Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/678876.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      John_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Character:
      Sam_Winchester, Dean_Winchester, John_Winchester, Jim_Murphy, Bobby
      Singer
  Additional Tags:
      Parent/Child_Incest
  Stats:
      Published: 2008-08-06 Completed: 2009-05-17 Chapters: 2/2 Words: 14876
****** Mother Mary Comes to Me ******
by phantisma
Summary
     Pre-Series AU. Sam sometimes reminds John of his mother. When John
     sees more than a resemblance, he lets himself believe something that
     can't possibly be true. Sam pays the price.
Notes
     This is not pretty fic. This fic includes sexual abuse of a minor
     (Sam is 13-14).
***** Chapter 1 *****
“You know, sometimes when I look at you, I could swear I see your mother
looking through your eyes.”
Sam smiles when his father says it, because his father is happy, smiling. That
doesn’t happen too much anymore. Dean is off doing whatever it was Dean did and
it was just Sam and his Dad. That doesn’t happen too often either. Sam likes it
too.
They aren’t doing much of anything, Sam’s working on homework and his father is
scouring a newspaper, looking for work. It’s quiet. John’s hand lifts, cups to
Sam’s cheek. “Right there.”
He’s thirteen, and starting to get tall. He’s already put on inches since his
birthday. They’re in an actual house this time, with three different bedrooms
and Sam doesn’t have to listen to Dean talk in his sleep about whatever girl or
monster he’s chasing.
He’s gone a lot, working a job that lets him get some exercise, and out at
night hustling pool or hanging out with guys his age. Sam really only ever sees
him on the weekends.
The smile fades from his father’s face and he gives up the newspaper for the
bottle of whiskey, wandering out to the back porch. It makes Sam sad sometimes,
because when he drinks, he cries and talks to Sam’s mother, and Sam doesn’t
know how to make it better.
It’s early, but Sam decides to call it a night, because in the morning he’s
supposed to go down to fish with Jake and his brother. He doesn’t know how, but
Dad said it would be a good thing to learn.
He hears Dean stumble in somewhere after midnight and gets up to pee, checking
to make sure his big brother is okay. He’s mostly asleep when his father comes
up the stairs, pausing at Dean’s door, then Sam’s.
Sam lifts his head, looks when his father doesn’t leave. “You okay, Dad?”
His father stumbles into the room. He’s been crying, Sam can see the wetness on
his face, the red in his eyes. John nods, his big hand petting over Sam’s face.
“I miss her.”
Sam doesn’t really know what to say to that. He just nods and touches his
father’s hand. His father’s head lowers and his body shakes. He smells like
whiskey and cigarettes and Sam doesn’t know what to do, so he slides over in
the bed, just like Dean used to for him when he was scared and lonely. It takes
a minute for his father to move, setting aside the bottle and shucking off his
jeans to slide into bed beside Sam.
“It’s going to be okay, Dad.” Sam whispers, just like Dean used to for him.
“I’m here.” Sam kisses his forehead, his nose and John’s breath hitches, his
eyes open, narrow, searching Sam’s face. Sam smiles softly and turns, nestling
back against his father. John’s arms fold around him and Sam drifts back toward
sleep.
His father murmurs in his hair, his mother’s name and a slurred “I love you”
that pulls Sam up, not quite awake. He feels his father’s hands, on his
stomach, his hip. He feels something else too. Sam opens his eyes, but doesn’t
move.
He keeps whispering and Sam isn’t sure he realizes anything he’s saying or
doing. His hips move against Sam, and something slides between Sam’s thighs.
“Mary.” he murmurs. There’s a rush of heat and his hands in Sam’s hair, his
lips on Sam’s head. “Sleep.”
Sam feels him leave the bed, listens to him leave the room, but still he
doesn’t move. Eventually he sleeps again.
He wakes early, as he usually does. His thighs feel sticky and when he pulls
back the sheet there’s white stuff dried on them. In a wave he remembers his
father and realizes that his father had come in his bed, between his legs.
