvellous, Samuel, truly. You never fail to enliven my day. "

The needle stabbed downwards.

I must have blacked out after, because when I next looked around, the plastic had been extracted from my slit and Cheverill was tightening the caps on the new barbell curving out from- I couldn't process the sight. It had all happened so fast, and now… I goggled down at the new jewelry, feeling a scream building in the back of my throat. How could I have let him do this to me? He'd mutilated me.

"I am so, so proud of you, Samuel," Cheverill was saying. "You have made so much progress today." He gave my slit a final cleaning with the wipes, the friction of the cool cloth on my hypersensitive nerves almost too much. "You've been such a good boy for me, and good boys deserve rewards, don't they?" The latch of the cock ring sniked open, and his palm had barely wrapped around my base before I was coming so hard that stars flashed in front of me. I yowled into the gag, my hips jerking uselessly as Cheverill stroked me through the aftershocks and finally, finally, the agony was replaced by the warm, postorgasm glow and I could relax for the first time since Cheverill had fitted the ring around me that morning.

"That feels better now, doesn't it?" Cheverill crooned. The surface of the tray clanged loudly as he dropped the ring in amongst his bloodied instruments. "Permit me to put things back in order, and then I shall come and clean you up. We can admire your new adornments more fully without all this… untidiness." Shallow wrinkles creased his nose as he took in the cooling mess coating my stomach.

I scarcely heard him. I was too preoccupied with the fact that I had a rod of metal sticking out of my slit to pay attention to anything else. My guts clenched painfully in horror and nausea, and I had to rip my gaze away from the barbell because I really did not want to throw up with a gag in my mouth and suffocate on my own vomit. Just breathe, I ordered myself. Don't think about it. Just breathe, c'mon. I inhaled deeply through my nose, doing my best to box the pain away like Dad had taught me. And I tried, honestly I did, but thinking of Dad's lessons led to thoughts of Dad in general, and how in the world would I even be able to look him in the eye again? The man had little enough respect for me before all this; I couldn't even imagine how he would react to seeing me now. I stifled a sob. What if he never wanted me back? Dean had always been his favorite anyway, a better fighter, a better hunter, a better son. And here I was, too weak to fend off one damn guy.

A hot, damp towel rasped over my stomach, cleaning away the sweat and spunk. I blinked my eyes open, and for the first time I realized that they were brimming with tears. No, no, stop right there, I snapped at myself. The "no more crying like a little bitch" policy has already been established. But my inner Dean persona didn't seem to be as commanding right then, because if anything, the film of tears only thickened.

"Almost done, Samuel," Cheverill promised from somewhere near the foot of the bed. The towel swiped again, soft and warm on my clammy skin. Heat soaked down through my muscles, massaging away the knots twisted there. It felt so good, almost heavenly as Cheverill rubbed it over my thighs and I wanted it to stop because nothing he did was supposed to feel good. It was all too confusing to think about.

"Nghh," I mumbled around the gag, too tired to know what I wanted anymore. My new piercings ached bluntly.

"You have had an exciting day today," Cheverill said sympathetically. The towel was taken away, and a second later I felt the shackle unlock from my right ankle. Cheverill dropped a kiss where the metal had left faint abrasions, and moved to do the same with my other leg. As soon as he'd released me, I drew my knees up to my chest protectively. The Prince Albert pressed coolly against my thigh. A lone tear splashed down the bridge of my nose, and I bit down on the gag, my teeth creaking. If I started snivelling now, I wouldn't be able to stop.

Cheverill glanced at my face. My expression must not have been as composed as I'd hoped, because he clucked soothingly and carded a hand through my hair before unclipping the wires that attached my cuffs to either side of the headboard. His fingers threaded with mine, but I tugged my hand away and wrapped my arms around my chest. My eyes were burning and wet.

