Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/6107113.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Character:
      Sam_Winchester, Dean_Winchester, OMCs
  Additional Tags:
      Sam/OMCs_rape, Bottom_Sam, Top_Dean, Torture, slight_mutilation,
      Violence, Spitroasting, Humiliation, Hypothermia, Hallucinations, POV
      alternation, Post-Traumatic_Stress_Disorder_-_PTSD, Hurt_Sam, Freaking
      traumatized_Sam, Murder, Protective_Dean_Winchester, Rape_Aftermath, Rape
      Recovery, Heavy_Angst, Some_dark_emotional_crap, Self-Loathing, trapped
      in_the_dark, Unhygienic_conditions, Forced_touching, First_Kiss, Near
      Death_Experience, Slow_recovery, First_Time, Gentle_Sex, Suicide_Attempt,
      Sneaky_Sex, Happy_Ending, Briefly_mute_Sam
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-02-25 Completed: 2016-04-07 Chapters: 13/13 Words: 48595
****** Keep Him Safe ******
by ShadowBiscuit
Summary
     What was supposed to be a childish dare on a boring day turns into
     something much, much worse. In fact, it changes the boys' life
     forever.
     Dean just wanted to tease his little brother as always. He couldn't
     have known, he really couldn't...
     And Sam? He quickly came to the realization that, sometimes,
     possessing the skills to fight monsters just isn't enough when you're
     on your knees and bleeding.
***** Run, Mousie, Run *****
 
Sighing for the umpteenth time, Sam walked down on the narrow dirt path with a
sour, more than a little grumpy expression on his face, cursing himself. And
his big brother. Right now, he could have been sipping on some hot cocoa while
watching TV, maybe bury himself in one of the books he got for Christmas. They
didn’t have that much money, so unfortunately he had to wait until special
events to ask for some money from John, and while before they used to buy each
other gifts, now they just got what they wanted themselves. Sometimes he missed
the persistent feeling of excitement, that tiny bit of anticipation that had
him constantly glancing at his brother, wondering what he got him, or smiling
to himself with hope that Dean would like the bracelet Sam made with his own
two hands, along with the CD he spent all of his allowance on.
But those things, the smaller joys and kind gestures, were all of the past.
Nowadays there were barely any genuinely sweet or affectionate moments between
them, let alone him and John. With Dean growing up and their dad deciding that
they were old enough to be left alone for days while he went on particularly
dangerous hunts where he couldn’t bring his boys with him, their small family
kind of…drifted apart. They still loved each other—at least Sam hoped they
did—but didn’t show it as often as they used to. Instead of a “good boy” and a
hug, he got nods and orders from John. And instead of cuddles and smiles, he
only got sneers, teasing remarks and more orders from Dean.
Just like today.
Their dad got a job in Portland, Oregon, something about a tribe of witches
that were using some very interesting secret ingredients in their coffees they
sold to unsuspecting costumers, turning them into ticking time bombs that could
go rabid any moment. He’s already been gone for three days, leaving Sam and
Dean with enough food and water to last for five, and this time, they weren’t
forced to stay in a motel room. At first, Sam was pretty overjoyed. Instead of
moldy walls, suspicious stains in the bathroom and that strange damp smell that
somehow lingered in each and every motel they visited, he was met with fresh
air and nature. The cabin John picked was obviously the cheapest one, rather
run-down and with all the wooden furniture creaking, but it was still better
than spending another night in a room with very thin walls, and very energetic
neighbors. Later on, however, he realized that being so far away from
civilization was only relaxing to him. To Dean, it was torture, his brother
getting bored in record time and getting all sulky on him, complaining about
the lack of chicks to hit on, bars to visit—with a fake ID, of course—and just
the general absence of nightlife. The thick barrier of trees were driving him
crazy, and he had to, just had to pick on Sam to get his daily fix of
entertainment.
“Come on, it’ll be fun,” he had said, grinning at Sam with a mischievous glint
in his eyes as he placed the smaller egg carton on the counter.
“Your definition of fun doesn’t apply to me,” he’d told his brother in a
completely disinterested tone, brow furrowing as he watched Dean pick up a few
eggs from the carton. “You can go ahead and put those back, because I won’t do
it. If you want to piss of some strangers, then by all means, do go ahead and
do it; but don’t drag me into your mess.”
Dean had laughed at him, before throwing one of the eggs his way, Sam
instinctively catching it. “We’re playing truth or dare, and you chose dare.
Well, I dared you to egg that other cabin, and if you refuse, I’ll just have to
give you a punishment dare. Something like opening the eggs above your head and
leave them in your hair.”
“Gross.” Sam had shuddered unwittingly, pulling a face as he glanced down at
the egg in his hands. “But my answer’s still no. And anyway, how is this
supposed to be any fun? You won’t even be there. I could lie and say I did it
while actually throwing the eggs against a tree instead of the cabin.”
“I know. That’s why I want you to take a picture,” Dean had stated and handed
his phone over to Sam. Only his big brother had a phone, which always annoyed
him, because he was already fourteen and he deserved to have one as well. “Just
do it, Sam. Or are you a pussy now? Chickenshit that can’t even do one little
prank without wetting his pants?”
Looking back on it now, Sam should have just hurled the egg right at his
brother’s face and walked off. He shouldn’t have gotten so worked up over what
the other said, since it was so obvious that he was just trying to rile him up,
but unfortunately, in a fit of petty annoyance, Sam had grabbed the rest of the
eggs from his brother, said something like Dean was the chickenshit here for
sending him to do such childish stuff instead of doing it himself, then stomped
out of the cabin.
That’s how he found himself balancing four eggs in his hands, two in each,
while heading toward the other cabin. It was pretty far away, and they only
knew of its existence because John got kind of lost while trying to find their
cabin and walked past the place.
This was so stupid, Sam concluded. He looked around, but all he saw were the
trees towering over him and the thin patches of grass blanketing the earth. He
was all alone in the forest, couldn’t even hear any birds singing, the only
sound reaching his ears being his dull footsteps and even breathing, along with
the occasional gusts of wind that snatched at his chestnut hair, slightly
mussing it, and sending cold chills down his spine and across his whole body.
He couldn’t even pull his jacket together to shield his body from the icy
weather, now wishing more than ever that he had a third hand, and while he knew
it couldn’t be too cold as he couldn’t see his breath coming out as a smoky
mist, it still felt like his blood was congealing and his bones were freezing
and crackling.
Anyway, this situation sucked. He didn’t ask for it, was now really starting to
regret his hasty decision of accepting Dean’s dare, and the closer he got to
the other cabin, the worse he felt. At one point, he was quite certain he
managed to get himself lost, since the dirt path decided to split into two
parts, but thankfully the parts merged again some time later, and after a few
more minutes of walking and quiet grumbling, Sam finally noticed something
aside from the array of trees.
The lonesome cabin that stood in the middle of a small clearing looked more
like a shack than anything, the white paint on the front door all but gone and
the window seeming like it needed some fixing, what with being covered by what
looked like a black aluminum foil. There was a carelessly laid down stone path
leading to the shack, only about five feet long and with flat, dissimilar
stones placed randomly next to each other, some barely even touching at all.
Before the ramshackle cabin, to the left, emerged a stone well from the ground
with a decaying wooden board on top of it, Sam fighting the urge to peek into
it in case he’d get dragged in by some drowned little girl from a video tape.
He shook his head and focused on the matter at hand instead, stopping a good
distance away from the shack and studying it for a long time, all the while
being unable to shake the feeling of apprehension resulting in him standing in
the clearing instead of the safe comfort of the trees. Waiting for any sign of
life, he hugged the eggs to his chest without actually crushing them, then
after a while of some more, silent nothing, he wondered if the place was maybe
empty. That would’ve been the best case scenario, and as Sam allowed himself to
take a few steps toward the desolate shack, he got more and more convinced that
that was the case. No one would come out shouting at him, maybe waving a
pitchfork. He could do his horrible deed in peace, egg the pitiful little
shack, take a picture, then skip back to his brother with a cocky grin and
laugh in his face, rubbing it in how the great Dean Winchester’s plan to make
Sam’s life miserable failed.
Already grinning, he placed the eggs onto the ground, keeping one in his hand
as he regarded his target intently, then pulled his arm back and threw the egg
as hard as he could, aiming at the roof. Instead, the egg burst open against
the wall, some of the shell sticking to it while the rest dropped to the
ground, the yolk slowly trickling down the wood. Just in case his hypothesis
was incorrect and there were people inside, Sam hurriedly picked up the rest of
the eggs and hurled them against the shack, two more hitting the wall, while
the last one broke against the aluminum before bouncing off it and meeting its
final resting place on the hard ground.
He observed his work, satisfied with himself, then quickly took out Dean’s
phone and snapped a picture of the egg covered shack. It didn’t turn out as
good as he wanted it to, a bit blurry, so he raised the phone to take another
one; but when he looked at the screen, the house wasn’t the only thing he saw
in the device’s camera.
Three men appeared from the woods behind the shack, two of them holding rifles,
the third empty-handed, and Sam couldn’t stop his gasp as he lowered the phone
and gaped at the possible owners of the shack. Not good. They had weapons and
he had nothing, and when they got to the front of the house and noticed the
state it was in, Sam knew that a sorry wouldn’t cut it with these people.
“What the fuck?” someone exclaimed, their voice slightly slurred and carrying
what you’d call a hillbilly accent, but Sam didn’t look back long enough to
find out who the unpleasant voice belonged to, because he was already turning
on his heel and running like it was “hunt the duck” day and he was the duck.
He knew he should have stayed in the goddamn cabin, he thought to himself as he
darted past the trees, forgetting to take the dirt path back, but right now, he
was panicking too much to care even if he got lost. Cursing under his breath
when he heard shouting from behind him, he forced his legs to go faster, to run
like the wind as he slalomed between trees while making sure not to trip like
some complete idiot, already making up his mind that after this, he was going
to beat the hell out of Dean.
“Come back here, you little cunt!” another voice bellowed, and shit, Sam really
hoped they weren’t bringing the guns with themselves.
His heart was going out of control, pounding in his chest so loudly he could
hear his pulse in his ears, along with his frantic pants as he kept running,
and he could feel himself tiring. Stopping or slowing down wasn’t an option,
though, especially since the furious yells were coming from much closer now,
his persistent pursuers somehow catching up to him even though Sam was
straining his limbs, forcing air into his lungs even as his side began hurting,
even as he gritted his teeth, wishing he could be faster, just a little bit
faster, please. His jacket flapped behind him, eyes slightly watering when the
wind picked up and slammed right into his face, as if nature itself was trying
to screw with him. He could hear them over his own rapid breathing and the
sounds of branches snapping and leaves crunching under his feet, hear as they
called after him, sounding more than a bit angry and dangerous, making Sam
dread the moment they’d finally catch him. If they’d catch him, he had to
remind himself, because he was not going to stop running. It hurt now, his damn
legs felt like they were going to fall off and his side was stinging so much,
as if getting stabbed over and over again with an icy dagger each time he
inhaled, but it wasn’t like he could hide. The trees were too thin for that,
but even if he’d somehow manage to pull it off, to stay still like a statue,
the people chasing him were too close. They’d see him hide, could corner him so
easily, and then probably beat him, or kill him. Or maybe both.
Why were they so goddamn furious, anyway? Sure, Sam egged their home, but
normal people would have given up on running after him a long time ago. What
the hell was driving his pursuers to keep going? He didn’t know, wasn’t even
sure if he would’ve liked to find out, but even if he would have, Sam couldn’t
get the chance to do so, as in the next moment, something hard connected with
the back of his head, making him grunt in pain and stumble a little, then
another thing hit his back, then head again, then whizzed past him and—
Were they throwing rocks at him?!
They weren’t big, thank god, but they were still rocks, and even when he ducked
his head and tried to shield it with his hands, the projectile weapons still
kept coming, at one point Sam pretty sure one of them broke his goddamn finger.
He would’ve loved to shout some profanities, tell them to very kindly fuck off,
but then chose to save the energy he could’ve used for talking for running
faster instead. At least he really hoped he was going faster, because he
seriously felt like he was seconds away from coughing up his lungs and just
collapse from exhaustion, his whole body aching from all sorts of different
kind of pain.
“Get the fuck back here already, you lil’ bitch!” the disembodied voice that he
had begun calling Asshole number one shrieked. He sounded more feminine, voice
somewhat higher pitched than the other’s and more nasal, and Sam guessed from
that alone that the guy couldn’t be more than eighteen.
Asshole number two sounded like he was older, voice deeper but carrying a
thicker accent. “We gon’ get you anyway, so stop runnin’!” he bawled, but Sam
had no intention to stop, thank you very much. He only got a glimpse of the men
when he first saw them, so he couldn’t quite put faces to the voices, but
honestly, knowing how his chasers looked like wasn’t really one of his
priorities.
Where was their cabin again? Oh god, Sam couldn’t remember. He had no idea
which way he was going either, has been running blindly all this time, and the
trees weren’t changing. Everything looked the same, as if he was stuck in an
endless loop, the woods swallowing him up and trapping him in a living
nightmare from which he could never escape from, forever a prisoner in this
cage of trees. And his legs, god, his legs. They were wobbling under him. He
didn’t know how long he’s been running, maybe only five minutes, maybe twenty,
but either way his body couldn’t take it anymore no matter how much he forced
himself to speed up, to just go and go until he collapsed, then keep going even
after that.
Suddenly, just as he realized he had accidentally slowed down and was about to
strain himself to keep going, he was grabbed by his collar and yanked back, and
since his legs were pretty much noodles by then, Sam lost his balance and fell
backwards onto his ass, groaning when he banged his head on the ground. He
would have loved to just stay there, lie on the cold earth just a little while
longer and catch his breath, but as soon as he noticed the two boys hovering
over him with matching twisted grins plastered across their faces, his heart
nearly jumped out of his chest and he immediately got up on his elbows, pushing
himself into a sitting position before turning around and attempting to crawl
away from the insane-looking boys. He didn’t get far, barely got a few feet
away from them, and when he tried to stand up and go back to running like
crazy, one of them landed such a brutal kick to his ribs that Sam slumped right
back onto the ground with a sharp cry.
Then his hair was grabbed and yanked on until he was looking right into a pair
of striking blue eyes in a freckled face. “Why, hello there,” the boy with the
nasal voice drawled with broad smile, the putrid smell coming from his
toothless mouth making Sam scrunch up his nose in disgust. Now that they were
so close, he could get a better look at him, but he didn’t quite like what he
saw. The boy was pale with a highlighted red flush across his face and neck,
aforementioned face completely covered by darker, conspicuous freckles that
were much uglier than Dean’s lighter ones. He had a buzz-cut that, along with
his round face, helped bringing attention to the protruding ears sticking out
from the sides of his head, and he was giving Sam a kind of look that didn’t
suggest he belonged to some of your friendly neighbors.
“Let go,” he hissed, swatting at the hand keeping his hair in an iron grip, but
all he managed to achieve with that was to get kicked in the ribs yet again.
He lay on the cold ground, teeth gritted and bared at the other boy standing
next to him. This one, just as he thought, seemed older. Much older, between
twenty and twenty-five, with a blond ponytail, the same blue eyes and pale,
freckled face, and while he seemed to possess all his teeth, they were all
yellow and rotten-looking, making for a rather repugnant sight when he grinned.
“Let go? So you could run from us again?” he sneered, shaking his head. “No, no
more of that shit. Naughty boys like yourself need to get punished.” He then
looked at the other boy squatting in front of Sam, lips stretching further and
twisting his grin into something inhuman. “Yo, Billy, what d’you say we teach
this little bitch a lesson? Show him what happens when someone messes with us.”
The one named Billy nodded like one of those bobbleheads, before flashing a
grin of his own to Sam, who could actually see into the boy’s mouth through the
gaps between his teeth, and just ew. “Yeah, Robby. Good idea.”
Billy and Robby. What a duo. Also, instead of good, Sam was thinking along the
lines of terrible idea, and he quickly scooted back on his hands and knees,
before swiftly getting to his feet and continuing to slowly back away while
keeping his eyes on the pair. “Look, I’m sorry, okay? It was just a stupid
dare,” he explained with a forced smile and his hands held up in surrender. He
wasn’t in any shape to keep running, which meant that next he’d have to choose
fight instead of flight, and while he wouldn’t have minded knocking out the
rest of Billy’s teeth, he would’ve still preferred getting out this situation
without having to resort to violence. Beating people up was usually a last
resort sort of thing, and he would’ve liked to believe that he had the
capability to resolve this little problem with words only. “I really didn’t
mean to anger you guys. You know what? I’ll just clean it up for you. It’s the
least I can do, and then we can forget all about this.”
He gave them a hopeful look, but his proposition didn’t seem to interest them
the least bit. They were unaffected by his peaceful smile that usually worked
on most people, that smile freezing on Sam’s face when they once again began
closing in on him.
“You hear that, Billy? He didn’t mean any of it, was forced to throw eggs at
our home.”
“Yeah, Robby. And he also said he’ll clean it all up. How sweet of him.”
“Ah, but that’s not good. Not enough. Because he hurt our pride as well, and he
can’t clean that up.”
“No, he can’t,” Billy stated with a snicker, before cracking his knuckles. “But
since he’s feeling so sorry for what he did, he’ll let us do whatever we want
to him as compensation.”
They looked like a pair of hungry hyenas as they neared him, making Sam realize
that he really didn’t have a choice here. He could either fight or, since
running with these maniacs on his tail wouldn’t get him anywhere, let them beat
him up. The latter not even being an option worth considering, he remembered
all the times he beat up bullies in school or sparred with his brother,
imagined the two boys before him were monsters, the enemy, and then just before
they reached him, Sam pounced.
A two versus one fight wasn’t too fair, especially since his adversaries were
much taller and possibly stronger than him, but Sam was a hunter trained to be
able to kill wendigos and vampires in the future, or the contrary, to block and
dodge attacks coming his way, so ducking under the fist flying his way before
throwing a punch at Billy’s stomach was the easiest thing in the world. The boy
doubled over, cursing while trying to grab a hold of Sam, but he was too fast.
He moved around the momentarily incapacitated boy and landed a brutal kick to
the back of his knee, unfortunately only making him stumble instead of falling
to the ground, and then he barely had time to notice the other boy who he had
skillfully forgotten about before his face exploded in pain as he got
suckerpunched. He staggered back, holding his nose which, perfect, was
bleeding, then another piercing pain shot through him as Robby kneed him in the
abdomen, then punched him again. Gasping for breath, Sam snarled at the jackass
and retaliated by curling his fingers when the boy reached for him again, and
clawed at his face like a rabid cat, hoping to gauge out an eyeball or two, but
then an arm snaked around his throat from behind and squeezed. He got pulled
away from the hissing boy, Billy having him in a firm headlock and keeping him
in it even as Sam kicked and struggled, thrashed around in the other’s hold
while sinking his nails in the flesh around his throat.
“Suddenly in the mood to fight, huh?” Robby said with a contemptuous sneer,
walking up to him and then letting out a strangled howl when Sam kicked him
right in the nuts as soon as he got close enough. He couldn’t do much aside
from growling and glaring at the guy in front of him, as he was kind of in the
middle of getting strangled by Billy, who he assumed was most probably the
other one’s brother, if all those freckles were anything to go by. “Skank,” the
boy—probably a man, but in Sam’s mind, he didn’t deserve to be referred to as
one—spat, then gripped Sam’s jaw and did so again, literally spitting in his
face, and it was all he could do not to shriek from utter disgust as the saliva
slid down his cheek. “Think you’re gonna get away with this? Didn’t your
parents teach you how to properly take a good beatin’? Little fuckin’ brat
needs to learn discipline.” He let go of Sam before backhanding him, his wet
cheek stinging, but not as much as his dignity; frustrated fury and indignation
bubbling in him at his own helplessness, the humiliation and inability to fight
back making him tremble in exasperation.
“Let’s take him home, Robby!” The alarmingly cheery voice of Billy had him
digging his nails further into his clothed flesh, but when the hold around his
throat tightened from it, Sam’s eyes bulged. He grabbed the forearm, trying to
pull it away because he was getting dizzy, oh no, he was going to pass out, he
didn’t want to pass out. “I want the bunny,” the boy continued, tugging at his
hair. “Wanna keep him, never let him run away. Please, can I?”
“Sure thing. But we’re still punishing him. That’s what you’re supposed to do
with bad pets,” Robby drawled, grin back on his face.
Billy giggled behind him. “Of course!”
Starting to panic a little, especially when he saw Robby lick his lips, Sam
forced some hoarse, frail words of protest out of his mouth. “My dad will kill
y-you if you dare—” he hissed, then got punched square in the jaw, instantly
forgetting what the rest of the sentence was and just glad he didn’t bite his
tongue off. Then he wasn’t so glad anymore, because the punches just kept
coming, Robby’s fists connecting with his face over and over, like drumsticks
beating a drum, until his ears were ringing and his knees buckled, arms hanging
limply at his sides, and it wasn’t long before he lost consciousness, Sam
embracing the dark and painless silence that came with it.
 