He’s ashamed, feels sorry for his father and he goes to shower before anyone
can notice, pulls the sheets off the bed to wash before he heads out to Jake’s
house to go fishing with his father.
 
 
***********
 
 
It isn’t right, the way he feels jealous when Dean and their father go off on a
hunt and leave Sam at home behind salted doors and windows. Dean gets to do the
good stuff. All Sam gets is training.
He fights the only way he knows how, picking fights with Dean and working
harder for Dad, at least until the hunt when their dad comes home but Dean
doesn’t.
His shirt is bloody, his face scratched up and he’s been crying when he pulls
in at half past three in the morning. He’s in Sam’s room, on his knees by the
bed.
“Dad?” Sam’s voice is shaky as he reaches for the blood on his shirt.
“Dean’s hurt.”
Sam’s eyes are wide, his eyes tearing up. “Where is he?”
“Hospital.”
Sam sits up, brushes a hand over his father’s face. “Is he okay?”
“They don’t know.” His father’s crying, his arms wrapping around Sam, his face
in Sam’s lap. They sit that way for a long time, and when he lifts his head,
his teary eyes blink up at Sam, seeing something in his face that Sam doesn’t
understand. “Mary…” He shakes his head and drags in air, pulls a hand over his
face.
“Let me help you.” Sam says soft, his hands snagging on the end of the shirt
and tugging it up. At first his father doesn’t seem to understand, then he
moves so Sam can get it off him. “You should shower.” Sam slips out of bed and
slides an arm around his father’s waist, turning him and guiding him toward the
bathroom.
He stands dully while Sam starts the shower and it isn’t until Sam reaches for
his zipper and is tugging down his jeans that he seems to wake up, holding Sam
away while he takes the jeans off and climbs into the shower.
Sam leaves him, goes to the kitchen for the bottle of whiskey and a glass. He’s
waiting with it when his father comes from the bathroom, wrapped in a towel. He
follows him to his bedroom and hands him the glass.
“You should get some sleep.” Sam says, watching him drink down the whiskey.
He nods, but he doesn’t lay down. His eyes meet Sam’s and that look is there
again, that look that Sam doesn’t understand. He reaches for Sam, big hands
firm on his waist, pulls him in close until his face is buried in Sam’s
stomach. It feels weird, Sam’s stomach quivering with his breath, and Sam’s
hands end up in his hair, stroking over it, soothing him.
When John does lay down, he brings Sam with him, holding Sam close, whispering
his mother’s name.
 
 
 
***********
 
 
 
Dean’s going to be fine, but the hospital is keeping him a while, at least
until Dad decides he’s better enough to bail. Sam’s already got them packed up
and ready for when it happens, because it will.
It’s three days before Sam comes home from school to find his father all ready
half way into the bottle. He thinks that maybe it’s better than the last few
days, with the constant drilling and target practice, because Dean’s accident
has his father scared. Sam leaves him on the couch and heads into the kitchen
to make dinner.
It’s nearly ready when his father stumbles into the room, puts the bottle down
and mutters an apology.
Sam turns and runs smack into him. His father’s hands catch his shoulders, tilt
his face back. “So much like her.” He blinks, slow, as if his eyelids are heavy
and then they close and he sighs.
Sam isn’t sure what to do, so he stands there, looking up at his father. He’s
startled when his father leans in, down, his lips brushing Sam’s forehead, over
his cheek. “Mary.”
His mouth is hot and strange as it closes over Sam’s, his kiss far too intimate
and far too grown up and far too weird for Sam to do more than offer a muffled
sound of surprise. The sound escapes, opening his lips just enough for a tongue
that isn’t his to slide into his mouth and Sam jumps, tries to pull back.
“Missed you so much.” he murmurs, his arms folding around Sam and hugging him
close.
Sam shakes his head, breathes, tries to think. Finally he pushes back. “Dad?”
He wipes his mouth and chews on his lip while his father opens his eyes. “You
okay?”
“Sam?” His father squints at him, looks a little lost. “What…?”
But Sam isn’t about to tell his father that he kissed his son like that. He
points to the table. “Dinner’s ready.”