"Don't be cross, Samuel," Cheverill said. He crawled onto the bed beside me. Tenderly, he tilted my head to the side and unsnapped the clasp of the gag. "I realize that I demanded much from you today, but I am so very gratified; you exceeded all of my expectations." He cradled my sore jaw in one large palm.

"Don't touch me..." I muttered through cracked, numb lips. I made no indication of pulling away.

His other hand came up to my jaw as well, and his broad thumbs kneaded delicately over the strained muscles left by the gag. Without noticing, I let out a pleased sigh and leaned into the strong pads of his fingers.

"That's it, let me take care of you," Cheverill murmured. Without removing his hands from my jaw, he shifted himself back against the headboard and repositioned my head so that it was settled in his lap. I curled up on my side, hugging my knees to chest, and rubbed at my eyes with the back of my wrist. It came away damp.

No no, please don't lose it now, I thought. Not in front of Cheverill.

But why not? He'd already stripped me of any dignity I had. What difference were a few tears going to make? A harsh sob shook my chest.

Don't you dare start thinking like that! Dean and Dad are going to come, and Cheverill's gonna regret ever being born.

I almost snorted. Right. 'Cause this is the day they're gonna come busting through that door. Grow up man.

I thought it without meaning to, too wound up to keep track of where my mind was going. But then the meaning of what I'd said hit me. For the past week, I'd been telling myself over and over again that my family was going to save me. They'd kick down the door, ventilate Cheverill so full of holes that dental records would be the only way to identify him, and we'd all ride off into the sunset in the Impala. What the hell kind of dream world was I living in? It tore at me to admit it, but I couldn't hid behind my denial any longer. Dad and Dean weren't coming.

The weight of that disillusionment crashed into me like a baseball bat to the stomach. They weren't coming. I was all alone. A fat tear leaked out from the corner of my eye. I couldn't do this by myself. I didn't want to live out the remainder of my life getting screwed six ways from Sunday, waiting every day for the sound of Cheverill's footsteps on the stairs. Was that all I had to look forwards to?

The tears came faster, and a sniff jarred in my throat. I was tired, and scared, and fucking tired of being scared. And I should be pulling away from Cheverill's hands on my jaw, but the simple, consoling touch felt so good after days of nothing but bruising kisses and rapacious groping. Was it so wrong to want a little human compassion? And if Cheverill was the only one who would give that to me, could I really be blamed for indulging myself?

It was difficult to acknowledge that Cheverill might be the only person to ever touch me again. And whoever he decided to share me with. My innards contracted at the possibility, To be passed around like some kind of party favor-

I missed my family. I missed waking up to early morning runs with Dean, and watching the sky blush pink with the rising sun while our panting breaths sparkled icy mist in front of us. I missed the smell of gunpowder and coffee that always greeted me when I got back from school. I missed Dean's stupid pranks, and his awful sense of humor. I missed the rough claps on the shoulder and the teasing punches, with no ulterior motives behind them. Fuck, I even missed fighting with Dad, because at least he allowed me to argue. Here, if I ever said something Cheverill didn't like, it usually ended up with a long jolt of electricity and a gag being forced into my mouth.

The desperate longing for my family was like a jagged chunk carved out of my chest. But I couldn't condemn them for not coming. Cole and Damien were professionals after all; They'd have disappeared like scuttling rats as soon as I was sold. Not even Dean and Dad could track people like that. And that was if they'd bothered to look at all. Most likely, they figured I'd finally gotten fed up and run out on them. I hadn't exactly been subtle about my dislike of hunting over the past few months. What if they'd gone to talk to my teacher and found out my plans for college? This whole thing was my own damn fault, both for letting Cole and Damien get the drop on me, and for convincing Dean and Dad that I'd abandoned them.

There were too many emotions racketing around inside me. Fear, doubt, self-recrimination, resignation, despair, heartbreak- nobody can handle that mental burden, least of all a Winchester, when our encouraged method of coping is going out and shooting stuff until we feel better. Days of humiliation, of terror and violation, of uncertainty and struggling to stay sane no matter what was thrown at me, in that instant it all came toppling down like a collapsing dam. What was the point of being strong when there was no one to hold out for?