***** Hunters Don't Cry *****
 
Sam dreamed of snowmen. He loved winter, loved how snow descended from the
skies and covered the roads and rooftops in pure, sparkling white, making it
seem like they were in Heaven, among the fluffy clouds. He used to play with
Dean in the snow, make snow angels or have snowball fights, Sam not bothering
with gloves even though afterward he always regretted it and felt like his
fingers turned into ice-picks; however he never corrected his mistake because
watching as the thousands of tiny snow crystals melted in his palm was still so
worth the discomfort later.
Snow was something magical to him when he was a kid, and it didn’t really
change much as he grew older; he just loved it in another way. As he slowly
understood how the world worked, discovered how it was filled with evil and
hate, with blood, he began to somehow appreciate snow. Be fascinated by it. He
found it pure and innocent, saw it as something precious and unsullied, but
also as something weak and passive, dirtied way too easily by the forces out of
its control. Just like humans, he supposed. None of them are born evil—they
come into this world the way snow is born from clouds, with innocence and a
naïve, sincere acceptance, and depending on their surroundings, on where they
land, they may either hold onto their purity or let it be snatched from them.
Trampled upon. It’s never their decision and they don’t get a say in it, and
even if they are cleaned, the dirt scraped away from the surface, nobody could
ever get rid of all the stains that are now a core part of their being.
His dreams weren’t filled with these memories, though. They were full of
laughter, with Dean destroying his snowman and Sam sneaking a fistful of snow
in his brother’s clothes as payback, of rolling in the snow while having a
childish wrestling match, and he could even feel the cold. Felt it against his
back and cheek, felt it creep into his fingers and rest of the body, then Dean
was suddenly throwing a huge amount of snow right in his face, making him
sputter and cough, and it felt so real, so much like he was freezing and—
Sam’s eyes flew open and he immediately turned onto his side, coughing up the
water that found its way past his lips and into his mouth. His whole head was
drenched in it, water dripping from his chin and hair, and a full body shiver
shook him as a stronger gust of wind hit him.
Damn, his face hurt. A lot. He hissed in pain as he patted the surely bruised
skin, tasting blood on his tongue as he swallowed. His bottom lip was split,
nose bleeding and, yep, probably fractured, and the area around his left eye
was really bad, hurt a lot when he touched it, plus opening that eye was a bit
difficult too. And he also had a fucking headache. Sam would have started
whining and demand Dean to patch him up, but then had to realize that he wasn’t
in the cabin, or with his brother, and that he had been brought back to the
shack while unconscious. He was lying on the cool stone path leading to the
house, and one look around his surroundings had his stomach twisting in unease
and more than a little amount of dread as he noticed one of the two boys
standing next to him, holding a bucket which presumably contained the water
used to wake him.
“Slept well, pretty boy?” Robby asked with a condescending chuckle as he
discarded the bucket, casually tossing it on the ground, then smirked down at
him. “Oh, sorry. Not that pretty anymore.”
Sam snarled at him, which turned into a grimace because his lip stung. “What
are you going to do? Beat me up?” He got on his elbows then in a sitting
position, thankful these idiots forgot to tie him up, before glowering at the
other. “You’re messing with the wrong person here. Once my dad hears about
this, the police will have to use tweezers to gather your remains.”
Robby threw his head back as he emitted a hearty laugh. “Your dad? I think
he’ll be more grateful to us than anything. Happy that someone finally got the
guts to beat some manners in you.”
“Manners, yeah,” Sam scoffed. “Because kidnapping kids is such an honorable
thing to do.”
“It is if it’s done for a good cause,” Robby pointed out like he was speaking
truth, to what Sam rolled his eyes, then stopped halfway because his left eye
has started swelling and it hurt.
“Is my sweetie awake?” Billy’s voice had him turning around where he sat on the
ground, and he was pretty sure his heart stopped beating for a few seconds as
he noticed the knife in the boy’s hand along with some sort of black, plastic
toolbox in the other, which he carried as he walked out of the shack, with
someone following him.
It was the third person he saw from the phone’s camera, this one way older than
the boys. He had bushy eyebrows and a beard, a cap with some nest-like hair
sticking out from under it, was only wearing a shirt and white shorts despite
the weather, and had a cigarette hanging between his thin lips. Feeling a
slight glimmer of hope, Sam watched as the man leaned against the doorway,
exhaling a puff of smoke and meeting his pleading eyes, before looking at
Robby. “Don’t let the bitch scream too loudly. I don’t want no cops showin’ up
on my doorstep just coz you kids can’t make your toy behave,” he grunted out
the order, blinking disinterestedly at Sam, and then just flicked his cigarette
into the grass, stepped on it, and walked back inside the shack.
“Got it, dad!” the boys said in unison, before leering at him with wicked eyes.
Great. The whole family was filled with psychos. Sam swallowed hard around the
lump forming in his throat as Billy set down the toolbox not far from him, then
waved the knife with a smile. “You ruined our place,” he said, motioning at the
eggs still sticking to the wooden walls with the knife, “so we’re gonna ruin
your body in return.”
“You’re all crazy!” Sam snapped, scrambling to his feet with his heart beating
so fast it threatened to leap out of his chest, just to get shoved back down
and onto his knees by Robby. Furious, and really having enough of these two
douche bags, he stood right back up, prepared to do something risky, just too
fed up with this situation to care. He lunged for the knife, cut his palm a
little when Billy slashed at him, but somehow, he managed to snatch it from
him, immediately backing away while holding the blade out in front of him.
“You’d both deserve to get chopped up to tiny little pieces, so you should feel
lucky I’m not hurting you. But if you dare follow me, if you don’t leave me the
hell alone, then I won’t hesitate to sink this knife in your hearts, got it?”
The boys exchanged a glance, then Billy crouched down, picked up a few more
knives from the box, and then just threw them Sam’s way. He barely had time to
get over his shock—because what kind of reaction was that?—before he was crying
out in pain and flinching as some of the knives hit him, most grazing or
bouncing off his body, however one stayed embedded in his thigh, distracting
him long enough to get his own knife knocked out of his hand. He managed to
pull out the one in his thigh seconds before Robby dragged him back and pushed
him to the ground, Sam’s knees really aching now from all these damn falls, but
before he could’ve scurried away like he did all this time, Billy placed some
sort of wire around his neck, resulting in him freaking the hell out, even more
desperate to get away. As soon as he tried, though, the wire only tightened
around his throat, stilling any of Sam’s movement, his eyes wide as he curled
his fingers around the wire and tugged at it; but again, as soon as he did, the
thing bit into his skin and squeezed his throat stubbornly.
“Efficient little thing, isn’t it?” Robby said, nodding toward the wire which,
now that Sam had stopped to look at it more thoroughly, was attached to
something in the toolbox which was way out of his reach. “It’s a snare trap,
and as you must’ve realized by now, the more you move around, the tighter it
gets. So if you don’t wanna die, it’s best if you stay nice and still for us.”
“We’re hunters and have lotsa fun tools and traps to use on you if you
misbehave, little bunny,” Billy chimed in, actually reaching out and petting
Sam’s head with an idiotic smile on his face, causing him to immediately lean
away then make a small sound when that stupid snare clenched around him even
more.
He was on his hands and knees, shivering thanks to his wet hair, his whole face
hurt, and now he was unable to move. Sam wasn’t a coward, but he wasn’t dumb
either, so he could recognize a dangerous situation, knew exactly when it was
appropriate to panic and feel scared for his own wellbeing. And right now was
one of those moments.
“Let me go,” he growled, might have felt as terror slowly seeped into his
system and quickened his breathing, but he refused to let it show. It was
John’s rule number one—never let your enemy know you’re scared. Never become
the prey. “Stop this pathetic power play, or else as soon as I’m out of this
thing, instead of granting you mercy, I’ll just pick up one of these knives and
skin you myself.” He was bluffing, obviously. Sam couldn’t do such a thing even
if he would somehow manage to get the upper hand. Murder, or torture, wasn’t
one of his favorite pastimes, but these maniacs didn’t need to know that. He
could play the bloodthirsty delinquent for them, in hopes of scaring them away,
maybe change their minds on that whole ruining his body idea.
Or maybe not. “Aw, would you look at that. Bitch is all bark but no bite,”
Robby said with a sneer as he ran a hand along Sam’s spine, causing him to
shuddering in revulsion and a hint of fright. “You’re not going to get out of
the snare,” he continued, eyes narrowing deviously. “You can’t. And here’s a
spoiler for you.” He knelt down next to Sam, who hissed silently as his hair
was grasped again, now his skull beginning to hurt too, then froze to an ice
statue when Robby whispered in his ear, “The only time we’ll take it off…is
when you’ve stopped breathing.”
That single sentence was enough to make him hold his breath, but he seriously
doubted that the boy meant it that way. They were planning on killing him. His
eyes widened and he gulped, the way his Adam’s apple grazed uncomfortably
against the wire holding snugly onto his throat filling him with apprehension,
and when Robby let go of his hair with a none-too-gentle push, Sam tensed his
whole body, trying hard not to move and accidentally cause the snare to
tighten. He was completely trapped, just like an animal. Rendered harmless in
the clutches of the snare, and he momentarily wondered how many curious foxes
and wolves, rabbits met their untimely deaths by getting too close and tempting
fate.
He couldn’t do anything, he literally couldn’t or else he was going to get
strangled, but he refused to just give up and die like this. “You’re seriously
going to regret this,” he threatened lowly, glaring at both of them while
staying completely motionless but on edge, ready to jump on any opportunity to
free himself as soon as it presented itself.
“Why, whatcha gonna do? Glare us to death?” Billy jeered, before hooking a
knife he’s been holding under Sam’s shirt and beginning to tear it away, slash
at the fabric until it was ripping with a protesting, wounded sound that had
him gasping in alarm, trying to ease away from the cold blade without actually
moving too much, while grabbing at the knife. Instead of seizing it from the
boy, he only managed to get his hand cut, but he didn’t let that stop him and
he kept fighting back until a violent kick to his stomach had him crying out in
tear-jerking pain.
He almost fell onto his elbows as his arms shook, body curling in on itself
with his back bent, Sam fighting to block out the nauseating pain throbbing in
his gut as he heaved with his eyes squeezed shut. Maybe he’d wake up. Maybe, if
he kept his eyes closed long enough, the scenery around him would twist and
shift, before disappearing and taking up his bed’s form. Then he’d wake up and
tell Dean about this nightmare, scold him for being a jerk even in his dreams.
Yes, all he needed to do was concentrate and all of this would be over, it’d be
gone and he’ll be safe and warm. However upon opening his eyes, he felt like
screaming in frustration, because he was simply in denial, still on his hands
and knees like some pathetic loser, completely at these boys’ mercy as one of
them cut away at his clothes, while the other hovered, laughing and helping
remove the tattered mess of what was once a checkered flannel shirt after
ridding him of his jacket.
And then his upper body was naked. Sam clenched his jaw, stopping his teeth
from chattering, but he couldn’t stop the way his body trembled, the way he
shivered relentlessly, the hair on his arms standing on end and goosebumps
breaking out all across his skin caressed by the cool, biting air. “Look at
him,” Robby said with a derisive chuckle as he gave a few hard pats to Sam’s
back, then slid a hand to his ribs, squeezing at the exact spot he had received
some harsh kicks and drawing a painful hiss from him. “All skin and bones, this
kid. Bet he breaks easy like a stick.”
Feeling his face heat up in anger, Sam glowered at Robby, lips twisted in a
feral snarl. “I might be skinny, but I could kick your ass if you wouldn’t be
such cowards, feeling the need to team up on a kid,” he scoffed with a
condescending look in his eyes, which earned himself a nick on his side from
Billy’s knife.
“Bunnies aren’t supposed to talk back,” the boy chided him, poking his flesh
with the pointy end of the blade and making him flinch a tiny bit each time the
sharp tip pierced the outer layer of his skin. “I think we’re gonna have to
shut yer pretty mouth up. What do you say, Robby?”
He looked at the other boy, watching with restless trepidation as his lips
curled into a foreboding smirk hiding something wicked. “I say,” Robby drawled,
clenching his hands into fists, “let’s.”
His heart sinking all the way to his stomach, where it got swallowed up by the
abyss of thick, black, and despondent dismay, Sam barely had time to brace
himself for the assault before the first blow knocked the air right out of his
lungs. They kicked and punched him, many times nearly succeeding to kick his
arms out from under him and making him fall, but he always managed to stay in
his vulnerable and exposed position, not letting the snare do any more damage
to his neck. However just because he wasn’t choking, it didn’t mean that he
wasn’t in pain, as the rest of his body kept lighting up with it over and over
again, abrupt and unforgiving pain bursting in his torso and legs as they used
him as a punching bag. He didn’t cry, forbade himself from shedding any tears
and give these sadists the satisfaction of seeing him break, but he couldn’t
keep his voice in. Silent for the most part, Sam still let out anguished grunts
and muffled groans, small sounds of agony as they pounded his flesh, a hit
here, a kick there, knuckles connecting with his shoulders and head, feet with
his hands, sides and chest, and god, he wished he could’ve just curled into a
ball to at least protect his front, but that wasn’t an option at the moment.
So he just took it, absorbed it all, forced himself to think of this as
training instead of torture, imagined John barking orders at him. Tense your
muscles and make them your shield. Don’t show any signs of pain. Block out the
pain and focus on the adrenaline rush it gives instead. Sam listened to his
father’s distant voice and did as he was told, showed his attackers that he
could take it, that he wasn’t going to be a fun little toy they could take
apart and watch as he screamed. Unfortunately, he just couldn’t keep his voice
in and he cried out when one of them stomped down on his ankle several times
until he felt something give, snap with a sickening tingle followed by
excruciating pain; and when he received a sharp kick to his foot, like
fireworks, it sparked and flared up with an electric spasm, with pain that
nearly snatched Sam’s consciousness from him and left him blacked out. He might
have welcomed it, he was close to letting the darkness swallow him up, if only
temporarily, because he was too overwhelmed, but reality bearing the name of
Robby gave him a good slap in the face and brought him back from the verge of
unconsciousness.
“No passing out on us yet,” the boy growled warningly before walking around him
and toward the rummaging sound coming from his right. Sam was panting, each
inhale hurting, and he could only imagine the horrible condition his body must
have been in. He ached all over, didn’t dare move his left leg in fear of
sending more pain through his system with the slightest movement involving his
throbbing ankle, and his eyes were so difficult to keep open, especially the
one that hasn’t stopped swelling since he woke up to this cruel parody of a
reality.
He coughed, relieved to note that he at least wasn’t coughing up blood yet. The
beating has stopped, but he wasn’t sure if he should take that as a good, or
bad sign, then just settled on seeing for himself as he turned his head toward
the sound of objects clattering together and idle chatter.
“How about this?” Billy asked, kneeling in front of the toolbox and holding up
a screwdriver.
Robby shook his head while continuing to rummage around in the box. “Nah, not
now. We’ll use that later. I’m thinking about something bigger. Blunter.
Somethin’ that’s good at breaking bones.”
He didn’t like the sound of that, at all. Sam swallowed, frowning when that
actually caused him pain, then stopped frowning because that hurt as well. They
weren’t looking at him right now, too busy trying to pick out the perfect
torture tool, so this was his chance. He had to do something, it was now or
never, but as he poked the wire around his neck—which, by the way, was
beginning to ache from the constant pressure and the way the snare rubbed
against his skin—he couldn’t quite come up with anything. First, he couldn’t
run. Even if he managed to somehow get out of this stupid trap, which again,
was impossible, since the toolbox it was attached to was too far from him, plus
was at the moment under the observation of his captors, Sam wouldn’t be able to
get far with a busted ankle. Limping back to the cabin would only be possible
after he got rid of these two, but first, for that to happen he needed to get
his hands on a weapon before they could sink their own in his body. Acquiring
something sharp and deadly wouldn’t be happening until the torture brothers
decided to come back with Sam’s hopefully future weapons in their hands, so for
now, he still couldn’t do anything. But wasting such an excellent opportunity
would be…well, a waste, so he needed to try at least something.
Sam looked about himself, but he couldn’t find any sticks or rocks he could use
to inflict some amount of pain. He ran his tongue over his teeth, wondering if
maybe biting would work. Ripping a chunk of meat out of one of the boys’ throat
should be warning enough not to mess any further with him, should convey all
his feelings of murderous hatred toward them. That, too, would only work once
he wasn’t alone anymore, making him wonder if there really was nothing he could
do now.
Then he remembered he still had his pants on and he felt a sudden glimmer of
hope filling his chest with anticipation and a sliver of confidence.
Dean’s phone was in his pocket. He could still feel its presence, the slight
pressure against his upper thigh as the device sat patiently in his front
pocket, waiting to be used. He could actually call for help, but for this to
work, he needed to be sneaky. Sam glanced at the boys, now in the middle of
arguing over who’d use the wrench on his head, then slowly reached back and
patted around his pants until he cautiously pulled out the phone. Even such
small movement caused him pain, but he didn’t make a sound, ignored everything
and concentrated on his plan while keeping an ear out for anything suspicious
from the boys.
He placed the phone on the ground, hid it under his palm while pushing the
buttons with his thumb until he found John’s number. His dad would rush
straight back here once he’d hear what was happening, as while Sam couldn’t
actually talk to him on the phone unless he wanted to be found out in less than
a second, he could still call him and then just leave the phone like that. That
way, John would hear everything, know what was up without Sam needing to
explain anything.
His heart beat frantically in his chest as he finally pressed the call button,
immediately lowering the volume so Pinky and the Brain over there wouldn’t
notice anything, then quickly slid the phone back in his pocket. And now the
wait began.
Sam didn’t actually have to wait long before the boys were prancing back to
him, Robby holding the wrench while Billy had a utility knife in his hand,
pushing the blade in and out with his thumb in an intimidating manner. They
both had a sort of sick, playful smirk on their faces, but they didn’t know
what Sam did, so he wasn’t feeling that scared anymore. He was hopeful and had
faith.
“Missed us?” Robby asked with a taunting tone that also crept into his eyes,
stopping on Sam’s left side while Billy stood on his right.
“Screw you,” he spat, then remembered the phone in his pocket and raised his
voice. “Do you sickos do this often, huh? Kidnap kids and bring them back to
your little shack, beat them up for your own enjoyment? Doesn’t matter how loud
they are, because nobody can hear them in the forest.” Sam snorted derisively,
masking how that sent a bolt of pain through his abdomen with a sneer. “You two
disgust me.”
“We leave you alone for a minute and now suddenly you’ve got a mouth on ya.”
The boy chuckled, shaking his head before pressing the dirty sole of his shoe
against Sam’s side, nudging and giving him little pushes that nearly made him
fall over. “No, you fuckin’ brat, you’re our first. And what a fun first you
are. We usually only play with animals like this, beat and skin them while
they’re still alive, but…” He trailed off, sliding the wrench down the other’s
spine before hooking the tool’s jaw into Sam’s pants and giving it a tug. “Now
that we know how much better humans are, I think we’re gon’ start a new
tradition, starting with you.”
“Wha—” Sam began in slight panic, which only doubled when he felt as Robby
yanked on his pants, gradually pulling them off him. That wasn’t good, not at
all and for many reasons, and he instinctively began squirming and thrashing,
though only with his lower half, because yeah, the snare. “Get your hands off
me!” he shouted in irritation, trying to use his good leg to somehow kick Robby
in the face, and then suddenly he did stop, but that didn’t matter. Sam’s pants
have been tugged down to his knees, and he could barely stop the frustrated
tears that stung his eyes when he felt the wind against his bare ass, that
fucker apparently bringing his underwear along with his pants.
“Ooh, nice,” Billy drawled with twisted appreciation, lips stretching into a
grin when Sam shot a piercing glare at him. “What’s wrong, pet? Don’t like the
cold?”
“Hey, what’s this?” He felt Robby’s hands fumbling with his pants, and then he
suddenly felt a hateful mix of nauseating dread and terror when the boy pulled
out the phone from his pocket. Sam’s vocal chords failing to work, he just
watched with slightly wide, fear-stricken eyes as Robby scowled at the phone
before pressing some buttons on it, then looked up from the screen at Billy.
“The bitch was calling someone.”
“What?” Billy blinked smartly. “The cops?”
The boy shook his head. “Some dude named John,” he said before fixing Sam with
a hard, warning look. “That your daddy you’ve been yappin’ about?”
“Maybe. Or maybe it’s a friend of mine who just so happens to be a police
officer,” he lied with a poker face, then leveled Robby with a threatening look
of his own. “Either way, I’d suggest you run.”
A long silence followed, with practically everyone glaring at everyone, then
Robby took a step back, pressed something else on the phone and raised it. “Say
hi to the camera.”
“Whatcha doin’?” Billy asked warily, but he already had a smirk tugging at the
corner of his lips.
“Takin’ a video. A little surprise for this John guy,” he explained, flashing a
mischievous grin at a pretty horrified Sam. “Why don’t you try saying…’I’m a
worthless piece of trash’?”
Sam couldn’t believe this was happening. He didn’t think things could take a
turn for the worse, but here he was, naked and on the cold ground, shivering
each time the chilly breeze washed away the thin layer of warmth his body was
emitting, his best escape plan was ruined, and now he was being ordered to
degrade himself by saying stupid shit like that. Well, to hell with that. “No,”
he refused, plain and simple, tone dogged and final. “If you want to hear it
that bad, then you say it. It would suit you much more, anyway.”
Robby’s grin twitched, eyes narrowing somewhat challengingly as he glanced at
Billy, and before Sam could’ve realized what that silent look meant, he was
hissing and letting out a small, sharp cry as the thin blade of the utility
knife slashed across his back, leaving a pulsing cut behind that started
bleeding almost immediately.
“Still no, bunny?” Billy purred teasingly as he slowly slid the knife along
Sam’s shoulder blade, a sound very close to a whimper escaping him at the
torturous feeling of his skin being sliced painstakingly slowly, so much he
could feel as every inch gradually gave way to the steel and split open.
“C’mon, you know you can say it. You only need a liiiittle bit of
encouragement.” He moved the blade back and forth in the wound on Sam’s
shoulder, wriggling it between the cut and spreading the flesh apart, the pain
as Billy played with his fresh, bleeding wound so raw and intense that he
couldn’t help but scream.
“N-No,” he growled through gritted teeth, swallowing back tears as he dug his
nails into the earth beneath him to somehow distract himself from the coarse
pain. “No, no, I won’t say it, fuck you, I’m not saying it…” Sam hung his head,
breaking out in cold sweat and closing his eyes, letting his shaggy hair block
his view of the boys and their vicious grins, and starting to feel a tiny bit
dizzy from all the pain he was experiencing today. A weak, almost defeated
shiver rippled through his body as blood trickled down his shoulder and ribs,
the warmth they carried strangely pleasant, but then he was abruptly brought
back to the here and now, woken from his brief daze as he got stabbed in the
small of his back, the overwhelming pain drawing another scream from him.
“He’s just going to keep doing it, you know? Rip your back to shreds until you
finally say it,” he heard Robby’s voice, it sounding somewhat distant from the
ringing in Sam’s ears.
Panting heavily and licking his bloody, dry lips, Sam’s eyes fluttered open—at
least the right one, as he could barely even open the left one anymore—and he
lifted his head to glower at Robby. Clearing his throat, he then snarled, “I
don’t care. You can…can do whatever you want, but you won’t hear me saying
that. I’ll never say something like that, especially not to a pair of piss-ants
like you.”
They stared at each other, Sam and Robby, and he was pleased to see the boy
being the first to look away. He wasn’t feeling too smug anymore when he saw
the glint of something mysterious and wicked in the other’s eyes, though, and
he watched nervously as Robby beckoned his brother over and gave him the phone.
“Hold this,” he said, a crooked grin crossing his face as he looked back at
Sam. “So you say you don’t care. That you’ll never sing for us, little birdie.”
He wandered over to the toolbox and tossed the wrench back into it, before
bending down and picking up the screwdriver. “But I think I could make you
change your mind. Let’s see…shall we?”
Sam kept his probably comically wide eyes on the boy until the very moment he
disappeared behind him, after which he began scraping at the ground uneasily,
holding his breath, because he couldn’t see Robby, couldn’t crawl away, and
that look in his eyes when he said that, that sadistic and depraved look, oh
god, it had Sam very close to having a panic attack right there. Wordless
seconds trickled by like that, with Sam having to wait for the boy to do
something; however when it finally happened, he wished he could’ve just stayed
suspended in an endless wait instead.
The pointy end of the screwdriver trailed down the cleft of his ass,
immediately causing him to tense up, blood-curdling fright turning him to
stone, but when he felt a hand on his ass, a newfound energy surged through him
and Sam leaned away from the unwanted touch, body shuddering in disgusted
anger. “What are you doing?!” he demanded, frustration and an overbearing fear
coursing through his veins as the sharp, cool steel stopped at his entrance and
gave it a few experimental pokes.
“Teaching you how to behave. And makin’ you understand that refusing to do as
we say,” Robby responded with audible malice in his voice, pausing to push the
tip of the screwdriver into the other’s hole, “has consequences.”
Without warning, the boy forced the rest of the tool inside, shoving it in with
unforgiving force and speed, and Sam let out a loud scream as his insides lit
up with blinding pain. The screwdriver damaged his hole on its way in, and must
have done a worse job once in his ass, because it felt like he’s been impaled
on an ice pick, the cold feel of the metal only intensifying the pain, which in
itself was bad enough. He couldn’t have been sure, but it certainly felt like
he has been cut, the screwdriver biting and tearing into his burning, tender
and delicate flesh like a monster’s claw, dragging along the walls of his
passage and sending overpowering waves of agony through Sam, paralyzing him in
his state of shock. Distress was abruptly replaced by the Hell going on in his
ass when Robby began moving the screwdriver, twisting and turning it inside
before pulling and pushing again, the thrusts drawn-out, yet still unbearable,
and Sam found himself crying out and jolting from the slightest drag.
“No! Stop, stop it!” he screamed pathetically, trying to crawl away in vain,
then clenching his ass and attempting to seal it when the screwdriver was
withdrawn, but that only made the ruthless slide back of the tool even more
painful than before. The ache all over his body, the throbbing in his ankle and
his face were all snuffed out by this new terrifying feeling, this piercing
torment that left him shaking, his facial expression a painting of pure
suffering as he tried so hard to keep the shrieks to the minimum, but it was
impossible. Sam thought he could take it, would be able to withstand anything
that came his way, but as it turns out, that was clearly not the case. He has
never felt pain like this before, didn’t think it was possible, but he was
practically getting fucked by a screwdriver, and it hurt so goddamn much.
He couldn’t keep his eyes open, but closing them only made the pain worse for
some reason, so he settled on just staring at the ground while sounds only a
wounded animal would make left his lips, and as he watched something small and
transparent drop onto a strand of grass before slowly trickling down on it, Sam
realized he was crying.
“There you go, wailing like a little pig,” Robby said scornfully, laughing as
he smacked the other’s ass with his free hand, Sam flinching at the suddenness
and sting of it. “Now, piggy, won’t you accept your role as trash and say the
words already? Or do you wanna keep takin’ this screwdriver up your whore ass
instead?”
Biting down on a whine, he sniffled and blinked back the tears. “No, no, but I
won’t, no…” he refused weakly, the tiniest hint of a whimper creeping into his
voice which was rather close to breaking, to betraying him. He wasn’t going to
give in, no matter how much it hurt. They could cut off his legs for all he
cared, dismember or mutilate him, but they’d never get those words out of him,
Sam knew that much for sure.
At least he thought he did, until Robby began picking up the speed with which
he was moving the screwdriver in him.
Sam screamed, loud and unrestrained and wretched, as the boy literally stabbed
the tool into his ass, spreading his cheeks with one hand while the other just
kept cruelly shoving the tool into him, kept yanking it out before driving it
right back in with so much force, so damn roughly he was sure that thing was
splitting him apart and turning his insides to pulpy mush, the mystery of
whether he was bleeding or not quickly solved when he felt something warm
oozing from his hole and trickling down his skin. It was the worst so far, the
pain excruciating and all-consuming, and he just couldn’t control his voice
anymore, deafening cries and yelps escaping him as he writhed uncontrollably,
his throat turning sore very soon, and at a particularly brutal thrust that
must have left another hole inside him, Sam broke and began sobbing.
“Sorry, sorry! I’m a worthless piece of trash, I am, so please stop! Stop!” he
whined miserably, tear-stained cheeks burning with humiliation and
exasperation, arms and legs trembling from the continuous effort to support his
weight.
He stopped screaming when the assault on his hole halted, his aching chest
heaving rapidly as he panted, taking in frantic breaths and finally closing his
eyes, then made a quiet, protesting sound as his chin was grabbed and tilted
up, and Sam reluctantly blinked his one working eye open to see Billy leering
at him wolfishly with a lopsided grin on his face. “Good boy,” he cooed, moving
his fingers to the other’s cheeks and squishing them teasingly while holding
the phone to his face. “Here, give the camera a kiss.”
Sam shot a feeble glare at the boy, trying to wrench his head out of Billy’s
grip, but when he accidentally moved too far and caused the snare to tighten
its unrelenting hold, he gave up and stayed still instead. The screwdriver
still embedded in his ass, resting all the way inside him, he couldn’t be sure
if they were done with him, the dangers of that nightmarish object hurting him
again a very real possibility still, so when Billy began petting his hair and
coaxing him into blowing a kiss to the phone’s camera, Sam only let himself
keep glaring and hesitate for a few minutes before pursing his lips. He was
blushing like mad, shamefaced and humiliated as he made a kissy face and looked
at the camera, the sound his lips made as he blew a kiss painfully loud in the
tense silence of the forest, and his eyes watered again with mortified tears,
because this was so degrading.
First they beat him, then make him bleed, and now this. Sam would need loads of
chocolate and strawberry cakes to recover after this, but somewhere in the
deeper, darker parts of his mind, he was beginning to doubt if there’d even be
an “after this”.
If he’d be able to get out of this situation alive…
 