He shuffles to the table and sits, dragging his bowl of macaroni and cheese to
him. “You’re a good kid, Sammy.”
They eat quietly and Sam thinks that maybe whatever this was has passed as he
gets up to clear his dishes. The nearly empty bottle sits on the counter. Sam
lifts it and suddenly his father is behind him, reaching around him for it.
“I know you don’t like it when I drink,” his father says, his empty hand
sliding up Sam’s back.
“No…it’s fine.” Sam responds, afraid to move. His father’s voice is different,
softer, and there’s a quality to it that he’s never heard before. He hears his
father swallow, then the bottle is back on the counter. Heavy hands are on his
shoulders, turning him, caressing him. His father’s eyes are bloodshot and
searching his face, looking for something.
Sam still doesn’t understand, but those eyes light up, his lips tug up in a
soft smile. “There you are.”
His hand caresses over Sam’s face, cupping his cheek, and his father’s face
fills the world of his vision as he leans in to kiss him. Sam backs up to the
counter, pressed against it by his father’s body. “Dad?” His voice is little
more than a squeak and he finds himself wishing Dean were home, because this is
a little too much for him.
“Shh…it’s okay,” he whispers, his breath hot on Sam’s face. “Mary, it’s okay.”
His lips closed over Sam’s, his eyes shut, his hands holding Sam’s head. Sam’s
heart thunders in his chest, his brain stuck on an unending loop of disbelief
and fear.
When his father’s hand leaves his face, Sam pushes away, ducks around him,
grabs at his books. “I have homework.” He races through the house and into his
room, shutting the door before throwing his books on the bed.
What in hell is happening?
Sam paces around the room, trying to shake it off. It was just that his dad was
drunk. That’s all. Drunk and seeing things. Although Sam doesn’t really
understand that. Seeing what? His mother? Sam shakes his head and breathes
deep. It was the alcohol. He’d be better in the morning.
But even as Sam settles in to work on his math homework, a part of him doesn’t
believe that. A part of him remembers the strange night not long ago when his
father climbed into his bed and came between his legs.
He doesn’t leave his room until nearly midnight when he slips down the hall to
the bathroom. His father’s in the living room, Sam can see the light from the
television. Things seem to have settled down, so Sam slips back to his room,
turns out the light and climbs into bed in his boxers. It shouldn’t be long
before Dean’s ready to be sprung from the hospital, and then they’d hit the
road before the hospital bills started rolling in.
Sam feels the hand first, warm against his back. The bed shifts and Sam lifts
his head. “Dad?”
His father’s body fills the bed next to him in the dark. His father’s breath
grazes over his shoulder. His hand is on Sam’s back, under the sheet, low down,
brushes the waistband of his boxers.
Lips press to his skin and Sam gasps. “Dad?”
“Need you so much.” John whispers over the skin on the back of Sam’s neck. It
makes him shiver. That hand on his back sinks lower now, slipping under the
boxers to caress warm and gentle over Sam’s ass.
“Dad, come on.” Sam tries to move, slide away, but he’s half trapped under his
weight as he kisses over Sam’s back. Sam arches when his hand slides between
his cheeks, brushing over his hole. “Dad!”
John only pushes him down a little more. “Easy…it’s okay…it’s okay, Mary.”
Sam shakes his head. “Don’t—“ His words die though when his father’s finger
pushes into him. Sam pants and pushes to get away. This couldn’t be happening.
“Miss you so much.” John’s body is moving, his free hand pushing at Sam’s
boxers as his other hand pushed a second finger inside him.
“Dad!” Sam’s plaintive cry is lost to the pillow his face is pressing into as
something decidedly not his father’s fingers presses in to him. His father is
murmuring as his body pins Sam beneath him. Sam bucks, but John is heavy and
drunk and whispering his mother’s name over and over.
Sam’s stomach is roiling and he’s going to be sick. He lifts his head from the
pillow, gasping in air, hoping to keep it down. It hurts. It fucking hurts like
fire and his face is wet with tears. Sam sobs as he finishes, falling against
Sam before rolling off.