I'll never know for how long I cried. What started as snuffles and single, grudging tears soon devolved into great, wracking sobs and enough water works for a small child to bathe in. By the end, my throat was raw, and my eyes were swollen and bloodshot. I felt hollow, like I had been taken apart and then put back together with half the parts missing.

Exhausted, I stared blankly at the opposite wall. At some point, Cheverill had switched from my jaw to my scalp, and was rhythmically combing his his fingers through my disheveled hair. With his other hand, Cheverill lovingly dried my face with a corner of the sheets.

A noise was humming low in my ears. For a moment, I dismissed it as the quiet drumming of my pulse. But as I payed more attention, I realized that it wasn't my pulse at all. It was Cheverill, singing under his breath in a rich, smooth baritone.

Gave you my heart, gave you my soul,

You left me alone here

With nothing to hold.

Yesterday's gone,

Now all I want is a smile

His nails scratched lightly at the base of my scalp. The melancholy melody vibrated through my bones, and I let my eyelids slide to half-mast as I listened.

First they say they want you,

How they really need you,

Suddenly you find you're out there

Walking in a storm.

It was a bit odd. Cheverill had never struck me as a Neil Diamond lover. I'd only ever heard him here and there- Dean had bitched non-stop whenever his songs played on the radio. Like the last time this song had come on, and we'd been driving down the highway in the Impala. The first few chords had filled the air and Dean had groaned so dramatically that I'd been halfway convinced he was having a heart attack. I had raised an eyebrow, and he'd whacked me soundly on the shoulder before reaching over to change the station.

"Only douchebags like music like that Sammy," he'd grumbled, and ruffled my hair just the way he knew I hated.

Dean's face swam beneath my eyelids, and my thoughts skidded to a standstill with the noise of a needle screeching off a track of vinyl.

What in the everloving fuck was I doing?

Was I really throwing myself a fucking pity party? It had only been a week, and I was giving up? Jesus Christ, was my faith in my family really that low? And instead of pulling myself together, I was lying in my rapist's lap letting him fawn over me like I was some kind of fucking pet? What the hell was wrong with me!

Before I had consciously decided to, I was jerking away from Cheverill's groping paws so fast that I nearly gave myself whiplash. A second later I had toppled over the side of the mattress, landing hard on my hands and knees. I'd forgotten about the broken vase. A sliver of glass sliced through my hand, but I scrabbled to my feet and bolted across the room, only stopping when I reached the opposite wall.

"Samuel?" Cheverill called, bemused. The floorboards creaked as he stood from the bed.

"Stay away from me!" I shouted. I pressed my forehead against the wall, trembling. Blood trickled down my fingers from the gash on my palm.

Glass crunched under Cheverill's shoes. "Samuel, really, this is utterly extraneous. Compose yourself at once."

I banged my uninjured fist into the wall. "How about you go to Hell instead? You can't fucking order me around!"

"Samuel-"

"It's Sam, you self-absorbed prick! Sam! And I don't care what you do, this Samuel you're trying to turn me into? It isn't gonna happen! I'm not your fucking plaything!"

Cheverill's voice was wintery cold. "You will address me with respect, Samuel-"

My vision went crimson. I don't know when I decided to do it, and if I'd had any capabilities of rational thought in that moment, I would have been swearing at myself for doing something so suicidally idiotic. But next thing I knew, I'd pivoted around and delivered a right hook straight to Cheverill's glaring face.

The force of the blow laid him out flat on his back. He gaped up at the ceiling, a smear of blood across his cheek (it ended up to be mine- I'd punched him with my wounded hand), and looking positively dumbstruck.

God damn it felt good. That is, up until the point that the cuffs crackled white-hot, and I crumpled to the ground, my limbs spasming uncontrollably.