***** Team Effort *****
 
“No.”
Billy, kneeling in front of him and still videotaping him with the phone,
patted the patch of grass invitingly, a determined wickedness present in his
penetrating blue eyes. “Don’t be like that. You’re a baby bunny, my pet bunny,
so I’ve gotta take care of ya. Gotta feed you, and we all know that bunnies
love grass,” he said with a derisive edge to his voice, the boy grinning at him
with an almost childish mischief.
He has been trying to convince Sam to eat some grass for the past few minutes,
but hasn’t succeeded in his mission yet, and if it was up to Sam, then he never
would. He had no plans on humiliating himself any further, thank you very much,
and kept refusing the boy’s considerate offer each time, but he also wasn’t
stupid. He knew that, sooner or later, he’d have to do it. Either that, or the
screwdriver would pick up where it left off, Sam just sensing how eager Robby
was to hurt him some more, if the way that sick fuck kept stroking his ass was
anything to go by.
So while he managed to buy himself some extra painless seconds, the moment he
saw Billy look over the his shoulder at the other boy, raising his eyebrows
expectantly, Sam gulped, swallowing down his pride as he was once again forced
to submit to these evil brothers’ teasing. Before Robby could’ve pulled the
screwdriver out and thrusting it back in, Sam was leaning down as much as he
could without pulling on the snare, but even like that, he couldn’t reach the
tuft of grass, not even as he poked his tongue out and tried to desperately
lick it.
Laughing at his failure, Billy grasped some grass and tore them from the
ground, then held his palm out for Sam. “There you go, bun-bun. Eat away,” he
purred encouragingly, chapped lips curling into a sneer.
Sam’s eyes flicked over to the phone as he uttered a silent prayer to anyone
who’d listen, begging for John to have heard at least a small bit of the
conversation over the phone, hoping his dad was on the way to come get him.
Then he tried to shut his brain down, ignore the voice in his head screaming at
him not to give in, not to turn into an obedient and compliant little
plaything, because really, what else was there to do? Pain or humiliation, he
had to choose between the two, and while he would have normally chosen the
former in a heartbeat…it was too much. He was a coward, afraid of the
screwdriver and the unforgettable, extreme pain it promised, of the way it tore
into him and made him wonder if this was Hell, if he didn’t actually get killed
when he thought he merely lost consciousness and was now trapped in Hell,
doomed to suffer through a colorful range and variety of torments intended to
break him, to strip him off his dignity and hope.
So instead of knocking the grass out of the boy’s hand and—since he was pretty
close—attempting to bite a chunk out of his neck just as he had planned, Sam
lowered his head and parted his lips, hesitating before gathering up a few
strands of grass with his tongue from the other’s palm and giving them a
tentative chew. Well, no surprise there. They tasted like grass, bitter and
earthy, bearing some similarities to salad, but while Sam enjoyed munching of
salad leaves on boring days, eating this type of green wasn’t that fun. He
pulled a face, as the more he chewed, the stronger the taste got, and he shoved
the grass behind his teeth, gradually grinding them between his molars until
they had a puree type of consistency, making them easier to swallow. At least
he thought it would be easier, but he still ended up grimacing and coughing,
having to swallow repeatedly to stop himself from gagging.
“Don’t forget the rest of your meal,” Billy reminded him, lifting his palm and
moving it closer to the other’s mouth, Sam tempted to bite the hand, but chose
to glare at the boy instead while grudgingly finishing his grass dinner.
It took him a minute or two, but in the end, he managed to eat all of it, not
feeling extremely proud of himself. He would’ve been glad if he could have
thrown it all up, preferably right on Billy’s clothes. He held his nausea under
control, though, because knowing them, they’d only make him lap up his own
vomit or something, and he wasn’t quite ready to undergo something so fucking
disgusting yet. Or ever. Definitely never ever.
“Aw, you ate it all! You really are such a tame, sweet little bunny now.
Learned your lesson, haven’t you?” the boy drawled with an adoring, somewhat
demented smile, scratching Sam under his chin, the touch making him shudder in
revulsion.
“Don’t touch me,” he snapped violently, pulling back and slapping the other’s
invasive hand away. “I’m not a fuckin’ tame anything.”
Billy frowned, then did something that could only be called a bitchslap, Sam’s
head whipping to the side from the strength of the blow. “Haven’t I already
told you that pets don’t talk back? Or speak in general?” He shook his head
disapprovingly and tossed the phone to the ground after pressing something on
it, probably ending the video, but Sam wasn’t sure if he should be relieved or
terrified by that. The boy then got to his feet, dusting off his pants as he
stared at Sam, who really didn’t like the dark, viciously mischievous look on
his face. “Maybe it’s time I stuffed your filthy mouth full o’somethin’, shut
you up for good.”
There was an amused laugh from behind him as Robby said, “I think I’ll help you
with that.” And then all of a sudden, the screwdriver was yanked out of his ass
and Sam gasped with a painful cry, wobbling on his hands and knees as he tried
not collapsing to the ground, hissing quietly as he seethed, letting his head
hang a little. Great, he swore if that asshole was going to shove even more
glass into his mouth, Sam was going to spit them right back into his face and
then probably go rabid on him, his frustrated rage slowly overpowering self-
preservation.
He didn’t like the silence. A lack of taunting remarks usually meant some more
pain, so he forced his good eye open—the other one was just swollen shut, so he
didn’t even bother trying to crack it open anymore—and looked up just in time
to see Billy’s pants and underwear hitting the ground before the boy stepped
out of them. Sam just stared and stared for a good moment, brain short-
circuiting from the appalling sight in front of him, and when he caught on,
realized what the hell was happening, he suddenly wished his other eye wouldn’t
be working as well.
And then he went haywire.
“What the fuck?” he growled and hissed like a frenzied cat, even curving his
back and baring his teeth, panic only bubbling up inside him even more when the
boy took a hold of his thin, flaccid dick and began jerking it.
“Bad bunny, ain’t ya?” Billy drawled with a honeyed voice, soft moans rolling
past his lips as he thumbed his slit, then licked his lips and glanced at
Robby. “Bet he’s a lil’ virgin.”
“Oh yeah,” the other said with a chuckle, Sam yelping and driven to the verge
of tears again as he felt a finger circling his throbbing, bleeding hole,
before disappearing and replaced by something hot and heavy, Robby freaking
smacking Sam’s ass with his dick while groaning. “Beggin’ for a cock in that
slutty hole of his. Need it so bad, don’t cha?” he mocked, spreading the
other’s cheeks as he switched to grinding his erection against the cleft of
Sam’s ass. “Well, we gon’ give it to you.”
He was going to hurl, this time he was sure of it. “No! Get your paws off me,
you disgusting piece of—” he yelled in a mix of fury and horror while
struggling as much as the snare let him, trying to frantically get away from
the hard flesh sliding back and forth on his ass, but then his head snapped
back as Billy grabbed a fistful of his hair and pulled fiercely, drawing a
startled gasp from him.
“Nu-uh, bunny,” the boy sneered, getting down on one knee as he tried to force
his fingers between Sam’s teeth and open his mouth. “Now open up nice and wide
for me, will yah?”
Sam let the fingers slip into his mouth just so he could bite down on them,
hard, sinking his teeth into the digits with every intention of gnawing them
off, the boy’s shriek of pain and surprise only driving him on; but then
suddenly he was the one crying out, the flingers vanishing from his mouth as
Robby must have grown bored of just humping his ass, and was now in the process
of pushing the head of his dick into Sam’s abused hole, growling when it kept
slipping out.
“Lemme in, bitch,” Robby snarled, slapping the other’s ass so hard it rocked
his body forward and right into the other dick waiting for him, Sam whimpering
in utter repulsion and turning his head to the side when Billy nudged the head
of his own cock against his lips, then rubbed it against his cheek.
“Yeah, me too,” he purred impatiently, moving the hand that was gripping Sam’s
hair to his jaw and pressing down on it while massaging the now rock-hard flesh
in his other hand. It wasn’t too thick, but it was long like some fucking
snake, and Sam was actually scared it might come alive and bite him. He gritted
his teeth together, tenacious and unwilling, determined not to ever open his
mouth and let that thing inside, and while he tried doing the same with his
rear, clenching his sore hole so as to forbid any sort of entrance, Robby still
managed to force his way in after a painstaking amount of time, slowly pushing
deeper and deeper and stretching Sam open.
And god, did it hurt. His already wounded, bleeding hole was tearing even more
open, getting split in two by the huge cock—because Robby was way older and,
apparently, had a way bigger package down there than his brother—burning
through him like a fiery iron rod, grazing painfully against the wounds inside
him and worsening them, all the while creating new ones. Sam was pretty sure
something tore, probably his hole, because blood was now trickling down his
thighs as well. Blocking out the pain was impossible, and he was getting
distracted by it too, his muffled screams of suffering escaping into the world
when Billy succeeded in opening his mouth and just slid home, Sam’s working eye
bulging as he wailed around the salty flesh which he immediately bit down on.
“Fuck!” Billy howled and punched Sam until he let go of his dick. Sputtering,
he shuddered and went back to letting out horrible yelps and barely controlled
screams as Robby began fucking him, grip so firm on his hips that he couldn’t
have escaped even if he didn’t have a goddamn snare around his throat. The
older boy kept snapping his hips aggressively, pounding Sam’s ass roughly, and
then he was crying again, couldn’t stop the flow of hot tears because it hurt
so much, and it was disgusting and he was getting raped. Raped. By two people,
one of them already groaning and growling like some beast behind him while
screwing him raw and bloody, and the other cradling his cock while hissing and
glaring at Sam.
Not trusting his ability to speak while he was sobbing and whimpering, but
feeling way too much hatred in his soul right now, he carefully let up on the
pressure he was exacting on his teeth while clenching his jaw and holding back
some of the more pitiful screams, and flashed the best glare he could muster at
Billy, which was pretty much just a weak frown. “You deserve to ha-have your
dick—” Sam cried out, cutting himself off as a particularly deep and savage
thrust sent an electric shock of pure pain from his ass to his entire body, it
spreading through his limbs and ripping his nerves to shreds, blinding him for
a moment before he continued. “Deserve…to have it chopped o-off, you toothless
son of a bitch…!”
He kept his eyes on the boy while his body rocked back and forth, Sam waiting
for the moment he’d get used to the pain in his ass and would be able to ignore
it, though that might have been wishful thinking from his part, because fuck,
it felt like his hole was on fire, and watched as Billy returned his previous
glare, his much more intense, getting to his feet with an alarmingly
unrecognizable look in his eyes. “Yeah? Alright,” the boy said as he ran his
tongue along the little teeth he had, before wandering to the toolbox and
pulling out a hammer from its depths, waving it in front of Sam’s nose as he
walked back and got into his kneeling position. “Wanna hear you say that once
I’ve got yer teeth out of the way and my cock in your mouth.”
A heart-stopping fear hit him as he looked at the hammer in the other’s hand,
then immediately ducked his head and pressed his lips together, not even trying
to hold back the frenzied, horrified whimper anymore when Billy yanked his head
back, then wrapped an arm around his neck, before shoving rough fingers past
his taut lips and prying them open.
“C’mon bunny, don’t fight it,” Billy cooed, keeping the other’s head in place
while sinking his nails into Sam’s lips, his already bleeding and aching flesh
hurting even more from the violently determined action, but he still refused to
cooperate, focused on covering his teeth with his lips at all cost.
“Yeah, you ain’t really got another choice,” he heard Robby’s voice over the
protesting sounds he was making, felt the boy sliding his hands from Sam’s hips
to his ass. “Just accept the cocks we’re givin’ you, you fuckin’ cockslut.” He
then spread the other’s cheeks, digging his thumbs in his surely blood covered
skin, before upping the tempo and finally, breaking Sam. “Fuck, tight little
hole swallowin’ me right up, that’s right,” Robby groaned, then kept talking,
filth pouring out of his mouth, but he wasn’t listening anymore because his ass
was getting destroyed, and Sam’s brain simply couldn’t keep up with what was
happening anymore.
He tried. He was a hunter, raised to withstand much more than your average
human, and he really, honestly tried his damnest to take it while holding on to
his fighting spirit, along with his sanity. But as Robby’s thrusts sped up,
turned from brutal to vicious, inhuman and bloodthirsty, as he somehow managed
to shove his thick cock even further up Sam’s ass and fucked him so hard his
body was pushed right into the first hit of the hammer, years of training and
inner strength disappeared, leaving him hollow and crushed, ruined. Words got
lost in his throat, scurrying back to his brain which gradually shut down, all
thoughts leaving him aside from one, from a single knowledge. Pain. A whole
world of pain, his world, Sam’s soul and every single fiber of his being, body,
buzzing and pulsing, glowing with white-hot pain, his damaged mind laser-
focusing on it since it was so great, so overpowering it dwarfed everything
else. Sorrow and nausea, anger and frustration, humiliation, they all ceased to
exist, leaving only the pure, thunderous pain behind that crept into his
system, filled him from head to toe and pushed heartbreaking screams and wails
out of him, the sounds becoming high-pitched and loud like a siren as the face
of the hammer was brought down over and over on his teeth, Sam’s mouth
overflowing with blood as his incisors were knocked out, the strong taste of
copper making his stomach lurch, however not as much as when Billy’s cock
slipped past his lips and empty gums, and found its way at the back of his
throat.
He couldn’t bite down even if he had enough working brain cells left, for his
teeth were missing, plus his gums hurt so much Sam rather opened his mouth
wider instead of closing it, since the way the hard flesh slid and dragged
along his bleeding and sensitive gums only sent more pain shooting through him.
Billy was shoving in too far and fast, Sam alternating between choking on his
blood, the boy’s dick, or both at the same time, all the while screaming around
the intrusion and crying like he had a never-ending supply of tears. Both boys
were cursing and moaning in delight while fucking him, rocking his body back
and forth and into each other’s thrusts, finding the perfect rhythm with which
they could make Sam experience pain every millisecond. There were no better
times, no pauses, just a constant flow of agony and suffering as he gagged, it
being a miracle he didn’t throw up and just die from choking on his vomit, and
as the minutes kept growing, he found himself wishing for that to happen.
Amidst all the pain was a tiny voice crying for help, needing this to stop. He
was hurting too much, body and mind and soul, and he just wanted out, hoping
for unconsciousness or even death to save him from the clutches of this evil,
this torture plucked straight out of his worst nightmare and made into reality.
He would have welcomed the sweet release of death anytime now, anything but
this, this insufferable feeling in his ass and whole body.
So Sam Winchester, defeated and desolate, shut himself down, crying and
whimpering, and waiting, now only living for the moment he would stop doing
so—the moment he’d stop breathing, forever.
 
***** Lost and Found *****
 
For the first several minutes, he was excited and eager, all grins of mischief
and a spring in his steps.
For the next few, he was bored and sighing almost every minute, getting
impatient and wondering what the hell was taking so long.
And now, he was restless and beginning to worry.
Dean tapped his fingers on his knee as he sat on the couch, the pie he took out
to soothe his nerves sitting untouched on the coffee table before him, but the
black ball of dread that had showed itself around five minutes ago didn’t let
him indulge in the sweet treat, his stomach aching with something nagging, the
queasy feeling only growing stronger as time passed. He glanced at the clock
again, but only a minute had gone by since the last time he checked, and he
wondered if he was slowly going crazy, because he couldn’t stay still, left
knee bouncing restlessly, and even his heartbeat had accelerated, Dean unable
to get it under control, not even as he took deep breaths to calm himself.
One hour. Taking some eggs to some crumbling little cabin, throwing them at it,
and then walking back wasn’t supposed to take so long. Maybe twenty minutes,
thirty max. Sam was supposed to be back here by now so Dean could tease him and
kick his ass if he forgot to take pictures, but his little brat of a brother
was nowhere to be seen, and he was starting to get worried. What if the kid got
lost? It would be just like him to scramble up his inner compass and find
himself trapped in a maze of trees. He’d then probably sulk, or get scared and
call out for Dean.
Or maybe not. Maybe the idiot tripped over a ledge or stepped into a bear trap,
was now all alone in the cold, in pain and unable to come home. Damn it, he
always made fun of Sam for not having a cell phone, but now he wished more than
ever that he’d have one so he could call and check up on his brother.
“Where the hell is he?” he mumbled under his breath, sighing for the hundredth
time today, then got fed up with just sitting around and waiting for something
to happen, and got up, grabbing his jacket from the chair it was draper over
and striding to the door.
Once outside, he leaned against the cabin and rubbed his arms. The heating
inside wasn’t the best, but it still beat the biting cold the weather had
turned into since the last time he’s been outside. The temperature has dropped
along with the sun, the orange orb withdrawing from the sky and hovering
horizontally over the ground, only a matter of time now before it disappeared
completely, drawing the rest of its radiant rays back and letting the darkness
take over, seeping into the forest and painting the leaves in silver from the
moonlight. For now, though, light remained, a warm glow in the cold as the
faint, lazy flame-colored sunlight contoured the shadows cast by the trees
littering the woods, Dean watching as the whole forest gained a golden tint
from the aureate gleam for a long moment, before pushing himself away from the
wall and walking into the scenery belonging to a painting.
He didn’t have time for this. He’s waited long enough, and his big brother
instincts were beginning to warn him, a small red alert going off in the back
of his head from Sam’s prolonged absence. He could’ve been anywhere, but
deciding that checking the other cabin first would be the smartest option, Dean
stepped onto the dirt path as soon as he spotted it in the distance, leaving
the rest of the forest for later. If Sam wasn’t at the end of the path, he’d be
forced to search the whole place, every nook and cranny of the woods, and while
the thought alone had him feeling exhausted, he knew he’d do it anyway,
promising himself that he wouldn’t rest until he found his little brother.
Calling out, shouting Sam’s name as he walked but never getting an answer, Dean
was slowly feeling worse and worse, and it wasn’t long before he was taking his
steps hurriedly, his voice unnerved and his breathing rapid, the hands which he
had slipped in his pockets for warmth now running through his hair or swaying
uselessly at his sides as he speed-walked, following the slithering path while
looking for any clues, maybe a broken egg, anything.
He kept going for a while longer before the first sound reached him.
Immediately stopping and staying still so he wouldn’t miss the next sound
thanks to the leaves crunching beneath his shoes, Dean strained his ears, and
soon enough, there came another sound. He couldn’t quite make out what it was,
but it definitely came from someone, and since it also appeared to be coming
from the way he was heading, he didn’t hesitate before taking off running
further down the path. As he went, the sounds became clearer, and both
confusion and a strange sort of fright welled up in him as he realized they
were groans, sounding rather pleased and different. Two voices, moaning and
cursing as if they were getting it on in the woods, and for a brief moment,
Dean halted and wondered if he should keep going, risk the possibility of
seeing some potentially scarring sex scene, as from what he could tell, the
voices were both male. And he really didn’t feel like taking a peek at some
live-action gay porn. Or any kind of gay porn, really.
As soon as he heard the third voice, though, all his reluctance about
witnessing some weird sex vanished, replaced by bone-chilling terror that left
him nailed to the ground for what seemed like an eternity, before he was once
again darting toward the sounds.
Nothing could have prepared him for what he saw next.
Sam was one of those rare people that had true goodness in their heart. Dean
was always proud of him for that, for not letting this sick world dirty him.
When he was fourteen, he used to be a bitter kid, hating this life, just like
Sam now; but the difference between them was that his little brother was always
smiling. Those dimples were God-given, absolutely beautiful, even if he
sometimes poked them teasingly. Another thing that had him grinning with pride
was how brave Sam was. Like a true hunter, he was headstrong and could already
throw a nasty punch, had the brains of a genius and the agility of a cat, and
Dean knew that this boy would one day grow up to be an honorable man others
would look up to, someone he’d be glad to have as a brother.
He never once thought he’d have to see the kid like that, so bloodied and
broken, and with two guys raping him.
The kid, his precious, strong little brother, didn’t seem that dangerous
anymore on his hands and knees. Naked, body full of wounds and bruises, and a
once bright, pretty face now decorated with a horrible black-eye, with pools of
blood under him, Sam looked beaten and damaged beyond repair, the weak, quiet
whimpers leaving him not even sounding like his brother. He had one literally
bloody cock slip-sliding in and out of his mouth, while another one was
pounding his ass, and Dean blinked once, before shutting down completely and
letting a murderous fury take over his very being.
“WHAT IS THIS?” he roared, his voice nearly breaking with emotion as he stomped
over to the absurdity taking place before him, wide-eyed and heart breaking
over and over again with each step he took.
“Ah, who the fu—” The piece of shit having his cock in Sammy’s mouth glared at
him, frowning, then was crying out as Dean slugged him in the face, before
tackling him to the ground, his fists raining down on that ugly face until he
noticed a hammer not far from them, then picked it up and bashed the guy’s head
in, not even flinching as blood speckled his face when he crushed the other’s
skull.
“Motherfucker!” the guy fucking Sam’s ass hollered at the sight, pulling out of
his brother and rushing over to him. Dean, with eyes completely devoid of
anything anymore, stood up and slashed the claw of the hammer across the
other’s face, the bastard hissing before lunging at him, but he just stepped
out of the way and brought the hammer down on the back of the guy’s head. He
staggered forward, so Dean did it again, this time sending him to his knees,
then again and again, grunting when he got elbowed in the side, but he didn’t
let that stop him. The guy managed to turn around, was on his back and trying
to kick Dean in the jaw, so he grabbed the foot flying his way and twisted,
breaking it with one sharp, swift movement, then shut the screaming man up by
discarding the hammer and wrapping his hands around the other’s throat. He
squeezed hard, harder than ever, putting all of his weight into it and looking
straight into the rapist’s panicked eyes, while his own stayed dark and cold,
almost emotionless if not for the red-hot rage fueling him and twitching his
lips into a bloodthirsty snarl.
He kept his hands around the corpse’s throat even after the light had gone out
of its eyes, putrid soul leaving its body, then got to his feet and fought the
urge to empty his stomach as he turned around and looked at his brother. Sam
lying on the ground, face-down, seeming way too pale and motionless to Dean.
Horrified, he closed the distance between them in less than a second and knelt
down next to the shattered form of his baby brother, mouth opening and closing
without any words coming out, and bloody hands shaking as he reached out and
tried to remove whatever that thing was around Sam’s neck; however when he
realized it was all but severing his brother’s head, it was wrapped so tightly
around his throat, Dean gasped from panic and shock.
“No…no, no. No,” he whispered, repeating the words as he realized he couldn’t
remove it, and Sam was too still, didn’t seem to be breathing, oh god, no. He
jumped to his feet and rushed to the toolbox the wire was attached to,
frantically looking for something useful before picking up a pair of pliers and
falling back onto his knees next to Sam, cursing wretchedly when the wire only
tightened even more as he tried to cut it. It took him a painstaking amount of
time, but after a while, he managed to use the pliers to cut the wire from his
brother’s throat, immediately removing it and throwing it aside, tears stinging
his eyes when he pulled the unconscious form into his arms. His brother’s skin
was so damn cold to the touch, and he quickly shrugged out of his jacket before
draping it over the other, hoping that could bring some heat back into the poor
thing’s body. “God, Sammy…” Dean swallowed back the tears and held the ruined
form of his brother, not finding the strength in his legs to stand up just yet.
He sat there, brushing sticky strands of hair out of Sam’s face, revealing his
tear-stained cheeks, the several discolored bruises on his skin and the swollen
black-eye, the possibly broken nose, and a mouth still seeping blood. His lips
and chin were covered with it, and for a brief moment Dean was terrified they
have cut his brother’s tongue out, but when he gingerly pulled the kid’s lips
back, he noticed how some of his teeth were missing, a stomach-churning feeling
passing through him as he remembered how there was already blood on the hammer
when he grabbed it.
What have they done to his brother? What kind of monsters were these people?
Dean wanted to kill them again, didn’t feel a shred of guilt over their deaths.
The only thing he regretted was not giving them a slower one.
“Sammy, please,” he pleaded with such a weak voice it even surprised him,
trailing a gentle finger along the nasty wound the wire left on his brother’s
neck. “Please open your eyes. Don’t do this to me, come on kiddo, wake up.
Please…” He swallowed around the lump in his throat, clenching his jaw as he
let some tears escape him, before wiping his eyes and not even daring to look
at what had happened between Sam’s legs as he picked him up, slowly and
carefully standing up with the feather-light kid in his arms. He had taken the
other’s pulse, and it didn’t look good, so he needed to get them back to the
cabin as soon as possible, or his brother might not survive his wounds.
And that wasn’t an option.
He barely took three steps forward when he heard something from behind him, but
before he could’ve turned around, Dean felt the cold, definite press of the
barrel of a gun against the back of his skull.
“You the one who got to my boys?” a disembodied voice asked, sounding pissed
but not as much as Dean.
“Maybe, yeah,” he answered, his voice somewhat raspy from the pent-up emotions
and a frustrated impatience, because he really didn’t have time to deal with
one more of these fuckers. “Would you like to join them?”
His head got nudged forward as the barred was pressed harder against him.
“Scum,” the man spat, then continued after a short pause. “That someone you
know? S’this supposed to be some rescue mission, huh?” He laughed throatily,
the rough sound making Dean want to bash his head in, take the gun from him and
shove it between his teeth before pulling the trigger. “I think you’re too late
with that, son. That bitch’s a goner.”
Gritting his teeth so hard it almost hurt, Dean emitted a low growl and held
the pile of limbs in his arms closer. “Call him that again, and I’m going to
give you the slow death I should’ve given to those two pathetic sacks of shit,”
he snarled threateningly, tone rumbling with black thunderclouds. “And this kid
is strong, you shouldn’t underestimate him. Shouldn’t underestimate me,
either,” he said, before swiftly stepping aside while turning around, then
kicking the man so hard in the knee it buckled under him.
Assessing the situation, Dean knew he had to either act, or let himself be
executed by a bullet to the head. It was a gamble, knew that fighting with Sam
still in his arms was risky, but if he didn’t do anything, both of them would
surely end up dead. The man had a shotgun in his hands instead of the handgun
Dean was expecting, but that actually made disarming him easier, and he managed
to knock the gun out of the other’s hand probably moments before the man
could’ve squeezed off a shot, delivering a brutal kick to his wrist before
stepping on the shotgun, trapping it under his foot.
They glared at each other meaningfully, their intentions crystal clear, then
the man held up his hands while slowly getting to his feet. “Foolish boy. You
can’t save him, or yourself. Think you’re tough?” He scoffed hoarsely. “My
boys, they were tough. Not their fault they got caught off guard with their
pants off, murdered by some nobody,” he hissed, eyes narrowing before a cruel
smirk spread across his face. “But I know they did a good one on the kid. They
always excelled at pushing their playthings to the limit, bending them until
they broke and kicked the bucket.”
“You think I give a shit?” Dean snapped, eyes burning with the hateful fire of
a thousand suns as he glared daggers at the man, honestly considering putting
Sam down just so he could shoot this fucker in the face. “It’s not my brother
lying on the ground with his brains leaking from his skull and dead eyes
staring at the sky, but those two! So you can’t fucking tell me what I can or
cannot do, you poor goddamn excuse for a human being! You’re trash, just like
your spawns, and don’t worry—as soon as I’ve got him somewhere safe, I’ll be
coming back for you and skin you, make you beg for me to kill you.”
The man chuckled, curtly and dismissively. “How are you going to do that? You
won’t leave this place, ever. You and your…brother will die here. I’ll make
sure of that, give you the slow death you’re going on about, show you what
happens when you cross me!” he bellowed all of a sudden, closing the distance
between them and slugging Dean in the face, all in less than a second.
Taken by surprise, he stumbled back, but managed to dodge the next attack which
would have been a rather unpleasant uppercut. Then the man was reaching for the
shotgun in the grass, and Dean knew he really had no choice but let go of Sam
to take care of this situation, so he quickly but carefully lowered him, before
pouncing on his enemy. They struggled for the shotgun, the barrel facing upward
and away from both of them as they tugged on it all the while trying to land
one blow after the other on each other, then finally Dean managed to yank it
out of the other’s grasp after kneeing him in the stomach; but before he
could’ve pointed it at the man’s head and blown his brains out, he was suddenly
getting fucking rugby tackled to the ground. He growled like an animal, pushing
the shotgun away which was now being pressed against his throat horizontally,
the man apparently giving up on using it the way one was supposed to and
instead turning it into a strangling weapon. But while he was stronger than
Dean, he was also too focused on murder and so didn’t anticipate the boy’s hand
shooting up and jabbing two fingers in his eyes.
“You rotten sonofa—” the man shouted in a furious pain, slapping Dean’s hand
away, then let out a strangled grunt when the other punched him in the throat.
“Die,” he spat venomously, as if giving a fatal order, before leveling the
shotgun with the other’s mouth and pulling the trigger, but the asshole rolled
out of the way just in time, the shell whizzing past the man’s ear and soaring
through the air, hitting a tree. Frustrated, Dean whipped the gun back toward
the other but, before he could’ve squeezed off another shot, the weapon was
abruptly grabbed out of his hands, and then he was groaning with his face
screwed up in pain as he received a blow to the forehead with the butt of the
shotgun, sending his head bumping against the hard ground. He cursed and tried
to get a hold of the gun, to kick the man off of him, to thrash around and move
his head, but the harsh hits just kept coming, always striking his forehead and
making him so dizzy he could barely keep up with the hits, the butt of the
shotgun a blur before his unfocused eyes as he tried to get his hands to block
the constant assault on his head…but it wasn’t long before his vision began
fading completely, and fuck, he was going to pass out, shit.
He heard a condescending laugh filled with evil, with a disgusting darkness
that belonged to monsters, and before the last blow could’ve knocked him out,
before he lost consciousness, Dean realized something important that John has
forgot to tell him.
That humans were the worst monsters of them all.
 