The room is quiet then, except for Sam crying into the pillow and his father’s
breathing. It takes a minute for Sam to realize his father has passed out. He
climbs to his feet shakily, backing away from the bed. His father’s snores echo
in the room.
Sam’s stomach is twisting and he dashes for the bathroom, throwing up in the
toilet. He flushes with a shaking hand and reaches tenderly for his ass. It’s
hot and sore and his hand comes away wet. There’s come on his fingers, come
that’s gone pink with blood. Sam rises up on trembling legs and starts the
shower. He holds his ass open, hissing as the water rinses over him, washes the
evidence away.
He wraps up in a robe when he steps out. It’s his father’s and its huge on him,
but it’s comfortable and warm. His father is gone from his bed, but Sam can’t
bring himself to return to it. He goes to Dean’s room, closes the door softly
and climbs into his brother’s bed.
He doesn’t understand what just happened. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t. Couldn’t
be.
Sam doesn’t sleep, not really, not until well after dawn. His father’s voice
wakes him, rumbling through the hallway as he tramps down, talking on the
phone. Sam shivers, looks around him, not entirely sure why he’s where he is.
Memory comes back to him in a flood and Sam draws in a shaky breath. He puts
his feet on the floor and eases up. He’s sore, but it isn’t too bad. He walks
to his room to dress, pausing to pull the sheets off the bed. He can smell his
father on them and his stomach churns with the smell.
Sam shuffles into the kitchen and his father looks at him in surprise. “Call
you back, Bobby.”
Sam doesn’t look at him, just goes about getting his breakfast. Maybe if he
pretends nothing happened it would be okay.
“Sam? You all right?”
He stiffens, cereal in his hand, but doesn’t turn to face him. “I—yeah. Why?”
“It’s almost ten in the morning. Why aren’t you in school?”
Sam looks up at the clock, startled. “I—I wasn’t feeling good.”
John towers over him and Sam quivers. His big hand rises to his head, presses
to his forehead. “Huh…no fever. You look flushed though.”
“I threw up.” Sam says dully.
“But you’re better now?”
Sam nods.
“Good. Come sit down.”
Sam goes, cereal forgotten in his hand. His father sits across from him, hands
folded in front of him on the table. “I don’t know how much you remember.” He
looks up, his eyes pinning Sam to his spot. “About last night, I mean.”
Sam feels his face flush. His father is going to talk about it. Like it’s
normal or something. Sam breathes out slowly, sets the cereal on the table.
“I—not much.” He lies. It’s easier to lie.
John nods, his own face red. “I wasn’t sure.” He rubs his hands over his face.
“Your mother…she came to me last night.”
Sam can’t breathe. Can’t look away. His father’s face is earnest, open, loving.
“She…she what?”
“It isn’t unheard of. Unusual, this long after she died, but…she…she manifested
in you.”
Sam licks his lips and swallows. He’s pretty sure his father believes what he’s
saying. “I—don’t know what to say.”
John nods, his hands sliding over the table to take Sam’s in his. “I know. I
was scared at first, but she told me it was okay. She loves us, Sam.”
His father is losing his mind. That is clearly the only explanation. “Dad, I…”
His eyes stray to the empty whiskey bottle.
His father nods. “I know. I was drunk. But I swear to you Sam. I saw her. She
came to me.”
He wants to scream, to grab his father and shake him, make him realize what
he’s done, but Sam can’t. Not when he sees the naked need in his father’s eyes,
need for her. Need for everything he had with her. Everything he hasn’t had
since she died. Sam slides to his feet, goes to his father, hugs him tightly.
“I…I’m glad Dad.”
“I was worried we’d hurt you,” his father says softly. After a long moment, he
sits back and looks up at Sam. “I’m going to see your brother. Want to come,
since you’re home?”
Sam nods distractedly. “Is she…did she say…” He can’t get the words out.
He stands, his hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Not for a while. It takes energy, you
both need rest. She’ll come back when you’re both strong enough.”