For some reason- maybe Cheverill could alter the voltage or wattage or whatever- this time was worse than the shocks I'd received before. Every single muscle in my body contracted, my back arched, my heels drummed against the floor, and I couldn't even cry out like I wanted to because my lungs had frozen mid-inhale. It felt like my veins were going to melt under my skin. Seconds passed, and my eyes rolled back in their sockets. My brain was begging for oxygen, but I still couldn't breath. I needed to breathe!

The current spluttered and fizzled to a stop. The air expelled from my chest in a gust, and I barely avoided swallowing my own tongue as I inhaled greedily, once, twice. I was going for my third when the sole of Cheverill's shoe stomped down between my shoulder blades, driving the wind out of me all over again.

"You ungrateful little cunt!" Cheverill snarled. "This is how you repay me for everything I've done for you?"

"Th-the fuck h-h-have you done f-for m-m-me?" I said, my lips clumsy with the remnants of electricity. I started to lever myself onto all-fours, when Cheverill's heel smashed into the middle of my spine and slammed me back to the floor.

"How is it Samuel, that after all this time you still haven't learned your place?" he asked, the venom in his voice practically searing my skin. "I feed you, shelter you, provide my protection and love, and yet you continue to antagonize me. You should be grovelling at my feet for showing you such benevolence!" He lifted his foot and stomped down on my back once more. His weight bore down between my shoulders, and I gasped in pain as the crushed glass stuck to the sole of his shoe was ground slowly into my skin.

"Perhaps I have been too lenient with you, hmm?" Cheverill demanded. "Is that it? What will impress upon you the actuality that you are mine? When will you comprehend that this "Sam" you cling to so tenaciously is dead? Because I've killed him, Samuel!"

I twisted my head to the side as far as I could and glared at Cheverill out of the corner of my eye. "Fuck you!" I spat. "All I'm hearing is the sound of your own ego, Jackass. You think I'll roll over for you just like that? I hate to burst your bubble, but that ain't never gonna happen!"

Cheverill's eyes almost bugged out of their sockets. He looked completely unhinged, his face red, teeth bared, an artery ticking furiously high on his temple. "That's what you think?" he roared, spittle showering down on my neck and shoulders. He stepped off my back, and before I could scramble to my feet, the toe of his shoe connected savagely with my ribcage, throwing me a half a yard or so across the floor. Pain exploded through my chest. I clenched my teeth against the whimpers that welled in my throat and hunched into a ball. It was difficult to breath properly, and from the feel of it, at least one of my ribs had been broken. This is it, I thought. He's finally going to kill me.

But the kicks that I expected never came. Instead, footsteps clomped across the floor, and the closet door was flung open with a bang. A moment later, I sensed Cheverill crouching down beside me, and then I was being shoved roughly onto my stomach. The shift jostled my broken rib, and a moan slipped out from between my lips. Cheverill stood, and his shoe pressed down on the nape of my neck, pinning me in place.

"I think," Cheverill began in a dark tone, "that I was correct in saying that I have pampered you this past week." Something stiff and polished traced over the bottom of my foot. Reflexively, I tried to pull away, but Cheverill dug his heel into the hollow at the base of my skull, and I stilled immediately. From this position, it would only take the smallest amount of pressure for Cheverill to snap my neck. "Your deplorable behavior is partially my fault," he continued. "I have given you the false impression that you retain some measure of control over your own life. This needs to be rectified at once. You are not a human anymore, Samuel. You are a pet. Crawling like one for a few days should be sufficient to teach you this."

There was a whistling sound, and then something cracked against the sole of my right foot and left a stripe of stinging fire where it had landed. I let out a shocked yell, and only Cheverill's weight on my neck prevented me from leaping away.