***** Are You Afraid of the Dark? *****
 
He woke with a horrible headache, his limbs feeling sore and cold, so very
cold. It was all around him, pressing against him from behind and under him,
sending violent chills across his body, and Dean wondered where he was or what
happened, but as soon as he raised a hand to rub his temples and felt the pain
flare up in his forehead when his fingers touched his aching skin, everything
came back to him, and his heart stopped.
Gasping as the memories—finding Sam, his baby brother lying in his own pool of
blood, split open and hollowed out, limp body corpse-cold, and then murder,
gore everywhere before getting knocked out—rushed back to his throbbing head,
Dean’s eyes flew open; and then panic that was already building in him
expanded, blew up and left him wide-eyed but blind, unseeing, because
everything remained the same. He opened his eyes but he still couldn’t see. It
was dark as if his eyes were still closed, however when he patted his face with
his hands, he noticed he wasn’t blindfolded. Trapped, then. Locked in somewhere
black and cold, and wet.
With his sight robbed of him in the darkness, he used the rest of his senses to
examine his surroundings. The ground under him was soft and wet, gave way
easily under his fingers as he gave the soil a few tentative pokes and presses,
and the wall behind him was damp and moist, ice-cold and made of rough bricks.
It was also round instead of flat, circular, as if it was surrounding him like
a small fortress, as if he was in a hole…
Or the bottom of a well.
Fuck. Fuck, shit, crap. He recalled seeing a well near the cabin, and as he
looked up, he just knew how a few meters above him was the same wooden board
blocking the moonlight from entering the abyss, letting the darkness roam free
and rule over the enclosed space, Dean feeling a claustrophobic dread rush
through him and leave him breathless for a moment. Not good; he needed to get
out of here as soon as possible, climb the bricks and go back to the surface,
couldn’t stay here for too long or else—
Another wave of panic had him nearly throwing up and fainting at the same time,
the fear hitting him so hard he could literally feel the blood draining from
his face. Sam. Where was Sam? Oh god, what happened to him? Who knows how long
Dean’s been out, and what if while he was, the man had gone ahead and killed
his little brother? Or maybe he was torturing him, finishing what his wretched
sons have started, and yeah, Dean was having a panic attack. He was
hyperventilating as he got to his feet, wobbling and panting, hands franticly
feeling around himself and the wall, looking for a brick that was sticking out
far enough so he could use it to climb, but then he stilled, body freezing mid-
step like a photo, completely motionless, and he even stopped breathing for the
tip of his foot nudged against something.
Something soft and very probably having the consistency of human flesh.
In a matter of seconds, Dean was on his knees and reaching out, a cocktail of
emotions crashing down on him, and he felt both relief and a petrifying sorrow
as he gently trailed his hands up his little brother’s body, hissing in
sympathy when his fingertips brushed against an uncountable number of wounds.
Sam was naked once again, his jacket missing from the other’s frail, freezing
body, but Dean let himself relax only momentarily as he took a hold of his
brother’s wrist and found a weak pulse. He was immediately filled with concern
and all the depressing heart-wrenching emotions that came with it when he
realized that Sammy was lying in the muddy dirt with his wounds, and without
hesitating, he sat right back against the wall and scooped the lax form into
his arms, feeling something warm dripping onto his pants as he maneuvered his
brother into a position in which he was straddling Dean, who closed his eyes
and tried not to think of the reason why blood was still seeping from the
other’s behind.
He was at a complete loss, not knowing what to do first, then just decided to
lean Sam’s body against his chest while he attempted to clean the wounds that
seemed to be smudged with dirt. He could only use his fingers to wipe the dirt
away, but it was better than nothing, and after he was done, Dean lightly
traced his clean fingertips along the other’s cuts and gashes, studying which
were worse and needed immediate care that, unfortunately, he couldn’t give his
brother. There were smaller cuts on the small of Sam’s back, some of them
seemingly deeper than what his fingers told him, judging from the amount of
blood caked around them, then many others scattered across the rest of it. The
worse was probably the gash on the kid’s shoulder—a straight line running from
his spine to his shoulder, traversing the shoulder blade. It was deep and wide
enough that if he wanted, Dean could’ve slipped his pinky inside it. And it
made him sick.
“Hey, Sammy?” he whispered faintly, voice quieter than he expected and breaking
halfway like it had a faulty wire. Wrapping one arm around his little brother’s
waist, careful not to exert pressure on any of the wounds there, he kept the
other in place as he tucked a few strands of hair behind his ear, his head an
apparent weight on Dean’s shoulder. He made sure Sam was leaning on the better
side of his face, the one without the black-eye, and he caressed the other’s
cheek with the back of his fingers, very gingerly gliding them over the
swelling surrounding his brother’s eye and grimacing. It felt pretty bad, would
need a lot of ice packs to bring down the swelling, along with days of rest,
but after that, it should be fine.
However that was only one of his many worries, one of the many damages Sam’s
body has suffered, and he honestly had no idea how to fix all of them. A
hospital would come in handy, but first they needed to somehow get out of this
well. He couldn’t carry his brother out, couldn’t climb the bricks while
holding onto an unconscious body, so he needed the kid awake. But at the same
time, maybe dragging him back to the conscious world, with all these surely
horribly painful wounds would be akin to torture for the poor thing, and Dean
didn’t want him hurting any more. Staying here while doing nothing wasn’t an
option, though, so with a heavy heart, he decided to wake Sammy up as soon as
possible, the pain they’d both feel a necessary evil, a sacrifice they’d have
to make in order to escape from here.
Sighing, he planted a feather-light kiss on what he believed what Sam’s
forehead, about to give a little shake to the kid when he frowned. His lips,
compared to the other’s skin, were burning, and he doubted he had a fever. It
was his brother who was slowly succumbing to hypothermia, but Dean couldn’t
have that. He wouldn’t allow something like that defeat Sam, had promised
himself he’d keep him safe, and he was bent on keeping that promise. He was
also cold, could barely feel his fingers, but he didn’t care. His well-being
came last, and so Dean ignored the uncomfortable shivers shaking his body as he
pulled his shirt over his head and leaned back against the sharp, icy brick
wall, the cold only intensifying how the rough surface dug into the skin on his
back, the grating feeling uncomfortable but not even half as bad as Sam could
be feeling. Putting his shirt on the other’s unconscious body wasn’t that easy,
but after around a minute of fumbling, he had the fabric hanging loosely on his
brother’s upper body, and even though he couldn’t see anything, he knew the kid
must have looked so lithe and tiny, brittle in Dean’s oversized shirt.
He pulled Sam in close, pressing their chests flush together while keeping his
hold gentle, as if he was cradling the body. Blinking into the darkness, he
listened to the only thing he could hear, which was his little brother’s
breathing. It was barely audible and slow, shallow, and whenever Dean thought
it stopped, thought he couldn’t hear anything anymore, he reached up with
trembling hands and tilted the other’s head back so he could listen closer,
each time letting out a silent, relieved sigh when he felt the soft caress of
Sammy’s breath against his skin.
When he knew he couldn’t hold it off any longer, Dean raised a hand to the
other’s head and began stroking it, gently and tenderly, before clearing his
throat and mumbling into his little brother’s hair. “Sammy, wake up. You’ve
gotta wake up, please. I know it’s bad, I know you don’t want to, and I’m so
sorry, but I need you to do it. I’m sorry…” He sniffled, a sad smile crossing
his face because he could feel those persistent tears welling up in his eyes
again.
Sorry. A sorry wasn’t going to fix this. This, which was ultimately his fault,
wasn’t it? Dean tried not thinking about it, was too busy being angry and
frightened for his baby brother to see the very core of the problem. He was the
one who asked, no, who insisted on sending Sam out here to carry out some
stupid, childish prank, just because he was bored. Just because he wanted
entertainment, and his brother’s suffering was fun enough. He was such a
fucking idiot, letting the kid go out into the woods, all alone in the cold, to
egg some shady-looking little shack in the middle of the forest. What the hell?
How could he have been so blind as to not see how dangerous that could be? No,
of course he didn’t realize; probably wouldn’t have cared even if he became
aware of all the risk factors, for that’s who he was. He never gave a shit,
loved to tease and be an asshole to his brother, because it was easy, because
he could, because he was the big brother and messing with Sam was fun. And look
what happened. What he’s done, let happen to the greatest thing in this putrid,
foul world. Sure, he was a jerk to his little brother, but that didn’t mean he
hated him. No, not at all. Dean loved that kid the most. More than eating pie,
more than driving, more than flirting with girls or sleeping, than breathing.
Sammy was the only one that made living in a place filled with monsters and
crazy, disgusting shit to the brim bearable, he was the reason Dean didn’t
become one of those emo teenagers that hated life. Sam and his dimples, his
hugs and laughs, his hilarious bitchface and adorable puppy dog eyes, his voice
and whole presence was enough to keep Dean happy, to make it worth living, make
him believe that good still existed and it was always sitting in the backseat
of the Impala.
And now, he ruined it.
He destroyed the most precious gem he swore to protect.
Swallowing hard and biting down on his tongue to stop the tears that threatened
to leave his eyes, tears he didn’t even deserve to shed, Dean continued running
his fingers through the other’s once smooth hair, which was now matted and
shaggy, clinging together in several places from dried blood or mud, then froze
when he felt movement under his hands. He held his breath, wondering if he was
imagining things again, waiting, waiting, and when Sam’s head moved again, he
felt a glimmer of hope flash in his heart and soul, hand immediately going back
to petting the other’s head encouragingly, comfortingly.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay, I’m here,” Dean whispered when he heard something that
was too forlorn and miserable to be even called a whimper, his lips brushing
against the top of his brother’s head as he held him closer. “Sammy, you’re
fine now, shhh…”
Sam’s breathing was accelerating. He could both feel and hear it, the painful
snuffles coming more frequently and his chest heaving against Dean’s, and the
whimpers weren’t stopping either. If anything, they were becoming more
desperate and hopeless, and then his brother made a sound only a trapped animal
would and began squirming and struggling, weak little shrieks leaving him as he
tried to crawl out of the other’s lap.
Cursing lowly, Dean reached out and wrapped both arms around his frenzied
brother, hugging him to his chest. “Sam, Sammy, calm down. C’mon kid, it’s me,
Dean.” But it wasn’t working. Sam was shaking like a leaf in a storm, fingers
clawing clumsily but wildly at Dean’s bare chest, high-pitched and panicked
wails bouncing off the well’s interior as his brother’s hysteria continued, and
this wasn’t good, because the more he struggled, the more wounds would reopen
and start bleeding again, Dean able to hear the pain in Sam’s aghast, muddled
whimpers. So he just kept his arms around his poor baby brother, not letting up
on the hold as he shushed the frantic kid, softly whispering and humming. And
it took some time, but after a while Sam stopped thrashing, then started
sobbing instead, blunt nails digging into Dean’s shoulders as pitiful sobs
shook the body in his arms, and he just held him, warming and calming him,
while his heart kept crumbling with each devastated little sniffle, the hot
tears rapidly cooling on his skin and only making him shiver even more
violently, but he didn’t mind.
When it seemed like Sam would never stop crying, he finally did, and then just
lay panting against Dean’s chest, body rigid save for the occasional trembles
passing through him. He waited for a long moment, needing his brother
unflustered and aware for what he was about to ask from him, then slid his
hands to the other’s face, cupping it between his palms as he caressed the wet
cheeks with his thumbs. “You’re fine. You hear me, Sam? You will be alright, I
promise you that. And I’m gonna get us out of here, I will, but for that I…” He
trailed off, gazing into the darkness and hoping he was looking at Sam’s eyes,
hoping the kid could actually hear him. “I need you to hold onto me, okay?”
There was a short pause, but just when he was about to ask his brother if he
could hear him—what if they did something to his eardrums?—Sam very slowly and
wordlessly snaked his arms around Dean’s neck and held on, soft sniffles
escaping him. Alright, this was good. This meant that his brother was still
sane, was capable of understanding and hearing him. This was good news, but he
didn’t have time to celebrate. Carefully, he let go of Sam and proceeded to
stand up, pressing his palms into the bricks behind him and pushing himself
away from them while getting to his feet; however as soon as he leaned just a
bit forward, the arms around his neck were slipping, and suddenly, his brother
was falling back into the mud, Dean knowing when he landed from the dull thud
that sounded much louder in the enclosed space.
Cursing, he immediately sank to his knees and gathered the once again shaking
mess into his arms. Sam had returned to sobbing, was wrapping his ice-cold arms
around the other’s neck as if telling Dean to try again, but he shook his head.
He got carried away, had put too much faith in his brother, expected too much
of him without taking into consideration what the boy has just been through. Of
course he’d be weak like a flower after what happened, who wouldn’t be? And Sam
was still young, body more resistant than that of a normal fourteen years
old’s, stronger, but still so thin and small, so easy to snap in two. Nobody
could stay resilient after getting tortured, raped and who knows what else, so
it was truly selfish of Dean to expect his brother to be just fine and in full
strength after such a horrible incident.
He was blaming himself again, the guilt slowly eating away at him, but this
wasn’t the right time to be hating himself. He’d have time for that later. For
now, he had to focus on Sam, and Sam alone, as Dean really wasn’t the one in
need of care and comfort. “Shh, it’s okay,” he whispered reassuringly, going
back to their previous position even though the wet earth under and the frigid
wall behind him were incredibly uncomfortable. And even though he couldn’t see
anything, he was pretty sure his breath has become visible in the drop of
temperature the night had brought with itself. “It’s not your fault. Alright?
Listen to me, you’re just a bit weak, it’s fine. We’ll think of another way,
don’t worry,” was what he was telling Sam while hugging him close and stroking
his arms to both calm him down and warm him up, but in all honesty, Dean wasn’t
so sure about that. He didn’t want his brother to lose hope, would lie to him
without a second thought if it meant he could keep the kid from worrying, and
unfortunately, he was quite sure that’s exactly what he was doing right now.
Another way. Dean wanted to believe that there was one, but… Well, no. There
was, actually, one, but that would mean he’d have to leave Sam alone. He would
have to climb out by himself, kill the son of a bitch who trapped them down
here, then either call for help or try to pull his brother out with a rope
attached to him. And while those didn’t sound like terrible ideas, he just
couldn’t bring himself to do it. He dreaded leaving Sammy alone, because what
if? What if while Dean was away, he’d die from his wounds? Maybe they’d get
infected from all the mud he’d be forced to lie in without Dean, or maybe he’d
be so out of it that he would try climbing the wall by himself and end up
breaking his neck, the fall killing him. That is, if the cold wouldn’t get to
him first, and by the time Dean would managed to get his brother out of this
pit, his body would already be rigid and frozen, dead from hypothermia. Yeah,
no. He couldn’t risk any of that happening to Sam, he refused to leave even if
staying might just be worse, might result in both of them dying a slow death.
How ironic. He bet this was that old man’s plan all along, his reason for not
just cutting their throats while they were both unconscious—to make good of his
promise of a slow death.
He sighed silently, carding his fingers through the other’s messy hair until
Sam’s sobs died down. He imagined that his brother’s eyes, at least the one
that wasn’t swollen shut, was red and puffy from all the crying, and it made
him feel a sharp tug in his stomach. If only he could turn back time and make
all of this unhappen, if only he would have gotten worried sooner, if only he
could’ve resisted being a fucking jerk at least for today, keep his attitude
under control, if only John would’ve never brought them here.
If only Sam’s body wouldn’t feel so damn, unnaturally cold…
 
***** Wind Down *****
 
It was impossible to know how much time has passed. Hours could have been
minutes, and minutes could have very well been days. In the black confinement
of the well, time was nonexistent and irrelevant, it had no end or a beginning,
was a blurred concept, infinite and fleeting.
And in the darkness, it was only a matter of time before the hallucinations
found him.
He hadn’t moved from his spot on the ground in what he supposed must have been
a few hours, or more, because at one point he dozed off, then woke up to Sam
squirming in his lap. Dean kept wanting to check his brother’s tongue, make
sure once again that his tongue was still there, since ever since the kid has
regained consciousness, he hasn’t uttered a word. Whimpers and whines were
frequent, along with the quiet sobs he tried hiding, but the tears landing on
Dean’s bare skin gave him away. Sam has also started sweating, the cold
perspiration only making the poor thing shiver and shake more, and sometimes,
Dean felt like screaming in despair, because he couldn’t do anything about it.
He tried; rubbed his brother’s back and skin as carefully as possible, warming
the frail body in his arms, but that never helped for long, and then after a
while Sam was back to shaking. All the sweating made him wonder if he had a
fever, but even Sammy’s forehead felt like a goddamn ice cube, so he doubted
it. He was listening to his brother’s breathing—rapid with short exhales that
ghosted over Dean’s collarbone—while lightly caressing his sides through the
fabric and trying not to think too much of the way Sam’s pulse seemed to be
accelerating as well, because hey, as long as the his heart was beating and he
was breathing, it couldn’t be that bad, when it happened. He had his eyes
closed, as keeping them open wouldn’t have made that much of a difference
anyway, warming Sammy with his hands and body heat, keeping him as relaxed as
possible, when a bright light caught his attention, Dean’s eyes flying open as
he looked up. But no, the wooden board was still there, blocking any light from
entering the darkness of the well, though he supposed there had to be a hole in
it, or else they’d be running out of oxygen, which they weren’t.
Frowning, he blinked a few times before closing his eyes again, but it wasn’t
long before the flash, this time a glowing red, appeared behind his eyelids;
however when he stared into the darkness and looked around, he still couldn’t
see anything. Suddenly uneasy, Dean held his brother closer, arms curling
around him protectively as he glared at nothing in particular, wondering if he
was starting to lose it, and he didn’t have to wait long for the answer. A pair
of red orbs floated into his peripheral vision, over and over again, but
whenever he turned his head to look, to catch them with his eyes, they always
disappeared, each time rematerializing somewhere else, as if taunting him.
Other things, dark shapes and white sparks appeared here and there as well, and
Dean could’ve sworn that he sometimes saw the shadows moving, vibrating and
shimmering like a mirage blinking in and out of existence, dancing playfully
before his eyes. Feeling his own heartbeat quicken, he closed his eyes, but he
wasn’t welcomed by any change, and the strange lights just kept taunting him,
watching him, reaching out for him and trying to strangle—
No. Dean gritted his teeth, panting through them as he rubbed his eyes with the
heel of his palms until all he could see were several multicolored dots,
phosphenes, along with black and gray stripes curling and waving, pulsing in
all directions, then pulled his hands back and blinked, a slight relief washing
over him when all he saw upon opening his eyes was pure black again. It seemed
like this crappy position he was sitting in wasn’t going to be the only thing
bothering him from now on, Dean not looking forward to fighting off
hallucinations at all, but it wasn’t like he had too much of a choice.
Sam had fallen asleep, but apparently Dean’s little freak-out moment managed to
stir him from his sleep, as he was now making small and weak, barely even
audible sounds while pawing at the other’s chest, the abrupt chill spreading
across his skin like icy spiderwebs causing him to inhale sharply. Great job,
Dean, waking up the poor kid just because you couldn’t keep your crazies to
himself.
“Shh kiddo, it’s okay, I’m still here,” he assured softly when Sam began
whining and pressing closer to him, clawing flimsily at his chest as if wanting
to burrow himself inside it, to hide in the warmth and never come out, and Dean
could understand. “I’m right here.” He very gently cupped the other’s chin
after spending a second feeling around in the dark to find it, then lifted his
brother’s head, using his other hand to map out Sam’s face and, once he’s found
his cheek, he craned his neck and pressed a light, barely-there kiss on the
somehow still incredibly soft skin. That seemed to calm him down, and Dean
smiled, glad he still had it in him, had the same calming effect on his little
brother as before; that Sam was still capable of feeling safe in his arms.
However that only lasted for about a minute—or was it five?—and then he was
back to making some very strange sounds this time, immediately setting off some
red-alarms in Dean’s head, because he recognized them, and Sam sounded like he
was in pain, which obviously shouldn’t have come as a surprise. But the sudden
jerks, they were new.
“Sammy?” His voice was screaming concern and a hidden panic, panic that was
slowly slithering and wrapping its corrupt tendrils around Dean’s heart and
making him think of the worst, every single worst-case scenario attacking his
mind at the same time and leaving him dizzy with a gut-wrenching, raw fear. Sam
was hunching forward, his breathing going out of control, his body contracting
with each pained exhale, inhales rushed and sometimes followed by coughs that
resembled gags instead, and he was suddenly sweating like crazy, Dean’s fingers
coming away wet as he pressed a hand against the other’s forehead. Sam’s skin
felt cold and clammy, and as he moved his hand down to the other’s face, he
noticed that his brother’s own hands were now clasped over his mouth, muffling
the wretched sounds and heaves he was making, and Dean cursed, only realizing
what was going on in the last moment and barely having enough time to move out
of the way and turn Sam away from him, before the kid fell forward and threw up
on the ground.
His whole body was trembling, and if not for Dean’s hands holding him in place,
he would have surely collapsed into the growing puddle of vomit he must have
been producing. He really hoped his brother wasn’t throwing up blood, because
that couldn’t mean anything good, but it wasn’t like he could or would check,
so he’d just have blind faith and tell himself that Sam was fine. The sounds
and the smell were pretty sickening, and suddenly he was feeling a wave of
nausea hit him as well. It drained the blood from his face, but he just
swallowed and continued stroking Sam’s back while telling him to let it all
out, talking him through it, then when it was over, Dean pulled the kid back
into his lap after shuffling away from where he imagined the vomit was, and
used the bottom of his shirt to wipe his brother’s mouth.
And then Sam started sobbing again, and honestly, he kind of felt like joining
him.
                                       —
 
He hummed all of the songs from the AC/DC cassettes they had in the Impala, and
in the middle of Highway to Hell, he noticed with a small smile that Sam had
fallen back asleep.
                                       —
 
The smell was awful, absolutely revolting. He was glad that Sam didn’t have to
be bothered by it, the kid still sleeping soundly against his chest, but Dean
was suffering. He thought of covering it up with mud, putting some on top of
it, but in fear of actually reaching into the vomit, he never tried. But after
a while, he found that burying his nose in his brother’s hair worked a bit, as
the smell of sweat mixed with dried blood and the faintest hint of Sammy was
still better than whatever the poor kid had thrown up only a few feet away from
where they were.
Another problem Dean has been having for the past…who knows how long, was that
he really needed to relieve himself. He hoped it wouldn’t be a problem, since
he didn’t drink that much before leaving the cabin, but no, he was wrong,
because the urge to piss was becoming stronger and stronger by each passing
minute, but he really didn’t want to. First, because that would mean he’d have
to move and rouse his brother from his sleep, again, and he didn’t have the
heart to drag Sam back into this nightmare just yet. And second, he didn’t want
to add to the stink already assaulting his nostrils, plus he might, with his
amazing luck, actually end up kneeling into the vomit and add another
decoration to his pants, which were already stiff and uncomfortable from all
the blood caked on his thighs. All the blood that had seeped out of his
brother’s ass…
Anyway, while the well was big enough that he could stretch his legs without
his feet touching the other end of the wall, he didn’t want to risk anything.
That being said, it was impossible to tell how long they’d be trapped down
here, so sooner or later, Dean would probably be forced to move and dig a
little hole which they would have to use as a makeshift toilet. But on the
bright side, he only had to take a piss and not a number two. Now that would
have been awkward, and very unpleasant.
To distract himself from wetting his pants, because holding that back wasn’t a
walk in the park either, Dean began counting backwards from one thousand. He
got to eight hundred and thirty-four, then had to hit the back of his head
against the brick to stop the sudden urge to piss that left tiny beads of sweat
on his temples when Sam, probably seeking more heat even in his sleep, pressed
even closer to him, his bodyweight pushing against the other’s bladder and
making the following few minutes Hell. He did get used to it after a while,
though knew that he was treading on thin ice here, and another sleepy push or
squirm from his little brother could very possibly be what would push Dean over
the edge, which he really, really didn’t want to happen. So after what he
believed was around four minutes, though was most probably only one, he was
forced himself to unlatch Sam from around his body and sat him against the
wall, but only after pulling the oversized shirt down so his brother would be
sitting on the fabric instead of the dirt. From the lack of whimpers and
wounded little sounds, he didn’t wake the other, and he allowed himself a sigh
of relief at that achievement before standing up and placing one hand on the
rough bricks.
Thankfully not stepping on his brother by accident this time, Dean found the
spot where Sam emptied his stomach relatively quickly, and then drew a line
around it with the tip of his shoe, marking it as the “You better not touch
that” zone. After a moment of hesitation, he squatted down while holding his
breath, then dug a hole next to the danger zone, using the removed earth as a
lid to cover up the stench, actually quite surprised it worked and he could
smell less of it after putting the dirt on top of the puddle. His brief feeling
of triumph was short-lived, though, because now he would have to pull off
something he couldn’t even do with a normal toilet—piss in the dark without
missing. That was easier said than done, which sucked, because just imagining
it was already making Dean have serious second thoughts about this, but he
really had to go, and it wasn’t like his body could absorb it and maybe try to
be helpful for once instead of burdening him, so with a heavy heart, he knelt
before the hole and tugged his pants down.
It took him some time to relax and let it out, then even more contemplating if
he should check around the hole for any wet spots, see if his aim was like that
of a sniper’s or more like a beginner archer’s, but in the end he just tucked
himself back, wiped his hands on his pants, then was about to go back to Sam
when an idea struck him. He wanted to make sure of something, and now was the
best time to do it. Turning toward the wall, he patted along it until he found
a tiny space between two bricks where he could slide his fingers in, then
another with his other hand, and gave climbing a try. And just as Dean dreaded,
he barely got one or two feet above the ground before he slipped and landed
right back where he started. The bricks were too moist and slippery, and there
wasn’t enough room for his feet, meaning getting out of here this way was just
wishful thinking, a dream made of blind hope after all.
Defeated, he carefully navigated though the darkness and went back to his
brother, scooping him into his arms and sitting back down. With that
possibility completely ruled out, how were they supposed to escape? Was this
really it? Were they really just going to end up dying in a hole? No…they
wouldn’t. He had to keep thinking positive, have hope for the two of them. That
was his job as a big brother. If he gave up, if he let the hopelessness of
their situation show too much, in his voice or actions, then Sam would shatter
completely, and he couldn’t afford that. Dean couldn’t let him notice, let him
know that they were most probably doomed to slowly rot away here, so he shut
all the evil and foreboding whispers up, the tiny voices in the back of his
head jeering at him, taunting him, telling him that he was going to die, but
not before watching his precious baby brother wither away right in his arms. He
tied the voices up and locked them in a box, around which he wrapped several
thick chains, buried it in the deepest parts of his mind, and decided to never
think of them ever again, instead wondering where John was and how long it
would take him to notice his boys were gone.
                                       —
 
Dean woke up to the sound of a ragged, unsteady voice. At first, he thought he
was hallucinating again, this time hearing things, but then his eyes flew open
because, one, when the hell did he even fall asleep, and two, the voice
belonged to Sam and it was as if he was trying to say something.
“Sam? Hey, hey it’s okay, take it easy,” he whispered softly, scowling a bit
when he realized his own voice didn’t seem to be working that well either, was
hard to raise it above a whisper, but he ignored that and went back to cradling
the kid, caressing along his jawline with a thumb. “Nice and slow, no need to
force the words out.”
His brother sniffled, the action instantly followed by a whimper, then fumbled
with something before curling in on himself, one hand gripping Dean’s shoulder
as he buried his face in the crook of his neck, while the other—Dean patted
around to find it—was holding the shirt, fingers curled tightly into it and
only loosening slightly when he placed his hand over Sam’s. His body was stiff,
tense, and Dean wondered if the poor thing was going to throw up again, when he
heard a soft, beaten-down mumble, so quiet he had to strain his ears to hear
it.
“Huuursh…”
His heart cracked and broke for the umpteenth time, because it didn’t take a
genius to know what his brother was trying to say with a voice so worn and weak
it sounded as if it’s gone a round with a wood chipper, and lost. “I know it
does. Sam I… I know, and I’m so sorry,” he murmured against his little
brother’s head, placing tender kisses on it while petting his hair.
Sam sighed slowly and painfully, stopping in the middle to cough and let out
another whimper, then clutched his shirt tighter and shook his head.
“..’uursh…” he whined with a silent sob, nails scraping the other’s skin
desperately, as if begging Dean to make it stop, to make it all go away, and he
would have loved to do nothing more, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t do a damn
thing to help his brother, and it was slowly killing him inside.
“Shh, I know it hurts, I know it’s horrible.” He caressed the nape of Sam’s
neck, careful not to hurt him some more in the process. “But you can do it, I
know you can. You won’t let the pain defeat you, because you’re the strongest
person I know, stronger than even me, right? Remember the time you gave me such
a bitchslap my cheek was red for like an hour afterward?” he asked with a fond
smile that wavered, then wilted when he noticed he wasn’t getting any reaction
out of his brother. Not a laugh, not even a smile; nothing. He just continued
making these kicked puppy, distressed and pained sounds, body only shaken by
occasional spasms instead of laughter, his unsmiling lips that were pressed
against Dean’s neck wobbling.
He…didn’t know what to do. Wanted to throw his hands in the air and punch the
wall, to scream and shout and cry, but instead just held his damaged little
brother closer, rocking him back and forth while humming some random tune until
Sam’s body turned lax, muscles gradually relaxing under Dean’s hands, the
desolate whimpers finally dying down but not disappearing completely, just like
the stabbing ache in his chest.
                                       —
 
None of them slept anything after that, just sat there silently, awake for what
had to be an hour, before Sam stirred and spoke again.
“Hungyyy…” he muttered with a soft whine, arms closing around the other’s neck
pitifully, tentatively and pleadingly, but all Dean could do was hold his
brother closer and gently nuzzle the top of his head.
“Yeah, I know,” he said dejectedly, could this time understand what Sammy was
going through, because he was feeling the same way.
For around the past twenty or so minutes, Dean’s been possessed by such hunger
and thirst that he was forced to start chewing on his lips, the need for
nourishment making him desperate for anything he could swallow. He bit out
pieces, albeit tiny, from the inside of his mouth and suckled on the wounds he
made, rendered to drink his own blood like some fucking desperate vampire. The
taste wasn’t too bad, at first, but all that copper on his tongue became too
much after a while, only making him thirstier; however it wasn’t like he had
anything better to do, so he just continued chewing until no woundless place
remained on his tender flesh, until he tore a piece of skin off every inch of
his lips and the inside of his cheeks. And while thanks to that the hunger
subsided, in the end it always came back, haunting him with the obstinacy of a
five years old.
Swallowing down yet another mix of blood and saliva, Dean licked his dry lips,
not bothering to close his eyes as he dreamed of food.
 