 
 
 
***********
 
 
 
They don’t tell Dean about Mary, his father tells Sam that Dean wouldn’t
understand, not yet. Sam is pretty sure that if he told Dean what happened,
he’d kill their father.
Sam can’t do that, so he smiles while they talk and Dad tells Dean about a hunt
in Mississippi and they decide Dean needs at least one more day in the
hospital, though Sam thinks it’s mostly so that he can score with the hot nurse
who gives him his sponge bath.
Two days later they drive out of town, leaving behind another school Sam never
really adjusted too and a house Sam kinda liked, and the memories of what
happened in it.
Dean’s not totally on his feet, but he’s well enough to give Sam a hard time
about his hair and call him a girl when he protests the fast food Dad feeds
them the next morning for breakfast.
It feels normal. And off kilter. Sam isn’t comfortable sitting between them,
but he isn’t comfortable with either one of them alone either. Not for a few
weeks anyway, when they settle down in a house where Dean gets the downstairs
bedroom and Sam gets a room in the attic, and that leaves their father
somewhere in the middle.
It’s sweltering in Mississipi in June and Sam sweats in his sleep in the muggy
attic, but he feels safe there. Especially when Dad leaves them and goes off to
hunt. Sam uses the time to read about spirits and manifestations. He’s pretty
sure his father only saw what he wanted to because he was drunk, but maybe…
“Whatcha reading, squirt?” Dean asks as he flops into the chair and kicks his
feet up on the coffee table, cracking open one of their father’s beers.
Sam responds by holding up the book, something he borrowed from Bobby a few
weeks back when they passed by his place.
“Kinda thick for a kid, isn’t it?”
“I’m researching.” Sam responds, keeping his nose in the book.
“Researching what?”
“Just researching.”
Dean’s hand presses the book down and forces Sam to look at him. “You been
weird since I got out of the hospital. What gives?”
Sam shakes his head. He’s not telling his brother that he thinks his father is
off his rocker. “Nothing, I just want to help.”
Dean snorts and rocks back in the chair, flicking on the television. “No way
Dad’s letting you help.”
They’re quiet for a while, then Sam looks up. “Dean, can I ask you something?”
“Sure.” He takes a long drink from the beer and looks at Sam.
“Have you ever heard of a spirit manifesting through a person?”
“You mean like a demon?” Dean asks.
Sam shakes his head. “No, like a ghost. The spirit of a person, using another
person.”
“Using a person for what?”
Sam shrugs. “Never mind.”
“No, tell me what you mean.”
Sam sighs and shuts the book. “Just something I was thinking about.”
“You got something going on in that geeky little head.”
Sam huffs and gets up to leave the room, but Dean catches his hand. “Is this
about what happened to me?”
At least that Sam can answer honestly. “No…like I said, just trying to help.”
It’s two days before their father comes home and another whole day before Sam
even sees him. He sleeps off his exhaustion and emerges from his room late in
the afternoon.
Dean’s cooking dinner and Dad grins at Sam as he comes into the kitchen. “Want
to go hunting with you’re old man?”
Dean turns from the stove to frown at his father. “You can’t be serious?”
He ruffles Sam’s hair. “Ghost two towns over. Nothing serious, I just need a
second pair of hands to get the grave dug up.”
“I’ll come.” Dean says, putting the pot of soup on the table.
“Right, cause you’re up to digging.” He pulls out his chair and sits. “Sam can
help. His big enough now.”
Sam isn’t sure he really wants to go, but his father seems proud to have him
along, so Sam smiles and nods.
Dean frowns, but doesn’t argue.
The next morning Sam and his father drive away, leaving Dean on the porch,
watching them go. They’re only in the car a little while before his father
sighs. “So…it’s been a while.”
Sam nods cautiously. “I know.”
“I’m hoping it’s soon.” He glances at Sam, then the road, then back again. “You
need to be ready.”
Sam hides the way his body tenses up by turning to look out the window. He
can’t answer, can’t look at the hope in his father’s face.
“I’ve been reading. About manifestations.” Sam says softly a few miles down the
road. He draws his feet up, wrapping his arms around his knees.