"Have you ever heard of bastinado, Samuel?" Cheverill said conversationally. The whistling came again, and a second stripe appeared on my other foot. "It was quite a popular corporal punishment used in Iran some years back, though its first documented use was in China around the tenth century. It is mainly employed as a form of torture, during which the victim's feet are whipped repeatedly with a cane or similar instrument." The whistle came for a third time, and I nearly bit through my lip to keep in a scream as it hit. "The truly wonderful aspect of bastinado," Cheverill went on," is that unlike other parts of the body, the soles of the feet never inure themselves to the beating. In fact, as the whipping progresses, the nerves become increasingly more sensitive."

The smack of wood impacting with flesh echoed around the room. With every slash of the cane, pain zinged like lightning through my feet, into my ankles, and up to my calves.

"Of course, I have never had occasion to personally discover whether this claim is legitimate."

Buzz… Crack! as the cane cleaved through the air.

"So, if you're conscious when we finish, do let me know if numbness set in at any point."

Buzz… Crack!

I opened my mouth to deliver a retort, but the cane came snapping down and a howl emerged instead.

Buzz… Crack!

No, I wouldn't yell. Not for him. I gritted my teeth and dug my nails into the wood floor. The pain was spreading up into my knees.

Buzz… Crack!

Buzz… Crack!

Buzz… Crack!

Again and again and again, the cane rose and fell. At thirty two, I was sure that all skin must have been flayed from my feet. At forty seven, I was whimpering low and steady at the back of my throat. By eighty one, those whimpers had transformed into full fledged screams. I lost count at one hundred and six. The world dissolved into the smack of the cane and the pain of each blow.

Until finally, seconds or minutes or hours later, the swish of the cane ceased. The pressure of Cheverill's shoe on my neck vanished. I lay still, darkness flickering around the corners of my sight, unsure if it was over or if Cheverill was giving his swinging arm a rest. I prayed that he was. I didn't know if I could last another round. The soles of my feet felt as though they had just been fed through a meat grinder.

"Samuel." Cheverill was crouching beside my head. I flinched back as he reached out, but he only placed his hand under my chin and forced my glassy eyes to meet his. "I hope you can learn from this experience," he said. I cringed again as he set the flogger down between us. "You know I hate it when you make me punish you like this." He straightened up and surveyed me sprawled out in front of him. The trace of a smile curled his mouth. Then his face was remorseful once more, and he was turning away from me, combing his fingers through his hair. "I'm going to take a shower," he said. "You'll have one subsequently, of course, you aren't fit for the dinner table in that state. I'm certain they'll be bringing our meal up quite soon after that, and if you are very, very well behaved company, I'll even allow you to eat some of it."

The bathroom door swung shut behind him with a click.

The room was still. I hadn't thought that I had any more tears left inside me, but an irritating prickle was starting behind my eyes. Which was strange, because my chest wasn't tight with emotion. It felt whittled away, empty. My entire body hurt, the ache radiating out from my feet and diffusing into my legs and torso. Gingerly, feeling so brittle that I would crumble at any hasty movement, I pushed myself into a sitting position and brought my ankle around so I could examine the sole. From the tides of pain washing through me, I was expecting long, bloody gashes torn entirely to the bone. But the only sign of what had happened were several reddened lines on the insides of my arches. No cuts, no blood. Nothing.

Okay, okay, that's good, I suppose. It looked like there wouldn't be any lasting damage, at least. I inhaled shakily, my broken rib protesting, and levered myself to standing.

It was a really, really, really bad decision.

Agony erupted through my feet, licking like flames over the beaten nerves. My knees buckled, and I pitched back to the floor, blood filling my mouth as I bit my tongue to muffle a shriek. I landed on my uninjured side, the impact jarring my broken rib. My vision swam. Retching from pain, I rested my forehead on the wood and waited for the dizziness to pass.

Oh God, Cheverill had been right. There was no way I could walk like this. I was going to have to, to crawl. Shame coated my mouth with a bitter taste. How much more of this could I take? How much more could Cheverill steal from me?