***** Keep Him Warm *****
 
He was so bored. Distracting himself was really becoming a challenge, the only
form of entertainment in the bottom of the well being his own mind and
imagination, which was slowly running out of fun scenarios to picture. Not like
it mattered, really—whenever he thought of something nice and finally positive,
the darkness of this place always seeped into his head, black smoke curling
around his mind’s eyes and turning each daydream into a nightmare.
Fine, he thought to himself while sighing lightly, and lifted a hand to play
with the smooth and silky, wet hair on the back of his brother’s neck instead,
those thin and delicate strands left untouched by blood or mud, though damp
with sweat. He twirled the hair around a finger, rubbed it between two, then
slowly trailed his fingertip down Sam’s neck, causing the kid to shiver. That
was when he realized that his brother hasn’t actually been shivering for a
while now, which couldn’t mean anything good, so Dean quickly—well, as fast as
someone who’s been sitting still for hours with his strength gradually
draining—sat up straight and ran his hands along the other’s body, heart
missing several beats when he noticed just how cold Sam was. He felt like a
goddamn icicle, the poor kid’s fingers rigid and barely even able to bend
anymore, and when Dean checked his pulse, he was horrified to find that it had
slowed down. Sure, his brother’s heart wasn’t beating a hundred times per
second now, didn’t feel like it was going to tear right through the other’s
chest and bounce off the wall surrounding them, and that was great, but now it
was barely beating twice per second, sometimes even feeling like it was out of
rhythm. His breathing had slowed as well, all this time Dean just thinking that
his brother had managed to calm down and that was the reason why he wasn’t
panting anymore, but that wasn’t it, right?
Shallow breathing, tight muscles, slow pulse and no more shivering to keep the
body warm. Sam’s system was giving up.
Sam was slowly freezing to death.
“Shit,” he cursed sharply, grabbing his brother’s shoulders and rubbing his
arms, but Sam kept falling back or forward, unable to keep his balance, so
after a while Dean just let the kid lean against his chest again while trying
to warm him up. “Sammy? C’mon Sam, stay with me, move your arms a bit, here.”
He took a hold of the other’s hand and rubbed it between his own, blowing hot
puffs of air on it, then did the same to the other hand, before trying to move
his brother’s arms, opening and closing them, but it was like he was playing
with some wooden puppet. Sam didn’t react much, sounded like he was seconds
away from losing consciousness, and when he did move on his own, it was
sluggish and clumsy, as if he couldn’t control his body anymore.
Dean’s own pulse and breathing picked up though, like his body believed it
could fix Sam by going into overdrive, like he could somehow merge with his
brother and breathe for him, live for him. He was panicking, because this
wasn’t fair. Dean was half naked, he had his shirt on Sammy, so why was the kid
the first one to start suffering from hypothermia? Why couldn’t it be him
instead, he was cold anyway, so it wouldn’t matter. He was expendable, didn’t
give a rat’s ass if he had to sacrifice himself for Sam.
He would have given his body heat, his heart and soul over to that kid any day,
so why? Why wasn’t anything working?
He tried; Dean rubbed his brother all over, careful when he felt a wound with
his fingertip or when the other hissed as he accidentally pressed too hard on a
bruise, but Sam was still cold as a corpse, and God no, he couldn’t lose him,
just couldn’t. “Sammy please,” he begged for something, anything really. For
his brother to show some signs of improvement, for him to talk some more, say
something, to get better and stop bleeding, stop feeling so stiff and ice-cod
against Dean’s hands like he was already dead.
But nothing. Sam only whimpered when the other’s rubbing hurt him, but aside
from that stayed silent, sounding eerily calm, the passivity making Dean even
more uneasy and frightened of what might happen if he, god forbid, wouldn’t
manage to warm his brother up in time. Refusing to believe that the kid dying
on his watch was even an option, had even a tiny one percent chance of it
happening, Dean made a silent promise to both himself and Sam that he’d save
him, get some heat in his dying body no matter what or how long it took.
“Think of a warm place, okay? Fire and marshmallows, hot cocoa. Imagine you’re
under a thick, fluffy blanket. Feels nice, doesn’t it?” he whispered
encouragingly and continued rubbing his brother’s body, however while he spoke
slowly and softly, his mind was going a hundred miles per hour, a slight frown
etched onto his face as he thought of and listed all the ways one could warm a
body.
Alright, so one way had to be the exchange of body heat, but Sam has been
pressed up against him for the past couple of hours and look at how much that
helped. Another was creating friction, which he was doing right now by rubbing
his brother all over, but that couldn’t possibly be enough to fix the other
completely, so he still needed something else. Moving around should have been
helpful as well, but since Sam was too weak and apparently out of it to move,
that wouldn’t be possible. Changing position might work, too, so Dean gently
grasped his brother’s hands and slipped them under the shirt, pulling him
closer so Sam could curl in on himself and retain the little heat his freezing
body was creating. That seemed to help a bit, and Sam was squirming again, the
feeble sounds he began making as he very lightly nuzzled Dean’s neck a good
sign, because at least now he wasn’t silent as the grave anymore. But he still
wasn’t shivering, wasn’t going back to normal, and just when Dean considered
stripping and giving Sam his pants as well, another idea hit him.
It was ridiculous. Considered illegal even, in some places. In all places,
probably. It might scar his little brother even more, and he might hate it,
might even try to fight back, but at this point, any movement would be welcome.
Also, doing something like that right after Sam got raped…it would be extremely
inconsiderate and disgusting, had the potential of bringing his poor brother to
tears again, of the kid despising him after this. And Dean hated himself for
even thinking about it, he really did, but he knew that would work. It had to,
right? Something like that would definitely get the blood flowing, heat Sammy’s
small body up for sure, could even distract him from the cold and pain and,
maybe, make him feel something else. Make him feel good.
And while Dean would have loved to help his brother and make him feel pleasure
instead of agony, he wasn’t sure if jerking the kid off was a good idea.
It would be him, doing it. First two strangers, and now Dean. Sam’s own big
brother would be the one touching him, and he dreaded to think what that might
do to the other, but he couldn’t deny that sexual stimuli could warm anyone’s
body up in a matter of seconds. He knew that he would hate himself after this,
the guilt won’t be able to leave him ever again, but if he could save Sam, if
this could be the key to his baby brother’s survival, then he was ready to
gamble on it. He was ready to risk his relationship with the kid to save him,
for he might have been a selfish person, but losing the one thing he loved most
in the world wasn’t worth keeping his hands clean for.
Hoping that Sam wouldn’t freak out too much, at least not mentally, Dean
stopped rubbing the other’s body and instead wrapped an arm around him, while
slowly sliding his hand between their chests, resting it against his brother’s
thigh as he kissed his head. “I need you to listen to me right now, Sam,” he
said in a low, apologetic voice, swallowing thickly when the small bundle of
limbs in his arms stirred and snuffled against his neck, letting out a sound
that probably meant that he was still more or less aware and could hear Dean.
“I need to warm you up,” he continued, feeling the weight on his heart get
heavier and heavier with each word, “and for that, I need to do something you
really won’t like. I swear I wouldn’t do this if it wasn’t necessary, but it
is, because you’re slowly freezing, and because you’re also losing a lot of
blood, the usual methods aren’t working that well anymore. So this won’t be
nice. You’ll probably hate it, and I’m so sorry, but I need you to understand
that this is something I must do, so just…try to focus on my hand, okay?”
Dean hesitated, nearly changed his mind when he heard Sam’s frightened whine,
the poor kid surely confused by his warning, but then he forced his hand to
move and slid it up his brother’s thigh until he reached something soft and
small. Well, that’s what the cold does to the body, he thought as he carefully
wrapped his fingers around his little brother’s dick and gave it a suggestive
squeeze, shivering with remorse as Sam emitted a broken, high-pitched whimper.
“I know, I know,” he whispered regretfully, holding onto the other as he
withdrew his hands from the shirt and pressed them against Dean’s chest in a
weak attempt to push him away, which wouldn’t have worked anyway, because he
was leaning against the wall. His brother then squeaked faintly when Dean began
massaging his dick, gently fondling it in his hand and noting with relief that
the touching was working, the flesh slowly hardening from the attention while
Sam wriggled in his lap, protesting sounds leaving him and trying to somehow
crawl away, escape, but Dean didn’t let him. “Let go Sammy, let me take care of
you. Shhh, it’s fine, just relax.” He planted one loving kiss after another on
his brother’s forehead while the kid’s face was in front of his, then just
continued kissing him on the head when Sam lowered it, all the while whispering
to him. “C’mon, forget about everything and listen to my voice, focus on me
only, on my hand, feel how nice and warm it is.”
He had to stroke the other for a long time before Sam reached full hardness,
but when he did, his brother’s hips began jerking tentatively, the hands that
were pushing at Dean’s chest gliding shakily moving up to his shoulders and
gripping them. “…’eeaaan…” he cried softly, whimpering when the other nudged
his cheek with his nose before kissing it, Dean praising and encouraging his
brother some more while placing tender kisses all across his cheek and ear,
Sam’s back arching and hips bucking when he began nibbling on an earlobe.
“There you go, good boy,” he breathed into the other’s ear, surprisingly
drawing a little moan from him. It was working. Sam was back to shivering and
was moving nonstop now, rolling his hips and repeating Dean’s name between tiny
whimpers, the skin on his back burning where Dean slipped a hand under the
shirt. That wasn’t the only warm part of Sam’s, the flesh in his hand hot and
heavy against his palm, the skin smooth and pretty nice, his brother’s cock
twitching and pulsing as he stroked it with drawn-out moves that seemed to
slowly drive the other crazy. He mewled sweetly, hands trembling as he held
onto Dean’s shoulders and thrust into the fist encircling him, the movement on
top of him resulting in his own cock hardening as well, and fuck, he was
getting hard from listening to Sam and touching him. He felt like laughing,
because what kind of sick fuck was he, but instead just sped up and began
pumping his brother’s erection while hating himself just that little bit more.
“‘eaaan…!” Sam moaned miserably and somewhat needily, throwing his head back,
and as if on cue, Dean immediately moved his lips that were on his brother’s
ear to his throat, gingerly kissing and licking at the skin and tasting blood
on his tongue when he very lightly, like a feather’s caress, trailed it along
the linear wound there. His baby brother was now completely out of it,
shuddering mewls and loud, wanton whimpers pouring past his lips as he panted,
bucking hopelessly and fisting one hand in Dean’s short hair as if urging him
on, though that was probably just him thinking that, because apparently he
liked touching his own brother who’s been raped less than a day ago.
Dean was sure they had a special place in Hell for people like him.
“Sam, Sammy, that’s it,” he groaned, his own hips jerking slightly in response
to Sam’s obscene mewls that went straight to his cock. “Doin’ so good, baby
boy, must look so beautiful right now.” He licked a wet, hot stripe up the
other’s neck, Sam letting out a quiet sob and freezing at the words, so Dean
continued littering his brother’s neck with kisses that meant everything, while
speeding up his strokes, twisting his wrist and thumbing the weeping slit as he
mumbled against the other’s skin, “Always so gorgeous to me, Sammy. Can’t ever
be not beautiful, not even if you tried, not even like this. Best thing that’s
ever happened to me, you know that, right? You’re perfect, in every single
goddamn way. My perfect little brother.”
He sucked on the spot beneath the other’s chin as Sam sniffled and let out a
pitiful little mix of a whine and a moan, it coming out uneven and so broken,
but the kid tightened his hold on Dean and hugged him with all the strength he
must’ve had, which had him cursing and suddenly needing more. Without thinking,
he pulled out his hand from the shirt and tangled his fingers in his brother’s
hair, pumping Sammy’s cock so much harder, alternating between rough and fast,
and long and hard, teasing strokes as he kissed his way up to the other’s lips,
before kissing that too, then licked into his mouth. Sam’s gasp was muffled,
and so was his panicked whimper as Dean kissed him sweetly, tasting so much
blood while swirling his tongue around his brother’s, anger bubbling in him
again as he very gently licked along the empty spots where the kid’s incisors
used to be. He hoped those motherfuckers were in Hell, turning into demons just
so he could summon them and kill them one more time.
Dean relished in all the moans his brother made, swallowed and drank them
greedily, his mouth latched onto Sam’s like an insatiable leech, refusing to
let go. He kissed the other passionately, desperately and affectionately,
poured all of his heart into it, and when, after a long while, his brother
actually licked his tongue and bashfully kissed him back, Dean couldn’t help
but smile against the other’s lips, barely even able to comprehend what was
happening. But somehow, he felt happy; like something that’s been missing from
his life without his knowledge was suddenly put into place, filling a hole that
Dean’s been living with all this time, learned to live with and accept that it
was there, but now it wasn’t empty anymore. It was full of something electric
and shimmering, radiating, so much that he felt as if his chest was going to
burst from it all. But then he was abruptly yanked back into reality as Sam
opened further under his mouth and let out a loud keen, muscles convulsing
slightly as he came, Dean feeling the hot spurts of come landing on his stomach
and trickling down his hand. He groaned, panting together with his brother
because he almost came in his pants right then, the sounds and the sensations
too much for him, but he didn’t, so he tried willing his erection away while
kissing and licking Sam’s lips clean of any remaining blood, before pulling him
close, hand still on the other’s cock and caressing it until it began
softening. Afterward, he removed his hand and suckled on his come-coated
fingers, using Sam’s come to assuage his hunger, then gathered the fluid slowly
cooling on his stomach and swallowed that too, the slightly bitter, salty-sweet
taste a nice change from the metallic flavor lingering in his mouth. Well, at
least as long as he didn’t think about what the taste actually was, which he
tried not to, because eating his own little brother’s come was not something
Dean felt like reflecting or priding himself on.
On the bright side, though, both of them were sweating and feeling hot, body
nice and warm, so at least Dean managed to avoid witnessing—well, with his
remaining four senses—a tragic turn of events. He took a deep breath, kind of
regretting it because the well stunk of urine, vomit, sweat and come, then
hugged his brother, who nestled close in his arms, snuggling up to him.
“Feeling better…?” he asked warily after a long moment of silence, of only the
both of them breathing, and had to smile again when Sam nodded against his
shoulder where he was resting his head. “Great. Now try to move around a bit,
don’t let the cold get to you again.”
His brother made a sound resembling a huff and wiggled around a bit, fidgeting
for around one minute before giving up and just going back to lying against the
other’s chest, arms wrapped around Dean’s neck and ticklish air as Sammy
breathed through his nose drifting lightly along his skin. Sighing, he trailed
one hand up to the nape of his brother’s neck and caressed it lazily with his
thumb, wondering if he just made an unforgivable, irreparable mistake.
He has touched Sam in the most intimate way, in his most vulnerable state, and
got hard from it. He had an erection even now, though he was trying real hard
to ignore it, ignore the want and lust he was harboring toward his own little
brother. Shame didn’t even come close to what he was feeling, and honestly, he
would have deserved it if Sam never forgave him for this. Because sure, the kid
seemed like he was enjoying it with all those ecstatic and needy moans he made,
sounds that sent blood rushing to Dean’s cock, but his brother was in no state
of mind to say no. His situational judgment was probably shot to hell, his
reflexes—both mental and physical—were as fast and efficient as that of a
sloth’s on marijuana, and in the weak, ruined bodily condition he was in, it
would have been impossible for him to refuse someone as strong as Dean,
especially after getting hard. So in other words, Dean pretty much took
advantage of his brother’s situation, and while initially it was only because
he wanted to help, when he began licking and kissing Sam, it became pretty
clear that helping wasn’t the only thing on his mind. The kid was high on
pleasure, mind fuzzy and unable to create one sane, coherent thought from all
that had happened to him, and what did Dean do? He kissed him.
And wasn’t that just another form of rape…?
Forcing his kiss on Sam while stroking his cock. Yeah, definitely had a rapey
vibe to it. And maybe the worst was that remembering his brother’s petal soft
lips, along with the adorable sounds he made and the way he moved in Dean’s
hands, brought his dick to life again, his erection straining against his pants
on which, by the way, Sam was sitting unsuspectingly and peacefully. Well,
maybe not that unsuspectingly, because he was pretty sure his brother could
feel his bulge, though hoped to god that he was wrong. Sammy was so warm now.
Like a hot water bottle, and was acting like some tiny puppy, pressing every
single one of his limbs against Dean and resting his head on his shoulder, nose
softly poking his neck. It made him want to kiss his brother again, but that
was wrong.
He couldn’t do that ever again, shouldn’t have done it in the first place, but
while he could blame that on the heat of the moment, his only reason for doing
it again would be because he wanted it. And he shouldn’t want something like
that, nobody should, so he was sick and wrong for longing for it anyway. He
should be just contenting himself with being able to hold his brother, his
alive brother in his arms, so that’s what he strived to do from now.
He pressed a finger against the pulse on Sam’s neck and closed his eyes,
counting the beats and making his mind up to focus on his brother’s wellbeing
instead of his own dilemmas, because his problems paled in comparison to the
other’s, plus protecting him came before anything. Before Dean’s own life,
before saving the world, before giving a fuck about anyone else or what they
thought. That’s been his mission ever since he ran out of that burning house
with Sammy in his arms, wasn’t it? That was Dean’s main reason for living, for
not biting the bullet just yet.
To keep him safe.
 
***** Despair *****
 
He was feeling nauseous and hungry at the same time. What kind of twisted curse
was that?
Dean wondered, with his head leaning against the brick wall and gazing up into
more nothingness, pure black wherever he looked, if a day had gone by. He
couldn’t quite tell, not even with the help of his biological clock, especially
since the darkness and the cold had made him doze off a couple of times, each
time making it more difficult to keep up with the minutes. Though down here,
even if he could’ve kept himself awake, it wouldn’t really have mattered, not
with the way every passing second felt drawn-out and seemingly stretching out
forever. Maybe only a few hours have passed. Maybe he slept for so long that a
few days have gone by. Who knows? It wasn’t like when he opened his eyes, Dean
saw any changes. Everything was always the same; the only way he could check
that time was actually moving was whenever Sam changed positions in his lap
when he woke up. His little brother was his clock, was really the only thing he
had left now.
Well, the only thing aside from his bodily urges. He unfortunately couldn’t
escape those. None of them could.
He was getting hungrier and hungrier, that piece of information also helping
him with keeping up with the time. The more he starved, he assumed, the more
time had passed. And now he has gone back to chewing on his lips, so yeah, he
supposed his hypothesis of one day going by while they were trapped down here
was, sadly, correct. Hunger and the occasional surge of thirst—which he tried
to quench by drinking some more of his blood, and while that still wasn’t
really helping, he continued because he got strangely addicted to the metallic
taste—weren’t the only sensations bothering him, though. It wasn’t too long
before he was beginning to feel a bit dizzy, then moments later his stomach
made a horrible sound, some sort of mix of a croak and a rumble, before the
first wave of nausea hit him.
After that, his already harrowing stay in this damned pit became worse, as if
he’s been dragged from Hell to someplace even more excruciating than its
predecessor.
He scrunched up his nose, squeezing his eyes shut and attempting to block the
sick feeling out, ignore the way it rippled through him, swirled inside and
slithered across his bones, making him sweat, and he was pretty sure he could
feel his pulse in his stomach. It wasn’t all that pleasant. Felt a lot like
when he ate that taco which turned out to be more than a week’s old, Dean
accidentally misreading the expiration date on it, though at least now he
wasn’t overcome by the unbeatable need to shit like a waterfall. He was rather
sure none of them would’ve survived that, if Dean would have added stinking
crap to the rich fragrance that was already filling the well. The stench of
piss was stronger now, as not too long ago Sam had made it very clear that he
needed to take a leak by whining and squirming; and wetting Dean’s pants. Thank
god it was only a small drop and he managed to maneuver his brother to what he
now called their “toilet hole”, though it wasn’t an easy task with Sam falling
over and over again, seemingly unable to stand up, and after a thorough checkup
of the other’s legs, Dean noted with yet another rush of grim sorrow and
seething rage that one of the kid’s ankles was swollen, standing at an alarming
angle. He just kept discovering more and more wounds, injuries, and each time
he felt something deep inside of him crumbling.
But getting used to the smell was only hard, not infeasible, so he doubted
that’s why he was feeling like hurling every other minute. It was probably just
the overwhelming hunger, mixed with all the blood he had swallowed and the
almost constant fear and anxiety, of worry toward his brother and this fucked-
up situation they were in. Ah yes, all that worrying had to be what was
twisting and churning his stomach like some giant whirlpool, especially because
ever since he had touched Sam, guilt has been eating away at him. He couldn’t
stop thinking about it, about his brother’s smooth skin and lips, and he wanted
to get a taste again, but that was not going to happen. Fortunately the kid was
warm again, and Dean continued to keep him warm by huddling together and
rubbing his arms and back, gently of course. Kissing him or jerking him off to
heat his body was out of the question, and he knew that, but that didn’t really
stop him from fantasizing about it. Each little daydream ended with Sam even
more ruined than before, though, with him shouting and glaring at Dean, for
even in his fantasies, he deserved to be despised for the self-centered jerk he
was. Someone who laid their hands on their little brother, in their weakest
state, didn’t deserve a happy ending, not even in their dreams.
Thankfully, by some miracle, Sam wasn’t crawling out of his lap and curling up
somewhere far away from him. It was probably because his brother was only
halfway here, barely aware of his surroundings or of what was happening, but
that was good enough. More than enough for Dean, who was immensely glad he
could still hold his baby brother in his arms, selfishly enjoying whatever time
they had left together…
Which, judging by the way he couldn’t feel his fingers anymore, wasn’t going to
last too long.
Dean wasn’t stupid. He was delusional, and denial was practically his middle
name, but he had a sharp brain. Not as much as Sam’s, however good enough to
recognize a situation’s fatality when he was plopped right into it, when it was
staring him right in the face. Rubbing his brother and warming him up was
helping him some too, as he was relentlessly moving his hands up and down the
other’s body, however Dean has also been sitting on the wet earth all this
time, and it was starting to show its effects. His pants were uncomfortable and
moist from the mud clinging to it, his ass probably frozen by now, and his
upper body was completely bare—and while on one side, against his chest was
something soft and warm, the damp and cold bricks of the wall were pressed
against his back and making him shiver. Dean was, has been for the last, well,
maybe an hour, shivering and sweating, had enough brain cells left to realize
that his body had begun succumbing to hypothermia as well. He recognized the
symptoms, the rapid heartbeat and breathing which, if he didn’t do something
about this, would soon slow and then ultimately stop.
But what was he supposed to do? There was only one thing that could warm him up
instantly, but he refused to even consider it. He wasn’t going to just whip out
his dick and jack off with Sam on top of him. He has scarred the kid enough for
a lifetime, so no way. Dean would just look for another way, any other way that
didn’t involve subjecting his brother to more overly-sexual scenarios. He
wasn’t sure what yet, but he’d figure it out.
For now, he contented himself with gritting his teeth together to stop them
from chattering and hugging his brother, who was sleeping soundly against him.
Checking his pulse, Dean was glad to feel Sam’s warmish skin and steady pulse
against the pad of his finger. Kid wasn’t cold, or completely warm either, he
just felt normal. Though that might also have been because Dean’s fingers had
basically turned into popsicles, but anyway, as long as Sam wasn’t cold as snow
like last time, he wasn’t worrying. Actually, he should be much more concerned
about his own health right now, as his limbs were getting slightly harder to
lift and move now, sometimes just flopping down and onto the dirt, where Dean
would glare at the darkness where he assumed his uncooperative hand lay, before
raising it back to stroke his brother. It was true, controlling his body was
becoming a tad bit more difficult, but he was much taller and had more muscle
on him than Sam, had a stronger immune system and was generally in better
shape, so he doubted that he’d shut down anytime soon. That didn’t mean that it
wouldn’t happen, so he’d have to be prepared for that moment, think up a battle
plan to fight the cold and death, the polar bears of justice that would try to
smother him with their fur. But their fur would be warm, wouldn’t it? So how
would they kill him with their icy powers…?
Dean blinked, shaking his head and slapping his cheeks. Alright, so he was
slowly losing his mind, too. Great. He had no time for lunacy, to let his mind
drift, apparently even less time than he expected. He couldn’t put this off any
longer, had to come up with a way to warm himself up before it was too late.
Would rubbing his own body work? He’d create friction, plus he’d be moving his
limbs unlike Sam, who was just a sack of potatoes while Dean tried to warm him
up, so that might prove to be useful. He could also get up and jump in place a
bit, but for that he’d have to put his little brother back on the ground, and
he didn’t quite fancy that idea. What about getting Sam to kiss his neck? His
lips were only inches away from it, anyway.
Yeah, right. Nice thought, but not happening. Maybe he’d do the first two. Rub
his body, then place his brother gently against the wall and do some quick
jumps. Shouldn’t be too hard, and he wouldn’t have to do anything sexual. A
win-win situation, which he’d put into action right now, because the sooner the
better. Right now. Or maybe just a bit later.
After he took a short nap…
                                       —
 
He was in a field covered in snow, it crunching crisply under his shoes as he
walked forward, wandering around until he reached a single, fully leafed tree.
For some reason, he got this odd urge to climb it, so he did, but the further
up he went, the darker and colder it got. The leaves grew and turned black,
looming over him and blocking out any and all sunlight that tried to penetrate
the shadowy dome, and he felt a piercing, biting shiver run down his spine as a
howling wind rustled the leaves, but he kept going. He kept climbing, because
he had to, felt the overpowering need to get to the top no matter what, but the
branches just kept coming, the exit nowhere to be seen. Horror coursed through
his veins, however he was also filled with determination, not letting anything
stop him from reaching the light and feel it on his skin once again, his skin
which was suddenly freezing as another gust of wind woke the leaves from their
slumber, this time the chill enveloping his whole body and turning it into
shimmering ice, and it was so cold, so very cold…
And then suddenly he was back in the well, needing a long moment for his hazy
mind to follow him and settle back to reality, and then another to comprehend
what was going on.
Sam was gone. No, not gone. His brother had apparently slipped down from his
chest because Dean’s arms weren’t around him any longer, but were instead lying
uselessly at his sides. His whole upper body was freezing without Sammy leaning
against him, and it took him an alarming amount of effort to move his body and
reach for his brother who was making some whimpery sounds on the ground, then
pull him back into his lap.
He then immediately stilled, hands tightening around Sam’s waist, because the
shirt was completely soaked with sweat.
“Sammy…?” he whispered, couldn’t have even raise his voice higher than a
whisper if he wanted to, he felt so tired and drained. Blinking into the
darkness, Dean forced his hands to pat the other down, apprehension and
panicked distress tugging at his gut and spreading through him as he noticed
just how clammy his brother’s skin was, sweaty strands of hair sticking to his
forehead, but this shouldn’t be happening. It was all wrong, and Dean didn’t
get it, his mind too slow to work out an answer to this situation, because Sam
didn’t feel like he was freezing. His skin was cool when Dean touched it, but
it wasn’t as bad as the last time, and then the kid wasn’t sweating so
profusely either, didn’t feel like someone had poured a bucket of frosty water
over him. Trying not to freak out, but obviously failing, he slid his hands
down and patted around clumsily until he managed to get a hold of the other’s
wrist, then pressed his thumb down, waiting, but when he felt how fucking out
of control Sam’s heartbeat was, he wasn’t sure if he should be relieved of
terrified, because while it thankfully wasn’t slow, the beats were way too
rapid to be normal.
He cursed, over and over again, then moved his hands to his brother’s face,
pulling him close and pressing their foreheads together. “Sammy, come on, don’t
do this. You’re not cold anymore, so what’s wrong? Please, Sam…” He swallowed
back the desperate emotions that clotted his throat and heart, and listened to
his baby brother’s uneven breathing, slow and shallow little exhales barely
reaching Dean’s skin even though they were so close to each other, so very
close it was impossible to miss how Sam appeared to have trouble breathing. His
inhales were ragged, exhales short and silent, and he had stopped whimpering
too, no sounds leaving him anymore aside from some of the rougher inhales.
Fear gripped Dean tight, clawing at his own lungs and making it so hard to
breathe, to stop himself from breaking down when he hugged Sam close but the
kid didn’t react whatsoever, arms hanging limply at his sides, and after
another shuddery curse, he couldn’t keep it in anymore and let the tears flow
free. This was it, wasn’t it? This was how he was going to lose his brother. He
got it now, understood what was going on, but it’s not like it mattered anyway.
Sam was slowly, has been all this time, dying from blood loss, but Dean
completely ignored it. Because it was such a slow process, he only focused on
the more visible problems, like keeping the kid warm. How could he forget about
all that blood? He was a fucking retard, that’s how. He didn’t pay attention,
and now Sam couldn’t even support himself anymore, was barely breathing, and
there was nothing, not a damn thing Dean could do to fix it. Not this. He
couldn’t do shit this time, so he let the sobs shake his body, warm tears
rolling down his cheeks and cooling seconds later, causing him to shiver,
something he hasn’t been doing in a while, and he smiled. Good. Maybe like
this, he wouldn’t need to watch as Sammy died in his arms. Maybe he’d give into
the cold first, selfishly leaving this world before the other, because he just
couldn’t bear it, wouldn’t be able to hold the kid’s corpse without
experiencing something so much worse than death. Though maybe the loss would
just kill him before the cold…
With shaking hands, he tipped Sam’s head back and pressed a long, hopeless kiss
on the other’s chin, breath slightly hitching when his brother stirred. “S-
Sammy?” he asked with a sniffle, voice breaking and out of tune, completely
ruined by the tears and sorrow. He cupped his brother’s face, cradling it like
it was the most delicate, precious thing in the world, then took in a shaky
breath, mumbling against the other’s lips, “You’re the only one, Sam. The only
one that’s keeping me alive, only one that kept me going all this time, so
please. Please, I’m begging you…please don’t leave me.” More tears poured from
his eyes and gathered where their lips met, Dean licking the salty liquid from
Sam’s slightly parted ones as he tried to keep his voice under control, in
vain. “You can’t, okay? C’mon Sam, you…you can’t leave. Can’t do this to me, I
wouldn’t survive. I wouldn’t want to. Even if I somehow got out of this alive,
I’d just wanna die and be with you. Oh f-fuck, please, Sammy, I can’t… I can’t
do this without you. Please, please, Sammy…please…” He sobbed, unable to
control it anymore and just broke down crying, fingers curling in the other’s
hair as he pressed their lips together, kissing his brother with all of his
desperation, imploring him through the kiss to stay forever, to not give in and
to fight just a bit longer.
Dean knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, that he was probably hurting his
brother, kissing him way too hard, but he was too overwhelmed, only focusing on
keeping Sam here, with him, together, and then suddenly he was crying even
more, because the lips under his were moving and returning the kiss, and he
never wanted this moment to end, ever. His shoulders, no, whole body shook with
sobs as he licked into Sam’s mouth, their tongues meeting and tentatively
caressing each other like two lovers touching for the first time, Dean
deepening the kiss after a moment, needing everything, greedily sucking and
licking and taking whatever he could, while he could.
Then he softened it, gradually slowing down before stopping, because Sam had
stopped responding and wasn’t moving anymore.
“No…” Dean held his brother close, squeezing him and kissing his shoulder
between whispers and promises, pleas, more tears leaking out from closed eyes.
A dull headache was forming in his temples from all the violent crying, but he
didn’t care and just kept sobbing until his eyes turned dry, until they stung
and even blinking caused him pain. He cried and cried, then cried some more,
then got exhausted and let his body go lax, waiting for the cold to take him
away too, to fall asleep and never wake up again.
And after a while, his wish must have come true, because through his closed
eyes he could see a bright light shining down on him, and a faint, peaceful
smile crossed Dean’s face, happily welcoming Death as he finally drifted off,
letting the brilliant glow wash over him and swallow him up.
 