“That’s good, Sam.” He pats Sam’s knee. “It might make it easier next time if
you know what’s happening.”
Sam doesn’t say anything else the rest of the way. He stares out the window and
remembers how much it hurt the last time. He’d read about that too, but he
doesn’t tell his father about that. Read about ways to make it hurt less. He
doesn’t want it, but he’s afraid that won’t matter, so he’s ready. He has
Vaseline in his bag.
He doesn’t tell his father that either.
The hunt is easy. His dad already knows where the body is buried. They check
into a motel and wait for dark, scale the cemetery wall and take turns digging
until they find the casket.
A simple salt and burn and they’re back out of the cemetery and stopping at the
liquor store for a bottle of whiskey. The motel room is a little cold when they
get back. Sam flops on the bed to watch television and ignore his father and
the whiskey. He drifts off watching some inane sitcom with a really phony laugh
track and wakes an hour or so later when his father’s weight makes the bed
move.
Sam looks up through sleepy eyes. His father is petting down his back,
whispering something Sam can’t quite hear. Sam moves to roll over, and John
smiles at him, that look in his eyes. “Dad?”
His hand touches Sam’s face, his thumb brushing over his cheeks. “Missed you.”
Sam’s already shaking. He nods slowly, breathing loudly through his nose.
“Brought you something.” John reaches to his bag on the other bed and a satin
nightgown emerges. It’s white and shiny in the light of only the TV. “Will you
wear it for me?”
Sam takes the nightgown as he sits up. “Yeah…just…give me a minute.” He grabs
his own bag and takes the nightgown into the bathroom. He gets himself naked
before he looks at himself in the mirror. He should put his clothes back on and
leave. Just walk out the door. Call someone. Maybe Bobby.
Maybe this is something…more than just crazy. Maybe there was really something
wrong with his dad.
“Mary?”
Sam huffs and opens his bag. “Just….just give me a minute.”
The Vaseline is thick and slick and Sam can’t look at his reflection as he
reaches behind himself and rubs it over his hole. Holding his breath, he pushes
a finger inside himself. “Fuck.” Even that little hurt. Sam breathes out and
pulls out a little more of the goop, then pushes it up inside him.
He wipes his hands on the towel and slips the gown on. It’s long, brushing the
floor. It looks wrong and disturbing, so Sam turns out the light and opens the
door. His father turns, in nothing now but his boxers, his smile spreading.
“You’re so beautiful.”
Sam can’t imagine what it is his father is seeing as he crosses the room to
take Sam’s hands, drawing him to the bed. Sam shakes, swallows, but instead of
touching him, John pulls him to sit against him, his arm around Sam. He’s
talking, telling him all about Dean and Sam, the boys. His hand makes slow
circles on Sam’s hip, his breath moves Sam’s hair. Sam hopes maybe this will be
it.
Maybe.
Eventually his words slow, and his lips press down into Sam’s hair. “Mary… god…
Mary…I miss you so much.”
Sam’s surprised to hear himself whisper, “I know.” His hand pets over John’s.
Kisses move down, over his forehead, cheeks, to his lips. His father’s eyes are
shut tight, his lips sliding against Sam’s until Sam opens for him, then his
tongue is in Sam’s mouth, pressing against his. John’s hands roam down his
sides as he moves down on the bed, his body moving against the comforter,
rubbing against Sam.
He kisses down Sam’s body and slowly rolls him onto his stomach. Sam’s body
clenches defensively as John slides the slick fabric up, exposing Sam’s ass.
His lips touch skin and Sam jumps. “Easy…” John murmurs and Sam grabs at the
pillow under his head, scrunching it up under him. He bites into the pillow as
John’s finger sinks into him, thicker than his own.
John makes some sound Sam can’t determine. “Good thinking.” His lips move over
Sam’s ass, down his thighs while his fingers move in and out of him. All too
soon his father is moving and his cock is there, pushing into him.