The sun was beginning to set. The scattered pieces of splintered vase glittered crimson as they caught the dying light. On all fours, I skirted around the mess of razor glass and made my way towards the sitting area and the bank of windows. It seemed a lot farther away than when I could have walked to it.

I slumped against the frame of one of the windows, careful to keep the bottoms of my feet pointed towards the ceiling, and cupped my throbbing side with my hands. It was tender, and pain flashed through my rib when I breathed too deeply. Definitely broken then, or if not, then severely bruised. But it could have been worse, I mean, it wasn't like I'd never broken ribs before. Nothing to do but let it heal on its own. And at least my gashed palm had stopped bleeding.

I leaned my forehead against the cool pane and stared over the wide mansion grounds. I spent a lot of time doing this nowadays. Looking out of the window at the sweeping stretch of grass and the miles of surrounding forest, I could imagine that things were back to the way they had been. Dad had rented a cabin in some remote, backwoods town for whatever hunt he was working on, and soon Dean would haul me off to sharpen the machetes while he made us both dinner. Dad would come home from questioning witnesses, grumbling as always about meddlesome county sheriffs, and sit down with us on the dusty sofa to watch old spy movies that fuzzed in and out with the crappy reception.

But the daydream never lasted. Cheverill was always there to drag me mercilessly into reality. Was it scarcely this morning that I'd woken cuddled in his arms?

The barest curve of sun remained above the horizon. The sky was pale, the first stars blinking into existence as the last of the color was leached from the clouds. Shadows teemed under the canopy of the trees. The wind had settled down, and now the leaves hung limp and dry from the ends of their branches.

I blinked. At the edge of the forest, just before the line of trees ended, a figure was standing motionless, half-hidden under an overhanging bough. I squinted against the growing dusk. It was a boy. He looked to be about fifteen years old, and his light blond hair was messy and tousled, his arms crossed over his chest. Though it was difficult to tell from this distance, I thought I could make out sallow skin and pallid, sunken cheeks. What the hell was a kid doing in the middle of the woods?

Then the kid inclined his head, and I realized that he was staring straight back at me. A shiver rippled through me, like hoarfrost seeping into my blood. For a moment, we regarded each other. Then his outline wavered, and his body flickered out like a candle flame being snuffed.

My heart stuttered in my chest. Not a kid. A ghost. And not some random ghost either. I would've bet my life that Cheverill had bought that kid too, however many years ago. No wonder the guy had become an angry spirit after he died. I shuddered.

The sun vanished completely from the horizon. I huddled against the window, watching as the dark molded the landscape into a black, silent sea. From behind me, the sound of running water shut off. And up above, the stars stared down, uncaring.


Whew. Please don't hate me. I promise it's going to get better.

First off, thank you so much to everyone who's left reviews, who followed and favorited. You guys give me more motivation than you know, and I am so sorry I made you wait that long between chapters. I never thought that I would get followers as awesome as you guys.

Second, there have been a lot off questions being asked about the story, so I figured I'd answer them here for everyone to see so that guest reviewers could see as well. Besides, I always ask you guys questions, so it's only fair that I respond to yours.

1) Are John and Dean going to rescue Sam? And when?

Of course Sam's getting rescued! I'm not a completely awful person. Maybe 3/4ths awful. And the rescue will begin next chapter, and will extend into the chapter after that as well.

2) Is there going to be anything about Sam's recovery and readjustment when he's back with his family?

Yes. I am planning a shorter sequel to accompany this story, focusing on how Sam deals with what he's gone through, and how John and Dean try to help him cope.

3) What about this Carter guy? Are we ever going to learn more about him?

Yes again. A lot about Carter will be revealed in the next couple chapters, and I'm also considering a separate one-shot with him if people like the idea.

Thanks again to everyone who's enjoying the story! We're winding down now, only a few more chapters to go. Next installment, John and Dean make it to Marquette, infiltrate a sadistic Gentlemen's club, and finally discover what's become of Sam.