***** Sleeping Beauty *****
 
Warmth.
What he’s been seeking for so long was enveloping him, running through his very
veins, making him feel as if his body has been lowered into a hot bath, as if
he was floating on the surface of the pleasantly warm water while lustrous
sunlight was dancing across his skin, tingling and caressing it. He felt at
ease, finally calm and without worries, suspended in this gentle moment for
what seemed like an eternity before he began hearing things.
The silence of this hazy trance was penetrated by several sounds that very
slowly seeped into his consciousness, starting with something repetitive and
high-pitched, and followed by muffled voices, shuffling and fumbling sounds,
and then nothing again. It was as if he had one foot in his relaxing dream
world, and another foot somewhere else, a place filled with life and movement
all around him. The calm beckoned him, crooning enticingly, while the sounds
prodded at his curiosity and shook his nerves back to life, firing them up
until his finger twitched, that simple movement cracking and shattering the
reverie trying to keep him unconscious, intensifying the luminous glow of the
sun until that was all he could see.
Dean cracked his eyes open, squinting into the blinding light. It took him a
moment to realize that the sun wasn’t actually trying to fry his eyeballs, and
another to take in his new surroundings. Gradually, his brain woke from its
rest and helped him make out where he was. First, the bright light wasn’t
actually that intense, but apparently his eyes have become so used to the
darkness that the tiniest bit of radiance seemed too much for them. In fact,
there barely was any light in the room he was in, only a few fain rays making
their way in through the gaps of the blinds mounted on the windows to his left.
The second thing he noticed was that he was lying in a bed. The warmth he was
feeling must have come from the thick blanket draped over his body, and after
blinking a good amount and glancing down at himself, he saw a transparent, thin
tube sticking out of one of his arms, its other end attached to a bag hooked
onto a pole. An IV bag, he thought still a bit dazedly, mind hazy as he
continued looking around the room. There were a few cables hooked onto a
machine next to him, the steady beeping coming from there, and it didn’t take
him much to figure out they were electrode wires monitoring his heart rate.
Aside from those, nothing else was attached to his body, and he trained his
eyes on the furniture of the room—a chair and table next to the bed, some
cabinets and counters opposite him, and a sofa with two wool blanket stacked on
each other to the right—before letting out a small sigh and melting into the
comfort of the bed, letting his eyes slip shut and maybe go back to sleep.
Then everything came back to him, and Dean nearly tore the IV needle out of his
arm as his eyes flew open and his body jolted in shock, in panic and horror,
the shrill sound as the beeping of the machine sped up barely audible over his
screams and shouts.
“Sam?! Where is Sam? Where’s my brother?!” he yelled frantically as nurses
poured into the room, their faces distorted masks of concern and sympathy,
their voices serene but serious and commanding as they tried to hold him down,
but Dean wouldn’t let them. One of them took out a syringe, so he kicked the
woman in the knee, thrashing and bellowing, demanding to see his brother right
this instance, but they only ignored him and tried to calm him down. Another
one was saying something, but he didn’t care, wasn’t in the mood to hear any
bullshit, because where was Sammy? Was he okay? Was he still alive? What
happened, damn it, he couldn’t remember what happened after he closed his eyes,
before waking up here, but he needed to know.
He grunted as something sharp entered his neck, stinging him, and then kept on
shouting for around four more seconds before the sedative those fuckers gave
him kicked in, and his body slowly went limp, his exasperated yells turning
into incoherent mumbles as he was once again dragged down into the quiet void
of unconsciousness.
                                       —
 
This time when he opened his eyes, Dean wasn’t alone.
Groaning, he stirred in the bed, squeezing his eyes shut and rubbing them with
his hand that wasn’t attached to an incapacitated arm with an IV line sticking
out of it, before opening them and blinking around the room. The sedative
knocked him out good, as now the room was lit by the tasteless, pale blue
fluorescent lights on the ceiling, the windows behind the blinds as if painted
over with a pitch black color it was so dark outside.
“Dean,” he heard someone say, the voice gruff and familiar, and as he whipped
his head to the right, he looked into the bloodshot eyes of his father sitting
in the chair near the bed. “How are you feeling, son?”
His mouth bobbed like a fish’s, opening and closing wordlessly as he stared at
John. Then, shaking his head and averting his eyes, forcing down the urge to
burst into tears like a pathetic child, he took a deep breath and hoped to keep
a more or less even voice as he said, “I’m…I’m fine. Living and breathing.”
Then he braced himself and looked back at his father, who seemed like he hasn’t
showered or slept in days, dreading to ask the question, but needing to know
the answer. “Sam…”
John’s expression turned the rest of the words to dust in his mouth, Dean
seconds away from having another fit and trashing the place when a glint of
pain flooded the man’s brooding eyes, covering them with a veil of tears of his
own.
He leaned forward, clasped his hands together, and leveled the other with a
grim look. “He’s alive,” he said, and Dean immediately sat up in the bed, eyes
wide and hopeful, but his father quickly raised a hand to halt the boy’s sudden
joy, “but it’s not looking good. He’s hanging on by a thread.”
“But he’ll make it, right?” Dean asked, tone somewhat pleading as he stared at
John, because Sammy was alive, so maybe there was a God after all.
His father’s silence was like a heavy weight on his heart and soul, crushing
them more and more with each passing second, and just as he was about to crawl
out of the bed and fucking shake the man so he’d start speaking, John finally
took a deep breath, visibly clenching his jaw before gazing at Dean. “Do you
know what they did to him?”
The question took him by surprise, and he could feel bile and sorrow building
up inside him as he nodded despondently. “They…beat him. And raped him.
Mutilated him.”
Another moment of silence, then, “Yes.” John sighed, and it sounded painfully
defeated and empty, but then his voice hardened as he continued. “The doctor
said it’s a miracle that he hasn’t given in to the shock yet. I could barely
keep up with the list of damages he mentioned. Sam… The kid must’ve gone
through Hell. He’s got a split lip, broken nose, a black eye. It’s completely
swollen shut, like he’s been stung by some radioactive wasp. His whole face and
body is covered in bruises and wounds, many deeper than they seemed at first
glance, causing some internal damages as well. One of his ankles is severely
sprained, so bad that they needed to put a cast on it. Then there’s…” His voice
trailed off, John’s features darkening as he furrowed his brow into a brief
scowl. “The teeth. All eight of his incisors are gone. The doctor said they
must have been knocked out instead of pulled out. His kidneys have also stopped
working from blood loss and ‘hypovolemic shock’ which was mainly caused by all
the blood leaving from the wounds on his body and…from inside him. Apparently a
number of sharp objects must have been inserted into his rectum and…messed it
up. Tore and mangled his flesh.”
When John was done talking, his shoulders slouched and he ran his hands through
the short nest of brown strands atop his head, ruffling and gripping them as he
sat there in silence, while Dean just felt like throwing up. They shoved things
up Sam’s ass? It wasn’t enough that they raped him, but they also had to… God,
he felt so sick and angry, only realized after a moment that his hands were
shaking, so he clenched them into fists and growled. “I should’ve gutted them.
Cut them open and strangled them with their own entrails, that’s what I
should’ve fucking done!”
“I found two shallow graves behind the shack,” John said all of a sudden, and
even though Dean wasn’t looking at the man, he could feel the pair of
suspicious eyes burning a hole in him. “Was that your doing?”
“Yeah, it was,” he stated without hesitation, raising his gaze to glower at his
father. “Why, do you disapprove?”
But John shook his head, the righteous man gone as he said lowly, “Wish I
could’ve ended them myself.”
Dean watched his father, both of them hurting and possessing a lot of pent-up
rage at this moment, but instead of raising his voice and shouting, he simply
hissed, “Where were you, then? Why the fuck didn’t you get there sooner?”
The man narrowed his eyes, back straightening. “I can’t be in two places at
once. I tried to get back as soon as possible when I got the call from Sam, but
don’t you dare put this on me. You were supposed to keep an eye on your brother
while I was gone.”
“Well maybe you shouldn’t be gone for that long! Hasn’t that ever occurred to
you?” Dean snapped, turning in the bed to glare at his father, who did so right
back at him.
“No, it didn’t, because I trusted you to take care of Sam! I had faith in my
sons to look out for each other, so tell me, Dean—how did your little brother
end up getting beaten and raped on your watch?!” he spat and got out of the
chair, beginning to pace and stomp around the room as they shouted at each
other.
“He wasn’t supposed to get hurt! And he wouldn’t have gotten hurt if only you
were a better father. Who the fuck leaves their kids in a cabin in the middle
of the forest that’s, by the way, also where a pair of rapist lunatics live?!”
“How was I supposed to know that?” John threw his hands in the air in
frustration before gripping the metal rail on the foot end of the bed, grip
tight as he snarled. “I did everything I could. Everything! Dropped the hunt
and drove straight back to the cabin, then searched the woods until I found
your phone lying on the ground. I even got Bobby to help out, poor man
receiving a bullet to the leg when that psycho came at us from the shack. And
when I finally found you at the bottom of that wretched well, both of you were
unconscious and cold, and I rushed you two to the hospital! I am the reason you
and your brother are still alive, so don’t you tell me that this is on me,
blame it on my job as your father!”
“But it is you! It’s always you, because you’re the one unable to let go of
mom!” Dean almost screeched, his body tense, ready to fight John right now if
he needed to. “You’re the one who keeps dragging us cross-country while hunting
monsters, the one forcing this abnormal lifestyle on us and making our lives
miserable; the one preventing us and mainly Sam, who fucking deserves it, from
having a normal life!”
“Don’t bring your mother into this, Dean Winches—”
“I’ll do whatever the hell I want! She’s gone, dad! She’s dead, so why can’t
you just move on like any sane person would and stop chasing after demons?! Why
do you have to ruin everything? This would have never, ever happened if only we
could be like everyone else. Who the fuck drags his kids into this disgusting
world, anyway? Why couldn’t you just go off on a suicide mission alone and
leave me and Sam out of this shit?!”
“That’s enough, boy!” John bellowed, nostrils flaring as he strode around the
bed and looked like he was a second away from slapping Dean, who merely snarled
at him, daring, fucking daring him to hit him, when the door to the room opened
and both of them looked at the middle-aged, short man in a white coat as he
walked in and gave Dean a cursory glance before gazing at John.
“Mr. Winchesters, please. Your son is still recovering, so could you leave the
family issues for later?” he asked with a polite smile, stepping aside and
motioning toward the open door. “I’d like to have a few words with the young
Winchester here, so if you may…”
Looking between the doctor and Dean, John finally sighed, closing his eyes and
nodding, then walked past the man standing in the middle of the room and left.
Once they were alone, Dean gave the doctor a wary look and leaned back against
the headboard of the bed. He was in his not-trusting-anyone mood, and the man’s
mole-like looks made him even more suspicious in his eyes. “I’m fine, so if
you’re here to check up on me, you can be on your way out. I’m not the one
needing help, but my brother.”
Only smiling at his sourness, the doctor calmly made his way to the chair and
sat down, eyeing Dean for a short moment before pushing up the spectacles on
his nose. “I can’t even imagine what you must be going through right now, all
that waiting and worrying without being able to do anything. Telling bad news
to those that are here because their loved ones have been in an accident is
awful, the worst part of being a doctor, so believe me, this doesn’t come easy
for me. And while I would love to say that your brother doesn’t need any more
help, that he’s recovering, I won’t do that. I don’t want you to worry anymore,
as I know what that does to patients, so I’ll tell you what I’ve told your
father. But I won’t sugar-coat it.”
“Good, I don’t need no lies or bullshit. I just want to know if Sam will make
it,” he stated while frowning at the doctor, his expression fierce and
demanding, but inside he was terrified, feeling like a scared little kid, his
stomach folding in on itself in dreadful anticipation. He just wanted to hug
his brother, right now. Wanted to hold Sam in his arms, needed to feel his
warmth and weight against him, has become dependent on it.
He just wanted his little brother…was that too much to ask for?
The doctor nodded slowly, then glanced at the heart rate monitor next to the
bed before giving the other a solemn look. “Your brother has been brought to us
in horrible conditions. He had lost a copious amount of blood and his system
was shutting down from it, along with the moderate case of hypothermia that you
also had. Thankfully that, and a few bruises were the only injuries you
suffered, unlike Sam, who hasn’t woken up since the two days you both have been
brought to our hospital. Neither is he showing any signs of wanting to wake up.
He has coded twice, but has been quiet ever since. We managed to stitch him up,
put a cast on his ankle and ice on his swollen eye which is going down nicely,
wrapped him in bandages. However there isn’t much we can do about the damages
he received to his anus. We have applied ointments and cleaned the anal canal
the best we could, are feeding him a cocktail of medications through an IV
infusion, but I’m afraid we cannot do more. Normally, we’d perform a surgery on
patients with anal fissure, but…” He paused, a troubled and somewhat apologetic
look crossing his face, eyebrows drawing together. “Sam’s anal muscle is
already filled with wounds, so cutting into it to lessen the pressure would
only backfire.”
Dean stared at the light green floor as he took all of that in, as he processed
all that information, but in the end, instead of giving in to the anguish those
words made him experience, he just gazed back at the doctor. “What do you mean
he’s not showing signs of wanting to wake up? Is he in a coma or something?” he
asked, now not even trying to hide the alarm in his voice anymore.
“Yes, he is, and he doesn’t seem to be responding to any stimuli either. Though
coma patients usually don’t move a muscle no matter what we do,” the doctor
said, making hand motions as he spoke. “You see, there are several ways that a
coma may be treated. It’s not always a helpless case. It depends on what
brought on the coma. We can either help by dosing patients with antibiotics or
performing surgery on them, by giving them drugs or other medication, even
glucose. However in your brother’s case, the coma appears to be self-induced,
and so it is one of those situations where waiting is our only option. Waiting,
and trying to get either an eye, verbal, or motor response out of the patient
by being near him and talking to him.”
“Then let me out of here. Take me to Sam and I’ll talk to him, do anything that
might help,” Dean urged the doctor, already kicking the blanket off and
reaching for the IV line sticking out of his arm, but a hand on his shoulder
stopped him.
The doctor removed his hand when Dean shot him a glare, then sighed and shook
his head slightly. “I’m sorry, but you’re a patient as well. For now, your
father is doing a good enough job talking to your brother and trying to wake
him. In my professional opinion, even if that turns out to be helpful, with
Sam’s condition, it will take him at least one more day before showing a
reaction, and even more before waking up, so you don’t need to rush. Rest and
let the IV warm your body, bring your temperature back to normal before you try
moving around again. And anyway, as I’ve mentioned before, your brother doesn’t
seem to be fighting. I’m very sorry to say this, but whatever has happened to
him must have traumatized him to such an extent he doesn’t feel the need to
wake up anymore.”
Dean blinked, snorting incredulously. “Is that supposed to keep me here? To
make me give up on tearing this useless fucking piece of shit out of my arm and
find my brother?” he snarled, tempted to reach out and grab the doctor by his
coat, maybe stick the IV needle in him, see how he liked it.
Unperturbed, the doctor took a step back and gave Dean a look that was very
close to pitying, only boiling the boy’s blood further. “I know what you’re
going through now must be painful, but I need you to understand that you are a
patient of this hospital as well. I cannot let you leave your room until you’ve
recovered.”
“Two days, right?” he blurted, scowl etched onto his face as he glowered at the
doctor. “You said I’ve been here for two days. Well, I might not be a
professional, but I’m pretty sure that that’s plenty amount of rest for someone
who doesn’t even have any serious injuries. Look, doc, I’m all nice and toasty
now, I don’t need to rot in this bed anymore, so I’m going to ask you nicely
one more time. Let. Me. See. My. Brother.”
The man regarded him for a good moment, before glancing at the heart rate
monitor and the IV stand, then sighed silently. “You may visit him, but I want
you back in this bed in an hour. I will check, and if I don’t see you here, I
will send nurses to escort you back. Do you understand? Hypothermia doesn’t
just affect your body’s temperature but your organs as well, so until you’re
stable and fully recovered, you can’t stay with your brother.”
“Fine,” Dean agreed grudgingly, reaching to pull the needle out of his arm, but
again, the doctor stopped him.
“Keep that in. It’s a heated IV fluid, and you need it.”
Rolling his eyes but not in the mood to argue anymore, Dean took off the
patches sticking to his chest, got out of the bed and stood up, wobbling a bit
and feeling rather dizzy for a second, but the rocking sensation passed fairly
quickly as he took a hold of the cold steel pole and held on, supporting
himself until his vision cleared. He only now realized that his dirty clothes
were gone and, just as he suspected and dreaded, there was a loose hospital
gown hanging from his body. It was just as bad as he expected, with too much
air and freedom between his legs, the gown having an exceptionally disgusting
pattern with blue dots and rhombuses on a pale white background, though at
least there wasn’t a gap in the back of his gown that left nothing for the
imagination. It was tightened properly, saving him from the embarrassment of
accidentally flashing an old lady with his bare ass, so he couldn’t really
complain that much.
Wriggling his feet into the slippers he’s been provided with, Dean pulled the
pole with the IV bag hanging from it after him as he left the room and followed
the doctor whose name he still didn’t know. Without exchanging any more words,
they walked down several hallways filled with either nurses chatting or speed-
walking from one room to another, and patients wandering about in a comatose
state, holding onto plastic cups of steaming hot chocolate or chatting with
their families, many of them unfortunately not having Dean’s luck in their
tightness of gowns, and by the time they reached Sam’s room, he was quite
certain he has seen a lifetime’s worth of wrinkly asses.
The doctor stopped by the door and nodded toward it, telling Dean to enter,
which, after a moment of hesitation, he did. Bracing himself for the worst, he
held his breath and turned the handle, opening the door almost uncertainly,
then stepped inside with the pole rolling behind him; however he didn’t get too
far, only taking about three steps before halting as he saw the tiny, brittle
mummy his brother had turned into.
A bitter ache spread out from his stomach to his chest, clutching his heart and
draining his face of any blood. Dean suddenly felt as if he was falling, as if
gravity had a stronger pull on his body that made his fingertips and toes
tingle, but he couldn’t collapse or move, frozen in this moment as his doleful
eyes took in every single detail of his baby brother’s bandaged up body. Sam
was wrapped in white, the kid nearly lost in it since his skin was also pale as
snow, making his stitches and bruises stand out even more. His black eye looked
better now, in the way it wasn’t swollen that much anymore, but the dark purple
and borderline pure, coal black bruise surrounding it was still there, looking
somewhat worse than before. His face was covered in other purple and deep red,
even blue bruises, these smaller, and his nose had a splint realigning it,
along with some more bandages. There was also a line of bandages covering his
neck, like some very tight and uncomfortable turtleneck. He couldn’t see under
the blanket, but he supposed that was for the better, already knowing without
needing to look that Sam’s whole torso was probably full of the white gauze as
well. One of his legs was sticking out from under the blanket, though, his foot
which had a cast on it sitting on a large pillow at the end of the bed,
elevating the kid’s ankle, with only his tiny toes visible. And he was also
hooked up to an IV bag which fed him the essential fluids Dean guessed was
being pumped into his own veins even now.
John was sitting next to the immobile body on the bed, holding his hand and
watching him, but raised his tired gaze to Dean as he finally moved closer, the
sound of the pole rolling across the glossy rubber floor awkwardly loud in the
silence of the room. “You were let out?” John asked in a whispery, raspy tone.
He watched his father’s thumb as it stroked the back of Sam’s hand, and nodded.
“Yeah,” he said, ripping his gaze from his brother to look back at his father
instead, still feeling a bit pissed off toward the man, but simply not having
it in him to shout anymore, especially with Sammy in the room. “I’ve got like
an hour before having to go back to bed.”
His answer was met with a nod as his father looked back at Sam with a pained
expression, before standing up from the chair and walking over to Dean. “Be
nice to your brother,” he said lowly, placing a heavy hand on the other’s
shoulder, then took one last look at the body on the bed before leaving, and as
the door behind him closed, the room was suddenly filled with a thick,
deafening silence.
Dean stood still for the longest moment, working up the courage to go closer,
then slowly moved over to the chair and sat down, hand almost shaking as he
tentatively placed it over Sam’s soft one. He was warm. Warm and alive, but no
thanks to Dean, who couldn’t do shit to save the kid. Bupkis. It was partly his
fault that his baby brother was lying here now, unconscious and beaten down,
with little chance of ever waking up again. Oh, how Dean wished he possessed
some sort of supernatural power, something he could use to make all these
wounds, both physical and mental, disappear. He would have given anything for a
magic wand or anything powerful enough to turn back time, something he could
wave and use to make everything better, but he had no such thing. Useless,
that’s what he was. All he could do was mess things up. He was the one who told
Sam to go there. He was the one who found him too late, who, despite being a
hunter, couldn’t even save his little brother from the claws of another kind of
monster. He gave shit to John, but if it wouldn’t have been for him, both of
them would have died by now. A day and a half. Dean checked the calendar hung
up in the hallways as he came to Sam’s room. They’ve been down there for only a
day and a half, but Dean was already suffering from hypothermia, and Sam from a
cruel mix of that and blood loss. It would have only taken them a few more
minutes to die, for it to be too late to save them, so if their dad wouldn’t
have showed up when he did, then right now, in the bottom of that well, they’d
be…
Was there really nothing he could do? Not then, and not even now? Just sitting
here and caressing the kid’s hand won’t wake him up, won’t erase the pain and
the memories. But now that he thought of it, would regaining consciousness be
any better? Maybe that’s why Sam refused to wake up. Facing all that he’s been
through, at such a young age, no matter the circumstances he’s been brought up
in, would mean a great mental strain and a never-ending stream of nightmares.
Sam’s mind would be a horror show, the memories surely haunting him. And if
Dean would be in the other’s position, if he had to choose between coming back
to live a life he never wanted in the first place, with even more things to
haunt him in the darkness of the night, and forgetting, leaving all of this
mess he didn’t have the energy to cope with behind, all this bullshit, he would
have chosen the latter, too. Stop fighting. Put down the arms and lean back,
lie down into a bed of earth and rest, close his eyes in an eternal sleep. He
could understand why, after all he’s been through, Sam would choose this option
instead of returning into the world of the living, into a world that many times
didn’t even seem like it was worth saving, wanted saving, but since Dean was a
selfish person, he gently squeezed his little brother’s hand and, for the first
time ever since his mother died, prayed.
He prayed for angels to exist and help his Sammy, at least Sam, who deserved to
be saved way more than any despicable human out there. He prayed for his
brother to wake up without the memories of these last few days, for him to open
his eyes as the little brat with the dimpled smile Dean never knew he loved so
damn much, and not as the desolate kid with the crushed spirit and with the
fire in his eyes turned to ashes, thin and flimsy, carried away by the faintest
gust of wind. And he even prayed, briefly and secretly, for the strength to
always do the right thing, to stay true to himself, because right now, Dean
wouldn’t have liked to do anything more than to get up, walk out that door and
leave the building, and go until he came to a crossroads where he’d gladly sell
his soul in return for his brother’s health and safety. He’d spit in his
father’s face and make a deal with a demon in a heartbeat if it meant Sam would
wake up unscarred, that’s how desperate he has become, was considering doing
that more and more with each passing minute he spent gazing at his brother’s
injured face, so he forced himself to lower his eyes and stare instead at the
small hand cradled unresponsively in his.
“Hey, Sam,” he said with a sigh, voice uneven and close to breaking, but he
didn’t expect anything better, anyway. He was glad he at least managed to raise
his voice above a whisper. “I know you probably can’t hear me right now. Can’t
even feel me touching you, can you? I’d appreciate it if you’d try and listen,
though, because if you don’t, then I’ll just look like some weirdo talking to
himself.” He chuckled bitterly, the sound hollow, quickly dissipating and
becoming one with the silence. “So, yeah. You waking up would be nice. Tell you
what, if you open your eyes in the next hour, I’m going to nag dad until he
takes us back to Austin, and then I’ll take you to that ice-cream place you
love. Get you some mint chocolate chip ice-cream, the one you just can’t shut
up about. Might even get some in a small container, put it in the freezer so
you’d be able to eat some later as well. How does that sound?” Dean stroked
circles in the back of the other’s hand, listening to the slow, even beeps of
the monitor next to Sam’s bed and trying to smile, in vain. He wondered if his
face broke, if he’ll ever be able to smile again if his brother never woke up.
He guessed no.
“Please,” he begged after a long moment of nothing, his façade falling apart,
because he just wanted his brother back. That’s all he wanted, only thing he’ll
ever ask for, so please, God, make just this one wish come true. “Sammy, I know
you don’t want to come back. I get it, kid, I do. I wouldn’t want to, either,
but I’m pretty sure I noticed some gray strands in dad’s hair, you’re makin’
him worry that much. I bet even Bobby is behaving like some lone drunkard right
now, that is, if he’s not torturing that man who let this happen to you.
They’re gone, you know? I… I killed them. I killed them, so they won’t be able
to hurt you anymore, no one will ever be able to lay a finger on you, so
please. You know I can’t do this without you, Sam. You know me more than
anyone, more than dad, know that I’m not as strong as I let on. I try, just
like you do, but if you’re gone, I won’t have a reason to keep trying anymore.
And I know, I know this is much to ask. Know that you don’t want to come back
after all that has happened, after what they’ve done to you, what…I did. And
I’m sorry about everything, even though a ‘sorry’ won’t do shit. But I’m still
going to ask, still going to beg you to wake up. Because I need you.”
He sniffled, blinking back tears he refused to let run free, then reluctantly
let go of the other’s hand, stood up from the chair and leaned forward,
brushing Sam’s bangs out of the way to press a whisper-light kiss on an
unharmed part of his forehead. “I will wait for you, no matter how long. Years,
even, if I have to. But please…please, wake up, Sammy,” he murmured quietly,
eyes closed for a while as he just hovered over his brother, their faces inches
away from each other, before Dean forced a thin smile and pulled away, gripping
the pole from which his own IV bag hung as he headed for the door with a heavy,
bereft heart.
A heart that just might never be capable of loving again, if he were to lose
Sam…
 