Sam presses his face into the pillow as he yells, hoping the pillow muffles it
enough. Tears leak past tightly squeezed eyes. The bed rocks, his body pressed
into it by the weight of his father. “Fuck.” It still hurts, burns, stretches.
He blinks and tries to breathe. “Finish already,” he whispers into the head
board.
John grunts and thrusts and falls onto him. Sam can feel the come inside him as
he slips out, but instead of passing out, he pulls Sam to him, spooning around
him and holding him. His hands pet down over Sam’s body. “Stay with me….just a
little longer…”
Sam pants and nods while John settles, murmuring. When his deep breathing and
gentle snores tell Sam he’s finally asleep, Sam slips from the bed. In the
bathroom, he loses his dinner into the toilet, then pulls the negligee off him.
His father’s come stains the back of it.
He drops it to the floor and climbs in the shower, once more washing away the
evidence that his father had used him. There isn’t as much blood this time, but
there’s more come.
He cries, sobbing until he throws up again and the water has run cold.
Sam towels off and put his boxers back on, tiptoeing through the room and
stuffing the soiled nightgown into the bottom of his bag before he crawls into
the empty bed, turning so he couldn’t see the sleeping hulk of his father.
His dad is sitting beside him, a cold cloth wiping over Sam’s face when he
wakes. Sam starts, pulls back. His father smiles. “Thank you.”
Sam swallows and looks away.
“You okay?”
Sam nods haphazardly and he pats Sam’s knee. “Good. We should get on the road.”
His father gets up and finishes stuffing things into his bag. “You want to
shower before we go?”
Sam sits up, wincing as his ass protests. “I showered last night—um—after…”
He nods. “Your mother was beautiful last night.” Sam doesn’t have an answer to
that, so he just gets up and pulls on his jeans. “You did good, last night
Sam.”
Sam isn’t sure if he means the hunt, or the other, so he just nods.
“Your stomach okay?”
“Little queasy.” In fact, if he thinks too much about it, about what he did, he
might throw up again.
“To be expected,” he says, and Sam thinks maybe this is more fucked up than
even he realized. “We can skip breakfast, just head home?”
Sam nods. “Yeah, okay.” He fingers the slip of the gown he can feel as he
shoves his gun into his bag. He’d put it on willingly, fed his father’s
delusion. Maybe Sam was just as crazy.
Dad’s hand falls on his shoulder and Sam gathers up his bag, follows him out to
the car. The ride home is quiet until they hit the outskirts of the town
they’re squatting in. “I still think maybe the time isn’t right for your
brother.”
Sam thinks the time may never be right for his brother to know about this.
“Yeah. I know.”
 
 
 
***********
 
 
The summer’s nearly over and they’re leaving Mississippi in the morning. Dad’s
bought a new truck, passing the Impala into Dean’s hands. He has reasons beyond
Dean wanting the car.
“Keep it under a hundred,” he says as he passes the keys into Dean’s itching
hands. “No getting pulled over.”
Dean rolls his eyes and snatches the keys with a grin. “Yeah, yeah. I know. Sam
riding with me?”
His hand is on Sam’s shoulder and Sam knows, just knows. “We’ll catch up. Meet
you at Jim’s place, okay?”
“Yeah? You sure?” But all Dean can think about is the car, Sam can see that.
“Yeah, I’m sure. Sam and I are going to scout out a place in Oklahoma on the
way. We need to be in a place when school starts.”
Dean barely says goodbye as he’s out the door. And Dad sighs. “Last night here.
Want pizza?”
“Sure. I’m gonna go finish packing.”
Sam climbs the stairs to his room slowly. He figures it’s been a while and
sending Dean ahead has to mean it’s going to happen tonight. He flicks on the
light.
There’s a box on his bed. It has a note on it. A note in his father’s
handwriting. Sam lifts it. “For Mary.”
In the box is a wig. It’s blond and long and Sam lifts it slowly. He stares at
it for a long time before he puts it back into the box. His stomach does a slow
churn as he turns to finish his packing, emptying his duffle bag so he can
shove all his clothes into it. He’d forgotten the nightgown. He lifts it from
where it’s fallen on the bed.