***** Time Heals *****
 
Three weeks and a day. He counted.
It took Sam three weeks and a day to finally open his eyes. Throughout that
time, Dean had obviously recovered and was allowed to spend more and more time
in his brother’s room, talking to him or just caressing him. After two weeks,
he began reading to him from the books he found in the hospital library. Alice
in Wonderland, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, the classics that he knew Sam had
always wanted to read. He cracked jokes, made comments while reading, pretended
that his brother was listening and rolling his eyes, calling Dean an idiot for
making fun of stories that were such an important part of the history of
literature, or something nerdy like that. Many times, he fell asleep in the
chair with the book in his hands, and he rarely slept in the motel room that
John had gotten for them. It wasn’t that far from the hospital, but Dean still
preferred to stay here rather than there, didn’t want to leave his brother’s
side in case if he were to wake up just when he wasn’t there. Or if something
happened, maybe Sam’s heart giving out while Dean was just sleeping miles away
from him… Yeah, no. He lived off of vending machine food and coffee, so much
coffee and some whiskey John sometimes let him drink, and slept in chairs and
uncomfortably hard leather couches, as while the hospital staff was kind enough
to give them special bracelets that meant they could stay in the building, he
couldn’t use the room and the bed he used to be in because other patients
needed that.
The day Sam woke up, Dean was especially tired thanks to a series of nightmares
keeping him from sleeping. He was in the middle of getting his fifth coffee,
when John speed-walked past him with a brisk “He’s awake.” Dean immediately
followed, leaving the coffee in the machine, and then had to stomp impatiently
in front of the door before he elbowed his way into the room filled with nurses
who tried to unsuccessfully shoo him out. When the swarm of nurses dispersed,
only him, John, the doctor—whose name was Dr. Daniel Wright, he found out after
a few days—and Sam were left in the room. His brother was still a bit out of
it, slipping in and out of consciousness, but the doctor said this was a good
sign and the first big step toward full recovery. The couple of next days were
a bit of a blur, with Dean almost never leaving the other’s room and feeling an
almost explosive amount of relief whenever Sam’s eyes fluttered open or his
fingers twitched. Slowly, his brother came all the way back, and it wasn’t long
before he could move his body and become aware of his surroundings.
But of course, that didn’t mean that everything was completely fine.
Sam could move, but obviously they weren’t letting him out of bed for a few
more weeks. He had a panic attack the first time Dr. Wright explained to him
what happened, then cried for three consecutive days, until his eyes were puffy
and red. His wounds were healing nicely, thank god, however the thrashing from
the panic attack opened some on his back. Also, he wasn’t speaking. At first,
Dean just thought that his brother was too overwhelmed and simply didn’t want
to speak, and as it turned out, he wasn’t that far off. After a week of
muteness, the doctor told them that Sam had developed selective mutism
following the trauma that has occurred to him. It was impossible to say how
long an selective mutism could last—it could be months or even go up to
years—and curing it wasn’t an option either, so unfortunately, all they could
do was wait and hope. Dean evidently wasn’t happy to hear that, and neither was
John, but they were both too glad that Sam had at least woken from his coma to
mind for now.
Unlike he expected with a large amount of dread, his brother did not throw
anything at him or looked at him with hate in his eyes. And while at first, he
was relieved, after several days of nothing, Dean began wish the other would
show some kind of emotion, even if it ended up being abhorrence. Sam never
smiled, which was completely understandable. But he also never got angry or
sad, didn’t show anything on his face, as if he was an empty shell with a
similarly empty, emotionless face. No matter what Dean said, what he asked,
what he did, Sam just stared at him with a pair of bleak, somewhat
disinterested eyes before either looking out the window or going back to sleep.
This was so much worse than his brother despising him, because it felt like Sam
wasn’t even himself anymore, like the kid he loved was left in the nether of
that well, died in there, and what he got in return was an apathetic copy, like
a blank paper from which all the words have been erased.
It hurt more than anything, but when they asked the doctor, he just suggested
therapy. So after the weeks of recovery were over and Sam could be finally
checked out of the hospital, that’s exactly what they did. They settled in a
motel room, renting it for several months in advance, and John stopped hunting
in other states for a while, only taking up cases that happened around the city
they were in. With the money they had, and with what Bobby gave them, they
managed to get Sam a therapist. After only one session of trauma therapy, the
woman working with him informed them that Sam was the way he was because of
PTSD—Post Traumatic Stress Disorder in short—and he needed to take medication
alongside with the therapy. No surprises there, Dean thought, as Sam certainly
has gone through enough to develop something like that. That didn’t make
watching his brother sit on the bed while staring off into nothing any less
painful, though. They also got him new teeth, dental implants that cost a
fortune, but with Bobby rounding up some other hunters to help financially,
they just managed to afford it.
Slowly, he discovered more things about this new Sam, none of which were
positive changes. First, in addition to not speaking, he was also against
physical touches. He was jumpy when nobody was touching him, and even more when
Dean put a gentle hand on his shoulder or on his back, Sam always flinching and
moving away, looking like a scared animal about to get eaten. It never ceased
to break Dean’s heart, and since he hated seeing his brother like that, he made
himself stop touching the other, no matter how difficult that was. Physical
contact wasn’t the only thing Sam began to avoid; he was also withdrawing from
any social interaction, never leaving the motel room, and even in there, he
tried to stay in corners where there was no one, Dean noticing many times how
the kid scurried into the bathroom or anywhere else when he or John entered the
room or got too close. He also still refused to smile, not even the tiniest
hint of it appearing on his face, but at least now he wasn’t absolutely
emotionless anymore. Not that that was any good, because Sam’s only two
apparent emotions were anxiety and fear. He always seemed so uneasy and
depressed, his days mainly consisting in lying in bed reading or staring at the
walls, and whenever Dean suggested they play cards or do something, his brother
always shook his head and tried to appear as small as possible as he went back
to doing nothing. It took him one month to get Sam out the motel with the
promise of just a simple walk, and even then the kid seemed like he thought the
cars would veer in and run him over on purpose, or the people they walked past
would jump and attack him. Hoping Sam might get used to the outside if only he
frequented it often enough, Dean took him out on walks once every week, but
after two months, he had to come to the disappointing conclusion that his
brother was still the same, remained disconnected and numb toward every and
anything, no matter what he or John tried.
Then there was the food problem, as if Dean didn’t have enough things to worry
about. Thanks to Sam’s medication, the therapy, and the dental implants, they
didn’t have that much money left for the essentials like food, so they only had
ramen and stacks of cheap frozen food in their fridge. So it wasn’t like they
had much food to begin with, but his brother refused to eat even what little
they had. He just simply wasn’t eating.
He either left half of the already small portion Dean put before him, or nudged
it with his fork before leaving the table and the meal behind. There have been
days when Sam didn’t eat anything aside from one biscuit, and it wasn’t long
before his skinny form began turning even thinner, the kid looking like a
walking skeleton, and it was a miracle his bones weren’t rattling with every
step he took. Seeing that, Dean obviously tried to force-feed his brother,
which wasn’t that easy with him pulling away or even starting to tremble,
looking like someone who was about to cry each time food got forced into his
mouth. Seeing how that was clearly not working, Dean tried a more lenient,
patient approach, and for each meal, he spoon-fed his brother personally,
coaxing and encouraging him, praising him whenever he opened his mouth, chewed
and swallowed the food, and surprisingly, after a while, it worked. It did mean
that Sam wasn’t eating unless Dean was feeding him, but honestly, he actually
enjoyed doing it, so he didn’t mind.
Taking care of Sam didn’t only apply to daytime. Dean was busy during the
night, too, as at least four nights out of seven he woke up to his little
brother stirring violently in his bed and whimpering. The nightmares were
relentless, and sadly, they were one of those things he couldn’t do anything
about, just like the muteness and that nervous, all but frightened little gleam
in the other’s dispirited eyes. Many times, he attempted to soothe his brother
by waking him up and then hugging him, but as always, the contact made Sam
shake like a malfunctioning wind-up toy, had him curling into a tiny ball and
sobbing into his pillow, so Dean was left with only being able to comfort his
brother with words, telling him that nightmares couldn’t hurt him, promising
that Sam was safe now, that even if the dreams got really bad, he always had
Dean who would even battle those good for nothing dreams if he had to. He even
took up humming and crooning to his brother to help him go back to sleep, made
himself learn lullabies, then gave up and sang his favorites songs instead,
unable to stop his laughter when he once heard Sam huff during one of his air
guitar solos.
Months passed like that, with Sam very slowly warming up to smaller things, and
by the sixth month, Dean managed to take his brother out to a diner. It wasn’t
a walk in the park, and Sam’s eyes kept darting left and right, looking for any
potential threats, but by the time they were inside and had a strawberry
parfait in front of them, along with a warm apple pie, he managed to keep the
jumpiness to a minimum. Dean ordered the desserts even though Sam could have
done it as well, since he always had a little notepad and a pencil on himself
to communicate with, and then ignored the mixed looks people gave them when he
fed his little brother the creamy parfait. He wondered if he had developed a
feeding fetish along the months, because putting food in Sam’s mouth and then
watching as he chewed with closed eyes, before swallowing and licking his
small, pink lips shouldn’t have made Dean so happy, but it did. Though that
might have just been because his brother was an adorable little thing, even
like this, and Dean was still in love with him. He never fell out of it, no
matter how much he wished he would, only got sucked further into this
inescapable pit of affection he had for Sam. No being able to touch him, not
even a slight caress, was killing Dean. He missed his brother’s voice and
smile, too, missed so many things, but was learning to appreciate and enjoy
these new ones, for instance feeding the kid strawberry parfait while the
waitress smiled at them sweetly. After that, he took Sam out more often, to
walks, to visit the zoo, to car drives when dad wasn’t using the Impala for a
hunt.
They had to take a week long break from leaving the motel, though, after an
accident at the amusement park, where a vendor called Sam a bunny, resulting in
the boy freezing, breaking out in sweat, and his breathing picked up so much it
was obvious he would have had a breakdown if Dean wouldn’t have brought him
back to the motel right away.
He would have loved to say that he didn’t know why Sam had that kind of
reaction. Oh, what he would have given to erase that particular piece of
information from his brain, but once he’s seen it, he could, unfortunately,
never unsee it. It was less than a week after they checked Sam out of the
hospital, that Bobby visited them and gave Dean his phone back. Told him he
found it near the shack, and it still seemed to be working, so it would have
been a shame to throw it out. Probably out of privacy reasons, Bobby didn’t
look into the phone, but later on, when Dean saw those things, he felt like
yelling at the man for not being nosey. He didn’t expect it. He just sat on the
bed, Sam reading on the other bed next to his, and unsuspectingly opened up his
photo album, curious if his brother managed to take some pictures of the egged
shack before…well. And he did, as Dean found out while looking through the
pictures, indeed take a picture of it, along with a video. Frowning, he glanced
at his brother before putting in his earphones so as to not bother the kid,
then pressed play.
What he saw then nearly made him break out in tears and screams, and hurl the
phone against a wall.
Those motherfuckers filmed it. Recorded it as they humiliated his brother over,
and over again, made him say and do things. He didn’t want to, but now he knew
exactly what had entered Sam’s ass before he got raped, knew how Sam sounded
like when he was screaming in pain. He saw the utter mortification in the
other’s eyes, Dean’s face matching the red color of his brother’s on the screen
when the kid was forced to blow a kiss to the camera, seething rage boiling in
him as he watched his brother get cut, slashed, degraded, jeered at, called
names and stripped of not only his clothes, but his dignity as well. One of
them kept calling him bunny, Dean glad it was the one whose skull he remembered
splitting open. Piece of shit deserved it. After the video was over, he deleted
it right away, already feeling sick, and his stomach only twisted and whirled
even more when he looked back at his brother, the knowledge of what really
happened making him want to hug Sam all the more.
So remembering that day, Dean never took his brother to that amusement park
ever again.
But considering everything, things were going well. He continued taking his
brother to places after waiting a bit, wanting to make him feel normal, so that
he’d slowly readjust to living life the way he used to. And sure, it was indeed
slow. It took him months to even get Sam to come out of the motel room, and
even more time to convince him that he didn’t need to feel scared whenever
someone aside from Dean spoke or even looked at him, however as time went by,
he started to believe in the saying “time heals all wounds”. Well, maybe not
all, but it could certainly make them less painful, like a soothing flow of icy
water on a burn. It took a while, but Sam had grown accustomed to the gazes and
the chaotic comings and goings of the outside world, wasn’t jumping each time
someone else talked to him, though touching him was still forbidden, even for
Dean. Anyway, things were gradually working out despite all the hardships
they’ve been through.
At least, that’s what he thought.
 
***** Won't You Stay With Me? *****
 
John was out, has been for a couple of days. A wendigo hunt, if he heard it
right. It was only him and Sam in the motel, though honestly, Dean preferred it
that way. He didn’t really have a bone to pick with their father, aside from
the usual petty arguments, and his presence wasn’t all that unwelcome either,
but Dean still liked to be alone with his brother. He felt like they could bond
more easily that way, and he really, really wanted to grow closer to Sam. He
liked how things were right now, because Sam wasn’t always in his little bubble
anymore, but at the same time, he missed the good old days. The fights over the
last chocolate chip cookie, the prank wars, the teasing and the laughing. They
used to be a daily part of his life, and until now, he never realized how much
they meant to him. It really seemed as if people only became aware of their
love toward certain things, registered just how much they meant to them, when
those things were gone.
You take it for granted, the idea of ever losing it never crossing your mind,
but as soon as it vanishes from your life, you feel as if a hole has appeared
in your world, and no matter how much you try, you just can’t seem to fill it.
It can be an object, a person—even an emotion. Someone who is always happy
won’t even realize it; happiness would just exist in them, become part of them.
It would turn invisible to their eyes, and then they wouldn’t appreciate it as
much as others, because it’s just something they always have with them,
something that, after a while of possessing it, ultimately loses its meaning.
But if that happiness is removed from their life, if they are suddenly left
without it, realization quickly comes crashing down on that person, making them
regret not cherishing that feeling while they had it. Like health robbed from
you by sickness, love by loss, senses by an accident, or your home by a fire;
and realization always comes much too late. Even when you get it back, that
sense of gratitude quickly diminishes and fades as you get used to having it
again, until the very moment it’s gone, and this continues over and over, a
vicious circle to which you cannot put an end to.
Dean knew that feeling too well.
He listened to passing conversations as he walked back to the motel, a plastic
bag full of groceries in each hand. They were the usual, run-of-the-mill foods,
plain and simple, nothing extravagant. Bread, jam, butter, milk and water,
orange juice and a few types of frozen vegetables and meat mixes. Today was one
of those days where they have managed to save up enough money for a bigger
shopping trip—the smaller ones consisted of only buying cornflakes and energy
bars—so Dean spent whatever money they had wisely, buying things that they
could eat right away as well as later on, foods that could go weeks without
rotting. He did sneak in a pack of Oreos, though, because not only was he
craving those crumbly treats, but he knew that Sam adored them as well, and
making that kid happy was his mission in life these days. Or, well, months.
Fishing out the key and opening the door to the motel while balancing the bags
on his wrists wasn’t an easy task, but he was Dean Winchester, professional
badass, so he was in the room in less than two minutes. He didn’t like leaving
Sam alone, because even though his brother probably preferred solitude, it
wasn’t good for him. Plus Dean was pretty sure that he has developed a constant
craving for Sam’s presence, some sort of odd dependency, and he couldn’t really
go more than an hour without needing to either look at the other, or just
simply be close to him. Yeah, it was probably unhealthy and not normal at all,
but at this point, what was normal?
“Sam, I’ve got us something. I think you’re gonna like it,” he said with a
slightly raised voice as he walked to the tiny kitchen-thing they had in the
motel, as when he entered, his brother wasn’t here. So the bathroom, obviously.
He got no answer, but that was also a given, so Dean began unpacking the bags
and filling the fridge with the food that belonged there, before taking out a
smaller plate and placing the pack of Oreos next to it. “Come on out, or I’ll
eat them all,” he taunted, smiling expectantly with his eyebrows raised, eyes
trailed on the bathroom door, but when it still didn’t open after a minute,
Dean sighed and pushed himself away from the kitchen counter.
Walking over to the bathroom door, he knocked twice, then frowned when he tried
the handle, only to have it resist under his hand. “Hey, you okay in there?” he
asked, obviously not expecting an actual answer, but at least some kind of
sound would have been better than deadly silence. His wish came true after a
moment, as he heard something clanking in the sink, something not too heavy,
like plastic. Knocking again, Dean rattled the handle as if that would make the
door magically unlock itself, dread slowly creeping up on him like black,
unyielding tendrils. “Sam? Sam, open the door.”
Still no answer, aside from a muffled cough, followed by what he really hoped
wasn’t a gagging sound. His brother used to lock himself in the bathroom
before, sure, but that was still at the beginning, in the first few weeks. He
hasn’t done it in ages, meaning whatever he was doing in there couldn’t
possibly be good, the strange sounds coming from in there only worrying Dean
even more.
Not a fan of ruining stuff they were still using, but refusing to stand here
and do nothing while who knows what was happening to his brother in there, he
pounded on the door once more before taking a step back. “Sam, open the door
right now, or I’m breaking it down!” No answer. Fine, then he was going to go
Chuck Norris on this damn door. “I’m coming in!” he warned, before getting into
position and kicking the door near the keyhole, and while on the first try it
didn’t work, on the second the door swung open so hard it bounced off the
bathroom wall and nearly closed again.
Dean immediately elbowed the door and rushed into the bathroom, feeling like
he’s been hit by a bulldozer the moment he took in the scene before his eyes.
In the sink lay the orange bottle in which his brother’s antidepressant pills
were kept, the same white and blue pills that were now spilled next to the
bottle. Dean could only see less than half of them, though, but before he
could’ve wondered where the rest of them have disappeared to, he looked at Sam,
and he knew. His brother was staring at him with wide, tear-glazed eyes,
trembling hands covering his mouth as he took a cautious step back, face
somewhat red, as if he were holding back the urge to gag. Dean’s own mouth
wasn’t working for the longest moment, just opening and closing in shocked
disbelief, but then as all the emotions inside of him built up and finally
overflowed, he snapped, crossing the bathroom in a heartbeat and ripping the
other’s hands from his mouth.
“What the fuck, Sam?!” he yelled incredulously, voice rising and falling, out
of control. “Spit them out. Spit them out right this fucking instant!” His
brother shook his head, the tears welling up in his eyes leaving them and
rolling down his cheeks, so Dean turned him around and manhandled him to his
knees before the toilet, where he stood behind the other, legs on either side
of him and trapping him in position. “You’re going to throw them up,” he
barked, but when his brother just sobbed, Dean had to open Sam’s jaw and shove
his fingers in there, feeling around and pressing down until the kid was
thrashing around and gagging, and he removed his fingers just in time before
the other leaned forward and threw up in the toilet. Dean cursed as he watched
pill after pill leave his brother’s body, as Sam’s shoulders shook each time he
heaved, and even though it wasn’t sanitary, Dean didn’t care, and he kept
pushing his fingers back in there until the other wasn’t throwing up pills
anymore.
When there was nothing in his stomach left his brother could throw up, Dean let
go of his hair which he’s been holding, and just wiped his fingers on his pants
before turning Sam around. Instead of helping him stand back up, though, Dean
was actually finding it rather difficult to keep standing himself, and as all
the panic and sudden outrage left him, he fell to his knees in front of his
brother. “Why? Why?” He gripped Sam’s shoulders and shook him until the kid
raised his gaze from the floor and looked at him. “Why did you do it? I
thought… I thought you were fine, Sam. Why would you try to kill yourself, damn
it!” he yelled, voice breaking and splintering along with his heart, and even
as he could feel Sam pulling away, he simply didn’t have it in himself anymore
to care about the ‘no touching’ rule, and yanked the kid into a hug so tight no
amount of struggling would help him escape.
Sam tried to push him away, a thin sound resembling a whimper leaving him, but
then abruptly stopped when Dean continued speaking, going limp in his arms as
he said, no, begged, “Please.” Sniffling, because he couldn’t take it anymore,
these last few months becoming too much and finally, finally cracking him open,
he held his brother closer and cried, just let it all out. “Please, I’ve
already lost you once, Sammy, I can’t… I can’t do this all over again. I’ve
tried, I really did, but I can’t keep doing this. Sam, god, I miss you so much,
please. I need you, you have no idea how much, no idea how much you mean to me,
how much I love you. I love you. I love you, Sammy, and if you’re gone…” He
shook his head, swallowing back tears in vain and hugging his brother close to
his chest. “Please don’t leave me, okay? You’re all I need, but if you’re not
here… Just stay. That’s all I’m asking, you don’t even need to, to… You don’t
need to love me,” he whispered the last words, each feeling like an arrow to
the heart, but he was desperate and hopeless, so hopelessly in love. “You don’t
have to love me the way I love you, you can hate me, you can feel however you
feel even though it kills me, Sammy, because I really, really just need you.
That’s all I want, all I’ve ever wanted, so…so as long as you stay with me, you
can think whatever you want of me. Just please. Please. Please. Please…don’t
take the easy way out, no matter how hard it gets. I’ll do whatever you want,
Sam, I swear I will, so I’m begging you, don’t do this ever again…”
He fell silent after that, too afraid to speak, to even move, his arms firm and
frozen around his brother, whole body a statue of shame and guilt, of love and
fear, of spoken words that weren’t ever supposed to leave his mouth, but in
this moment of weakness, he let them all out, and was already greatly
regretting doing so. He just dug his own grave. Letting go of his traumatized
little brother, giving him a cup of water, leaving him alone—that’s what he
should be doing right now, not hanging onto this moment, onto Sam like a leech,
too terrified of what would happen if he broke the hug. He wanted to stay
suspended in this moment forever, wouldn’t even have minded if the world came
to an end right at this very moment, for he was too afraid of the future, of
what would happen now that he has overstepped his boundaries, has done so many
taboo and selfish things that Sam hating him wasn’t even an option anymore. It
was given.
Dean waited as long as he could, the sluggish drag of the seconds stretching
into a minute, maybe two, but no matter how much he didn’t want to, he had to
unwrap himself from the kid. He had to face the consequences of his actions.
“Sorry…” he muttered so quietly it was possible that Sam didn’t even hear him,
before slowly letting go and pulling away, wiping away the tears lingering in
his eyes and clinging to his lashes; however before he could’ve stood up, a
hand grasping his shirt stopped him.
Blinking, he watched perplexedly as Sam curled his fingers in Dean’s shirt,
before very, excruciatingly slowly sliding his hands up to the other’s neck and
then wrapping his arms around it, eyes uncertain and somewhat sheepish as they
gazed into his own confounded ones, and then Dean suddenly forgot how to
breathe when his brother’s mouth opened and—
“De…eean…Dean.”
He just gaped at Sam for the longest moment, before a shaky smile spread across
his face. The word was raspy and almost inaudible, uneven like a faulty wire,
and so weak, but it was there, and when his brother was done saying it, his
cheeks gained a light pink color, the kid bushing with the sweetest look on his
face. It almost took physical effort for Dean not to haul Sam into another hug,
not to kiss those pretty cheeks until they turned an ever deeper shade.
Instead, he brought a hand to his brother’s face and caressed one of those
cheeks with the back of his fingers, his heart swelling when Sammy closed his
eyes and smiled.
“Sam,” he whispered with so much love and affection they practically clogged
his throat, unable to stop the light laugh that escaped him when his little
brother moved closer and hugged him this time, arms wrapped tightly around
Dean’s neck and face buried in the crook of it. He instantly raised a hand to
pet the other’s head, taking deep breaths as he nuzzled Sam’s hair and letting
the fragrance of shampoo, of Sammy, even the slightest hint of sweat calm him,
because it was all his brother. His brother, so close to him, clinging to him,
making him the happiest person alive right now.
They hugged for what seemed like hours before finally letting go, both of them
smiling, even if just a little, though Sam’s smile turned surprisingly warmer
when Dean planted a soft kiss on his forehead. “Come on, let’s get up from the
floor. I bought you Oreos,” he said while brushing the other’s hair back, his
brother nodding with an excited glint in his eyes as they stood up and made
their way out of the bathroom, hand in hand, it pretty much being a miracle
Dean’s heart didn’t go propelling out of his chest from joy.
His brother talked. He said Dean’s name, smiled, and hugged him. He didn’t push
him away for what he said. It all seemed like a dream, it was so perfect. Dean
couldn’t remember the last time he felt so damn happy, and as he fed a shy-
looking Sam some Oreos with milk, he promised himself he would never take his
brother and his smile for granted anymore.
He would cherish every moment he spent with Sam as if they were the last, would
treasure each and every second until the day he died.
 
***** From The Dust *****
 
That day when he stopped Sam from committing suicide, it was as if a switch in
his brother had been flipped, and from then on, their days together changed
completely.
Well, maybe not completely. Sam wasn’t back to the way he used to be, was still
wary of strangers and mostly kept to himself, and his depression didn’t vanish
from one day to the other, but it got better. Things got better. Slowly, he
started talking again. Only a few words here and there, maximum two full
sentences per day, but that was already a huge step, and every time Dean heard
his brother’s voice, he found himself smiling. Though these days, he was pretty
much smiling all the time, because Sam had practically become a monkey. It was
as if he was trying to make up for all that time without physical contact,
suddenly turning touch deprived and clinging to Dean every chance he
got—snuggling on the couch while watching TV, sitting close to him while being
fed, standing close or hugging him when Dean was making food, jumping into his
arms when he came back to the motel after a supply run, and after a week or so,
even sleeping in the same bed as him. John was also, obviously, overjoyed by
the news, and they waited one more month before going back to their routine of
travelling from town to town, state to state, hunting monsters. Except only
their dad was hunting, because Sam needed Dean back at the motel, has become so
dependent of his big brother that he could barely survive an hour without him.
They knew, because Dean had tried to go hunting with John once, then came back
to find the motel trashed and Sammy curled up in a corner, crying. Yeah,
definitely not a good idea to leave the poor thing alone, plus he wasn’t a fan
of being without the kid either, so in the end, he continued to spend his days
with Sam and only Sam.
And what great days they were. Dean hadn’t expected for his brother to behave
the way he was, not like that, not even before what happened in those woods. He
didn’t mind touching anymore, initiated them most of the time, and the way he
clung to Dean when they slept was simply precious. Honestly, when he confessed
in that bathroom, he thought he screwed everything up, but he evidently hadn’t.
At the same time, though…he couldn’t have been completely sure. Sam hugged him,
smiled at him, spoke to him—he did all those things, but nothing more. He never
attempted to maybe kiss him or anything else, so Dean didn’t know whether his
brother had accepted the words he said that day, or simply ignored them. And
then wouldn’t ignorance basically mean rejection? Sam acted as if Dean never
said anything, as if he never told him he loved him, as if they didn’t kiss.
Sure, that kiss was during a desperate situation, with the kid probably unaware
of what was really happening, which probably meant that it was actually a
stolen kiss, but Dean rather not think of that. Either way, his brother wasn’t
making a move, wasn’t even showing any signs of wanting Dean to try anything,
so it was safe to assume that he got, indeed, rejected. Which obviously sucked,
and hurt, but he also knew that those were selfish feelings. It was greedy of
him to want everything, not only Sam’s wellbeing and affection, but also his
love. He should just content himself with the fact that his brother was capable
of laughing again, of talking. He should be feeling lucky as the person Sam
trusts, needs, and loves the most, even if that love wasn’t the same as the one
Dean harbored toward the other.
And anyway, he had to remind himself that what he was feeling wasn’t healthy in
the first place. It was abnormal, to say the least. Sick. He was in love with
his own little brother, for fuck’s sake. He had taken advantage of him, had
touched and kissed him and enjoyed every second of it. Wanted to do so much
more, have fantasized about undressing Sammy, about the kid writhing beneath
him, screaming and moaning his name, small body a serenade of fiery passion and
adoration. He wanted to do corrupt things to his baby brother, engage in gay
incest with an underage kid. There were so many wrongs in that one sentence
that Dean should’ve felt shame, should’ve deserved to get locked in a cell for
even thinking about it, but instead, he just kept longing silently, because
curing himself from feeling this way was impossible. He knew; he tried.
And that’s exactly why right now, as they lay in bed, Dean was having an
especially hard time falling asleep.
Today was Sam’s birthday, and John, for once, actually stayed in the motel with
them instead of leaving for a hunt, like he usually did. They asked Sam what he
wanted to do and, unsurprisingly, he told them he wanted to stay here and eat
cake. So of course that’s what they did. John got them a chocolate-strawberry
cake, which they ate rather messily, as the kid insisted on feeding Dean while
he fed him, totally oblivious how happy that actually made the older boy. When
none of them could get any more of the creamy goodness down, they whipped out
the presents, John giving his son a pack of Uno cards with which they played
for the rest of the day, and Dean giving his brother a silver ring with Dean’s
name engraved in it. He also showed the other how he got himself one as well,
with Sam’s name engraved in it, telling him that no matter where they were, how
far apart or close, they always had each other. It was pretty cheesy, and
honestly, he wasn’t sure if his brother would like it, but the painfully huge
smile on Sam’s face and the bone-crushing hug he got was a good enough proof
that, yep, the kid definitely appreciated the gift. The rest of the day went by
rather quickly, with them playing and teaming up on John, always making him
draw four cards, then when they got bored of that, they used the cards to build
towers. They stayed up late playing, but in the end, John ordered them to bed,
and they couldn’t even pretend to go to sleep, because their bed was right next
to their dad’s.
It’s been around three hours since they went to sleep, or at least everyone
except for Dean did, because he just had to wake up in the middle of the night
to find his brother draped over him like a second blanket, snoozing away with
the heel of his foot resting right on top of Dean’s crotch.
Sam had an arm and a leg thrown over him, plus half of his body, his face
buried in the safety of the crook of Dean’s neck, and it was pretty
distracting, to say the least. He tried closing his eyes and going back to
sleep, to block out the feel of his brother’s soft breath skating across his
skin or the warm body pressed against him. Tried to ignore how each time the
kid stirred, his foot rubbed against his—oh dear lord—bulge, only hardening
Dean’s cock even more and sabotaging his plan of falling asleep.
He didn’t know what to do, gave up trying to carefully push his brother away
when the kid whimpered in his sleep, so he just lay there, staring up at the
ceiling while listening to the combined breathing of Sam and John. He was
tired, damn it, and really didn’t need a boner right now, but no, things could
never go the way he wanted them to go, could they? Why let Dean have a good
night’s sleep after such a long and fun day? Wouldn’t making him suffer through
the whole night while having to battle his persistent erection be much more
fun?
Sometimes he swore God was out to get him.
A whole lot of nothing kept happening for a very long time before he got bored
with trying to count and identify each moldy spot on the ceiling, and so,
feeling a bit daring in his frustrated, sleep-deprived and grumpy state, he
slipped his arms under the blanket and hugged Sam. That surprisingly made him
relax a bit, so after a while, Dean began stroking the other’s back, slowly and
gently, then decided he didn’t like the feel of the fabric, and slid a hand
under his brother’s shirt to continue his caressing there. He glided his
fingers up and down Sam’s spine, the smooth, warm flesh under his hand pulsing
with life, Dean smirking to himself when he felt the other shiver slightly. He
let the second hand join the first as he stroked the other’s sides and back,
lost in the sensation of so much skin, so he barely noticed he was bucking into
his brother’s foot—let alone that he was awake.
“De…?” The light, sleepy mumble coming from his neck immediately stopped Dean,
hands and hips halting like somebody had pressed the pause button, but any hope
that he could maybe pretend he was sleeping disappeared when Sam crawled
completely on top of him and nuzzled his chest. Like a freaking puppy.
“Sorry,” he whispered after a moment, one hand remaining on his brother’s back
while the other moved to pet his head, to what Sam looked up and gazed right at
him, sheeny eyes gleaming from the faint moonlight and making the kid look
somewhat magical.
Sam blinked twice, slowly, before crawling a tad bit closer, until their faces
were mere inches away. “No, it’s fine. It’s nice,” he said quietly, then let
out a little sigh and rested his head on Dean’s shoulder, melting into his body
and waiting. Waiting for Dean to keep touching him.
Hesitating and feeling scruple toward what he was doing, Dean didn’t do
anything for the longest moment, but then his brother nudged his neck with his
nose as if telling him to go ahead, and then he couldn’t really stop himself
anymore. He continued to caress, brush and run his fingers over the other’s
skin, mapping out Sam’s back with his hands all the while the body on top of
him leaned into every touch, arched and sometimes made a low, soft humming
sound, and it wasn’t long before Dean began feeling something hard poking his
stomach.
Both of them stopping their movements, there was a moment of empty silence
before Sam raised his head, watching the other intensely, then leaned in and
pressed a tender kiss on Dean’s cheek. “Thank you,” he muttered and averted his
eyes, Dean wondering what his brother was talking about until he saw him
looking at the ring on his finger.
He reached out and tucked a strand of hair hanging before Sam’s face behind his
ear, then took his hand. “I wasn’t with you when you most needed me, so…so I
thought maybe like this you’ll get the feeling I’m always near. That no matter
how bad it gets, I’m always there,” Dean said, sliding his thumb along the ring
he gave his brother, and then flashed him a small smile. “Either for real, or
just in your heart.”
Returning his smile, Sam nodded. “Thank you,” he repeated, then pressed a few
more kisses on the other’s cheek before bumping his nose against Dean’s. “Thank
you, Dean. I really… I really love it. The ring. And…you.” Even in the dim,
silvery light of room, he could see his brother’s blush as it crept up his neck
and painted his cheeks a pretty shade of red, and he was so close, so damn
close, that it took all of his self-control not to lean in and just kiss him.
But then Sam gave him this bashful look, complete with puppy eyes and nervous
lip-chewing, and suddenly the aforementioned self-control ceased to exist as
Dean carded his fingers through his brother’s hair before pulling him in for a
kiss.
Sam didn’t protest, at all. He parted his lips almost immediately, letting
Dean’s tongue inside, his own sliding alongside his almost tentatively. His
brother’s lips were just as soft as he remembered, maybe even more so, and he
tasted heavenly. Dean couldn’t help himself, he had to lick and taste every
inch of the other’s mouth, his tongue and teeth, his lips, he had to have them
all. Their lips moved unhurriedly at first, in sync, but as the seconds
trickled by, the kiss turned deeper and so much hotter, and it wasn’t long
before Sam ended up on his back, with Dean hovering above him and kissing the
kid breathless. He took and took, nibbling, sucking on his little brother’s
lips and tongue, shoved his own so far down the other’s throat their tongues
had to battle for dominance, which Dean obviously won. Heated, eager and
fervent, the kiss must have continued for minutes before they had to pull back
for air, both of them left panting from the sheer intensity of it.
They watched each other for a long time, just looking wordlessly while John
slept like a baby in the other bed, then when Sam raised a hand to Dean’s face
and caressed him, he couldn’t help but smile and kiss the hand.
“Sam…” he began, the smile disappearing from his lips as realization struck
him, but before he could’ve said anything else, a thumb pressed against his
mouth, shushing him.
“I know,” his brother said, warm eyes losing their spark.
Removing the finger blocking his speech, Dean pinned the other’s hands on
either side of his head and intertwined their fingers together, before kissing
Sam’s forehead. “Are you okay with this? I mean…there are so many reasons why
you shouldn’t, why you wouldn’t, and I get it. So you don’t have to. We don’t
have to.”
His brother furrowed his brow into a brisk frown, then craned his neck and,
since he still couldn’t reach him, just licked Dean’s chin before letting his
head fall back on the pillow and saying, “I know we don’t. But…I want to. I
really do.”
“Even though we’re…?” Dean gave him a hesitant look, feeling utterly overjoyed
but also trying to calm his heart down in case things didn’t go the way he
wanted them to. “Even after what happened?”
Sam was silent for the longest moment, eyes looking anywhere but Dean as he
thought, then shifted his gaze back to him. “You’re not them,” he stated with a
certainty in his voice, but nervousness in his eyes. “And it’s because you’re
you, because you’re my brother that I know you won’t hurt me. I don’t want what
happened to stop me from…” He trailed off, biting down on his bottom lip and
squeezing Dean’s hands.
He had to clench his jaw to stop himself from smiling like an idiot, because
his chest was tight and felt like it could burst at the same time, and that
shy, somewhat uncertain but oh so longing look on his brother’s face made him
want to just ravish Sam right this instant. “Alright. Okay. Alright. Sammy…” he
purred quietly, kissing the other again, then left a trail of tiny kisses along
Sam’s jaw before he reached his ear. “I will take it slow. Prepare you so you
won’t feel any pain,” Dean whispered into his little brother’s ear, before
licking it.
Sam made a small sound resembling a moan, then froze and gulped, blinking at
Dean when he pulled back with a devious grin. “W-Wait,” he stuttered, glancing
at their dad from the corner of his eye. “You mean, like, right now?”
“Why not?” Dean’s grin widened and he licked his lips temptingly, too aroused
and happy to care about their hibernating father right now. “As long as you’re
not too loud, he won’t notice a thing.”
“But that…that’s…” His brother gaped incredulously at him, obviously
embarrassed, and that flustered look in his eyes was so damn adorable Dean was
pretty sure he felt himself harden even more. “How am I supposed to do that?”
“I can help,” he whispered suggestively, kissing Sam’s jaw before tapping two
fingers against the other’s tender lips. “How ’bout you suck on these?”
Sam stared at him, then at the fingers, then swatted his hand away with a huff.
“No, thanks,” he muttered, before covering his mouth with his own hand and
shooting a weak little glare at Dean, who at this point was fairly certain he
would never be able to stop grinning, because Sammy’s attitude he missed so
much was back, and it was making not cuddling the crap out of the kid extremely
hard.
“Suit yourself.” He winked instead, then began his journey down and around the
other’s body.
He started with Sam’s neck, kissing and licking at it until he was sure that
every inch of skin had been tasted, before moving on to the shoulders, which he
nibbled on and kissed plenty, all the while his hands were busy playing with
the other’s belly. The body beneath him moved and arched sensually, head tilted
back and hand muffling the delicious sounds that Sammy just couldn’t keep in.
He blinked with lust-blown eyes when Dean removed both of their shirts, but
then closed them and was back to making sweet noises as his chest got attacked
by teeth. Dean kissed down his brother’s chest, all the way down, then licked
into his belly button and nuzzled his tummy before kissing back up. He nipped
at Sam’s collarbone, dipped his fingers between the ridges of the other’s ribs
as he licked and stroked them, then his baby jerked under him, the effort with
which he had to hold his voice back audible as Dean latched his mouth onto a
nipple and suckled. He toyed with the other nipple using his fingers, pinching
and tugging, rubbing it, while he flicked and circled the one in his mouth,
rolled it between his teeth, teasing and sucking on it hard, before switching
and exacting the same kind of sweet torture on the dry nipple.
When he was done with that, he trailed his hands down the other’s body and
slowly removed his pants, glad that Sammy wasn’t one of those who slept with an
underwear on. “So gorgeous,” he mouthed into his brother’s inner thigh, feeling
Sam shiver, and smirked when he saw the other buck almost needily. Definitely
needily. “My pretty baby,” he purred as he knelt between Sam’s legs, lifting
one so he could leave a trail of kisses from his brother’s toes all the way up
to his hip, then did the same to the other leg, before leaning down and
nibbling on the sensitive skin of the other’s groin, drawing more of those
addicting, sadly muffled sounds from him. Next time, they’d have to do this
when John was gone, so Dean could listen to all of these lewd little moans Sam
must have been making.
Both of them froze for a moment as their dad stirred in his sleep, but when it
became evident that he was still asleep, Dean smirked and began lapping at his
brother’s cock. That had Sammy’s hips jerking right away, the kid spreading his
legs and grasping at Dean’s hair with his free hand. Chuckling deeply, he
nuzzled the hard, hot flesh, holding his brother’s thighs apart as he dragging
the tip of his tongue up and down the other’s erection, poking and swirling at
the underside, before opening his mouth and sucking in the head, licking at and
swallowing around it, suckling enthusiastically until Sam apparently couldn’t
take it anymore and bucked up, pushing more of himself in Dean’s mouth, but he
didn’t mind. Gradually sinking down on the searing flesh, he took his brother’s
cock all the way into his mouth, feeling rather proud of himself for not
gagging, but just then Sam bucked again, the tip of his cock bumping against
the back of Dean’s throat, and there we go, he was gagging. He quickly relaxed,
though, pulling back for a moment before taking the hard flesh in his mouth
again, then began bobbing his head, trying to keep the sucking sounds to a
minimum as he swallowed and suckled eagerly, tongue slip-sliding along the
other’s cock, teasing the slit when he went back to just playing with the head.
Sam whined, or at least emitted a sound resembling a miserable whine when he
removed his lips from around the other’s cock and moved them to his balls
instead, licking and sucking those for a while, then moved even lower, treading
carefully as he swept his tongue over his brother’s hole.
He had already healed, obviously, but some scars remained, both physical and
mental. Sam tensed slightly, so Dean stroked and massaged his thighs until he
managed to relax a bit. They gazed at each other, Dean kissing the other’s
thigh while never breaking eye contact, and after taking a long, deep breath,
his brother squirmed a bit and lowered his head back on the pillow, which was
his cue to continue. He waited a moment before sliding his hands to Sam’s ass
and gingerly spreading his cheeks, then swallowed hungrily and ran the tip of
his tongue over the delicate, puckering hole. The last time his baby brother
had something in there, it left him bloody and nearly dead, and Dean was bent
on making this experience as good and painless as possible, on changing how Sam
thought about this part of sex, wanted him to enjoy it and not fear it. With
excruciatingly slow drags, he licked the other’s entrance, traced it and lapped
at it until he felt it was safe to enter, and then he slowly pushed his tongue
inside. He was instantly enveloped in a tight heat, moving his tongue in there
proving rather hard, but as he spread his brother’s cheeks a bit further, he
managed to slide in deeper and curl his tongue. Sam didn’t react much at first,
stayed still, but the more Dean licked and wriggled his tongue, the more the
other squirmed, until he was pushing back, not-too-discreetly asking for more;
and of course being the amazing big brother he was, he complied right away.
Since they didn’t have any lube, he made sure both Sam’s hole and his own
finger was thoroughly wet before he carefully inserted the digit. It slid in
easily despite how much the muscles were squeezing him, and he could feel his
brother’s warmth even more like this, all around his finger which he began
moving after a moment, curling and rubbing it against the other’s silky smooth
flesh, glad he cut his nails just a few days ago. Sammy was reacting as quietly
as he could, mainly using his body instead of his voice to convey the way he
was feeling, which had to be a positive feeling, because he was arching his
back almost erotically, thighs trembling the slightest bit as he spread them
even more, and rolled his hips helplessly, as if coaxing the finger further
into him. Chuckling silently, Dean sucked on another one of his fingers while
twisting the one already in his brother, then planted a lingering kiss on the
inside of Sam’s thigh before leaning forward, supporting himself on his elbow
as he very slowly, meticulously pushed in the second finger, and when his
brother gasped, he was right there to capture his lips and all the sounds that
rolled past them.
“Does this hurt?” he asked, murmuring the words against the other’s mouth while
moving the fingers inside him, making come-hither motions and turning them,
sliding them in and out with short pushes and pulls, carefully working his baby
brother open.
Sam gazed up at him with desirous hazel eyes glistening with adoration, and
languidly snaked his arms around Dean’s back, digging his fingertips into the
other’s skin as a coy little smile curled the corner of his lips. “No, it’s
good. A bit uncomfortable, but it’ll get better…right?”
He returned his brother’s smile and nodded. “It’ll get so much better, Sammy,”
he purred, kissing Sam’s smile, then ran his tongue along the other’s lips
before plunging it inside, sealing his mouth with another kiss as he began
moving the fingers faster, opening and closing them inside the tight heat. Sam
jerked under him, hips rocking in rhythm with the thrusts of his fingers, while
Dean never stopped kissing him, muffling his brother’s whimpers with his tongue
and drinking the rest of the eager, pornographic sounds that poured from the
other.
Gradually adding fingers to the ones wriggling and having the time of their
life inside his brother, Dean fingered him until the digits moved with a
delicate ease, until Sam’s hole was gaping and ready for more, until the kid
has been rendered to a needy mess, his body practically begging to be fucked as
it twisted yearningly on the mattress. Knowing that at this rate, his brother
was going to start getting vocal if Dean didn’t do anything, he withdrew his
fingers from Sam’s ass and his tongue from his mouth, then quickly crawled back
and licked over the quivering, nice and open hole, wetting it generously,
before tugging his pants down and spitting in his palm, slicking up his
throbbing, impatient cock. He then positioned himself between the other’s legs,
wrapping them around his waist, before leaning close and lining the head of his
cock up with his brother’s waiting entrance, giving him a warning look, and
when Sam, after taking a deep breath, nodded, Dean painstakingly breached the
other’s hole and slipped inside.
He’s had sex before, he wasn’t a virgin. He knew how sex felt like. That being
said, Dean had to furrow his brow and bite down on his lip so as to stop
himself from groaning, for his brother’s tight hole sent a feeling of such
pleasure through him he has never experienced before. It almost made him
tremble, and when he opened his eyes he didn’t remember closing, he noticed
that unlike him, Sam couldn’t control the onslaught of sensations and was in
fact trembling like a puppy in the rain, mouth hanging open in a silent moan, a
sound of pleasure—and hopefully not pain—so great it got stuck in his throat.
And Dean wasn’t even all the way in.
“How…” he whispered, having to swallow and catch his breath. “How does it feel?
Too much?”
Opening his own eyes and closing his mouth, Sam pulled Dean closer and clung to
him like a little monkey. “It…kinda hurts,” he mumbled, but before Dean
could’ve pulled back, he added, “but it’s fine. It’s not a bad pain. I can take
it, I can take anything as long as it’s you giving it to me. And I know that
you’ll make me feel good. Because this is different.” Sam smiled bashfully,
leaning in to plant a small kiss on the other’s lips. “This is with someone I
love.”
“I love you, too,” Dean said almost right away, after he was done looking at
his brother with eyes full of undying love and affection. “And I will make this
good, I promise you. The best thing you’ll ever feel, make you addicted to
this.”
Sam’s smile widened. “Can’t wait.”
“Why wait?” He grinned with a wink, lowering himself all the way so their
chests were pressing flush together, so that every part of their bodies were
touching, connecting, intertwining, and then licked his brother’s neck and
braced himself on his elbows, before inching the rest of his cock into the
other’s hole.
Once he was all the way in, he waited for Sam to get used to the feeling and
relax around him, then, knowing that both of them will probably be their
loudest from now on, he pressed his lips against the other’s before beginning
to move.
It felt as if his cock was on fire, as if he was dipping it in molted lava each
time he moved, as if satiny flames were curling and enveloping him, slithering
like alluring snakes that trapped his flesh in their unrelenting, sweet grip,
pulsing around him and squeezing. His whole body thrummed with pleasure as he
thrust in and out of his baby brother, as he left and entered the soothing
warmth that felt so good, sort of cozy, that Dean never wanted to leave. He
kept going back for more, unhurriedly, lazily rolling his hips like waves, like
a calm ocean, while beneath him was a whole hurricane. Sam’s legs tightened
around his waist as he squirmed, nails sinking into his flesh and chest
gravitating toward Dean’s, as if he was being pulled up by an invisible string.
It caused his brother visible effort to keep his voice in, which many times
didn’t listen to him and pushed past his lips, but his soft moans and keens
were always snatched away by Dean’s mouth that lingered above his brother’s,
never went further than a few inches as they panted and mumbled incoherent
words into each other’s skin.
They tried to keep the words and sounds to a minimum, since they weren’t alone,
however that wasn’t so easy with all the passion flowing between them, both of
them becoming more and more desperate for each other as they got lost in their
own little world. Dean picked up the pace, his slow, long thrusts turning fiery
and quick, a bit rougher, but judging from Sam’s increase in moans, he didn’t
mind. The kiss that kept their sounds turned sloppy, with too much tongue and
teeth, lips dragging wetly along skin as their voices tangled and merged
together, the needy mewls and low groans, moans and sweet, mumbled curses
seemingly coming from both of them at once. At one point, Dean knew he hit his
brother’s prostate, because the kid all but screamed and raked his nails down
the other’s back, the burn of it only riling him on, so after that he angled
his hips to nail his baby’s sweet spot over, and over, and over again.
Bodies sticking together from sweat, moving together to a rhythm only they
knew, after long minutes, they were both nearing their orgasms. Dean knew he
was, because the fire melting him from the inside out had began gathering in
his crotch, pooling in his belly and turning his thrusts more erratic than
before, faster and harder, until he was fucking his little brother into the
mattress, the bed that was starting to creak from their energetic movements;
and he knew Sam was close, too, because the kid was reduced to a pile of limbs
and sex under him, clinging and mewling, writhing and humping the air,
desperately rocking back on Dean’s thick cock while bucking up and against his
stomach, seeking friction for his own leaking erection. Selfishly, Dean wanted
to drag this out for as long as he could, wanted to keep making love to his
little brother until none of them could move anymore, but he also needed to
take the consequences of a long sex into consideration, for example their
father waking up and finding his sons in a rather intimate position. That
couldn’t possibly end well, so reluctantly, he decided it was time to end this
for now, and reached between them, wrapped his fingers around Sammy’s cock, and
began to jerk him.
Immediately, his brother moaned loudly into his mouth and thrust into his fist,
hips working overtime as Sam moved them back and forth, toward Dean’s cock and
hand, and then it wasn’t long before he felt the other’s body being shaken by a
violent shiver, moments before spurts of warm come landed on his stomach and
hand, Sam coming with a miserable little whimper. That being his go ahead to
let go as well, Dean kept stroking his brother’s cock in time with his thrusts,
kept doing so until that roaring fire in his belly began clawing at his
insides, demanding to be let out, and then he stopped, snapped his hips
forward, and finally came, biting down on the other’s bottom lip as he emptied
his load deep inside Sam, filling him with it and marking his lover as his
forever like an animal mating its partner for life.
Panting heavily, Dean slumped on his brother’s body, probably crushing the poor
thing, so he sluggishly rolled beside him, cock slipping out of the other, and
he already missed the warmth. He cleaned his hand, licking the come off it, the
taste not nearly as bad as he thought it’d be, then wrapped his arms around Sam
and hugged him, smiling fondly when the kid snuggled into him.
“You came inside,” Sam mumbled into his neck after a while, when their
breathing have turned back to normal.
“Mhm.” Dean nuzzled the other’s forehead, smirking when his brother pulled back
and gave him a look.
“That’s unhygienic. And you just…left it in there,” he grumbled, a deep blush
apparent on his cheeks.
Dean snorted lightly, kissing Sam’s blush. “I know. Don’t worry, we’re both
clean. And anyway, you can easily get rid of it with a shower, so don’t sweat
it,” he said with a teasing smirk on his lips, caressing his brother’s
cheekbone with his thumb. “You totally love that it’s still in you, though,
don’t you?”
Sam raised his eyebrows, then made some sort of incredulous sound before
burying his face in his favorite place, the crook of Dean’s neck. “No,” he
muttered from there, scooting even closer to the other and curling into him,
then after a long moment, whispered something that sounded suspiciously like
“Maybe.”
Letting out a sated, happy little sigh, Dean petted his brother’s hair. “All
mine now, Sammy. Mine to love and protect, to keep forever,” he whispered, then
closed his eyes and relaxed when he felt the other nod and hum softly, the last
thing he felt before finally drifting off to sleep being Sam’s even,
untroubled, peaceful breathing against his neck.
 
***** Epilogue *****
Chapter Notes
     Sorry for this being so short, but hey, it's an epilogue after all!
 
What he’s been through couldn’t even be called a rough patch. It was something
much worse, something that had ultimately driven him to pour the contents of a
bottle down his throat, to swallow the pills and simply wait for the death that
never came the last time he wished for it. Living was a curse, it was an
unwanted weight he had to carry with himself, and each morning, he woke up
wondering why he was bothering with it in the first place. What was there to
wake up to? What was there to keep living for? Just to spend another useless
day cooped up in the motel, haunted by the memories that he couldn’t block out
no matter how much he tried, to wither away? Nothing interested him anymore,
not eating or moving, or living and breathing. He didn’t see a reason good
enough he should keep doing them all for. Repetitive and dull, gray. Gloomy.
Worthless. There was nothing left for him here, so of course he tried quitting.
It’s not giving up if there’s nothing left for you to fight for, right?
And then he realized how big of a fool he was, because all this time, he had a
guardian angel protecting him.
Dean was his big brother, his closest family. He was safe and home, he was
warmth and protection, the kind of happiness that was just out of his reach. He
was the air that filled Sam’s lungs, the blood that ran in his veins and kept
his alive, saved his life twice already, and then a third time as well. He
saved Sam from giving up. He saved Sam from letting go. He bathed Sam in light
and love, in a new reason to keep going, and then he was finally waking up with
the knowledge that he wasn’t alone.
He wasn’t alone in this.
“Fuck, Sammy,” his big brother groaned breathily, one hand gripping the kitchen
counter while the other was fisted in Sam’s hair, holding on.
He never thought he’d let anyone even close to his hair after what happened.
Didn’t think he’d let many things done to him after that day, really. Feeling
love was also something he thought of as impossible, but Dean was really good
at proving him wrong, because Sam was madly in love, with a hand tugging on his
hair, and on his knees, with a cock down his throat.
“Mmmh,” he answered sweetly, blinking up at his brother and breathing deeply
through flared nostrils, his mouth too busy sucking on the searing flesh in it.
Swallowing around the head that kept bumping against the back of his throat, he
moaned eagerly, bobbing his head and hollowing his cheeks, successfully sucking
Dean’s brains out of his dick, smiling when his brother’s hips jerked and his
head fell back. He was getting better at this.
They’ve graduated from being brothers to lovers a month ago, and ever since
then, they kissed or done more every single day. They didn’t do anything while
John was next to them, agreeing that that one time was risky enough, and the
thrill wasn’t worth getting caught, so they always waited until they were alone
before engaging in some fun, sexual activities. For example now, since John’s
been out on a hunt since yesterday morning, Dean had trapped him against the
counter in hopes of fucking him against it, but being the skillful tease Sam
discovered that he was, he managed to turn the situation around, and now it was
Dean moaning Sam’s name, about to come from his talented tongue. When he first
sucked his brother off, it was a rather awkward process, plus he was still a
bit uneasy about the whole “putting a cock in his mouth” after the last one
that had forced its way in there. But he soon warmed up to it, even came to
enjoy it, almost as much as having Dean make love to him, because the ability
to turn his badass big brother into a cursing and worshipping, begging mess by
just a few swipes of his tongue was amazing.
Relaxing his throat muscles, Sam deepthroated the other, gripping his hips and
blinking up at him with teary eyes, and when Dean looked down at him, face
flushed and those plump, perfect lips parted, he knew his brother was close.
So, while never breaking eye contact, he sucked harder and faster, mewling all
lewdly while making obscene, loud sucking sounds, knowing Dean got incredibly
turned on by those, and sure enough, soon the boy was groaning out Sam’s name
and burying his cock in the other’s mouth, Sam gagging a little but staying in
place and letting his brother come down his throat.
He swallowed the warm load, used to the bitter taste by now, before licking his
lips and cleaning his brother’s pulsing cock with his tongue, then stood up and
pressed a wet kiss on Dean’s chin. “So, what was that about makin’ me scream?”
Rolling his eyes, Dean ruffled his hair, then yanked him into a hot kiss, Sam
whimpering when a hand found its way to his ass and groped it. “Oh don’t worry.
That’s about to happen,” his brother purred against his lips, grinning
wolfishly as his other hand slid down to join the one already squeezing Sam’s
ass, fingers curling and beginning to fondle the flesh. “We both know that I
don’t necessarily need my cock to make you scream, baby.”
Now it was his turn to roll his eyes, but then he wrapped his arms around
Dean’s neck and nuzzled him, leaning back into the hands invitingly. “Hmm, I
don’t know,” he said with a little grin of his own, nibbling on his brother’s
jaw. “I think I’m gonna need some proof to believe that. Think you can provide
me with some?”
“I’m full of them proofs, Sammy. I’ll be provin’ it to you for hours, if you
want me to.” Dean kissed his forehead, then chuckled, Sam squeaking when he got
scooped up into his brother’s arms and taken to the bed, smiling widely as a
shower of soft kisses rained down on his face, and feeling so happy inside he
could’ve burst when Dean smiled back, loving and doting.
What he’s been through couldn’t even be called a rough patch. But it was in the
past, was only a memory rarely haunting him, because now he was happy and
loved, cared for—now he had Dean.
And that’s all he’s ever needed.
 
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