It’s stiff in the place where his father’s come had dried to it. He should have
washed it. Sam sets it beside the wig and packs, setting his duffle by the
stairs when his father calls him down for food.
They make small talk about the place Dad wants to check out for their next
semester, some town in Oklahoma that’s in the middle of some mystic something
or other and Sam’s upcoming school year. It’s nice. Normal.
He starts drinking about half way through the pizza, his eyes flicking to
Sam’s, watching. Waiting. “Tonight?” John asks as Sam clears the table. There’s
hope in the single word. Hope and a certain fear.
Sam nods. “I think maybe.”
His father smiles and Sam does too, echoing the expression, though he isn’t
happy. Not really. He’s scared. Terrified of what is going to happen. When the
pizza is gone and the napkins and paper plates thrown away, Sam stands waiting,
not sure what to do.
His father drinks, lifting the bottle to pour again and again. Sam sighs. “I’ll
go…um…” But he doesn’t know what to say, so he just goes. Up the stairs, into
the attic room where he feels safe, to do something that makes him feel
anything but safe.
He pulls off his clothes, stands naked in front of the dresser. The dresser is
empty of everything except the Vaseline. Sam knows he has to do better this
time. If he did it right, his father’s thrusting shouldn’t tear him inside like
it had before.
He’s grateful that there’s no mirror over the dresser as he leans forward and
uses two fingers to smear himself with the greasy ointment, slowly pressing
them inside himself. He gasps and pushes past the resistance, works his fingers
in and out. He can feel himself loosening, opening. It has to be better than
before. Sam isn’t sure how much of this he can handle if it hurts like that
every time.
He shakes his head, because, really? He hasn’t thought that far ahead. He tries
not to think about it much at all except when he has no choice. Like now. Sam
manages three fingers and that’s about all he can cope with, so he stops and
turns to the bed. He pulls the nightgown on first. It’s uncomfortable where the
stiff material rubs against his ass, but he ignores that and reaches for the
wig.
He settles it on his head and he has to hold his arms around his stomach for a
minute, just to keep from vomiting up the pizza that’s rolling around in his
stomach.
He feels ridiculous and ashamed, his face hot as he goes to the stairs. He can
hear his father pacing and almost retreats back into the safety of his room.
But he knows it won’t be a safe place for long, not if his father is convinced
that his mother had come.
Sam takes a deep breath and stumbles down the last few stairs. John is standing
in the door to his bedroom in his underwear and he smiles, tears in his eyes.
“Mary.”
He’s shaking as John takes his hand and draws him into the bedroom. “You’re
cold.”
“I’m fine.” Sam’s voice is barely a whisper.
“I was afraid you weren’t coming.” John guides him to the bed, like the last
time, sitting with his back to the headboard, and pulling Sam in to lean
against him. “I have so much to tell you.”
Sam doesn’t really hear most of what his father says, he’s too worried about
what comes after the talking. “Sam’s really smart, Mary. Like you. He’s been so
good about this. I wish he could see you. I wish they could both see you.”
Sam stiffens and lifts up, shaking his head as he turns to him. “No. They
can’t.”
The soft expression on his face fades a little. “I…I know.”
Sam licks his lips. His brother can’t ever know. “John.” His voice squeaks a
little and Sam swallows. “Dean especially. He can’t know. He wouldn’t
understand.”
John is nodding, reaching for him, pulling him in to kiss. Sam can taste the
pizza, the whiskey. He doesn’t stiffen up as much as the last time, letting his
mouth open with the first swipe of his tongue. The books all said it was easier
if you relaxed.
Sam lays down, on his back. John slides over him, his hands pulling on the gown
as his lips roam over Sam’s face. “So beautiful.”
Sam spreads his legs, making room for him between them. John’s hands roam up
his legs, bending his knees and pushing them up. His cock touches Sam’s ass and
he does his best not to tense up.
John’s cock is way bigger than his own fingers and Sam groans as he presses in.
“Need you so much.” John whispers as he slides out and pushes back in. It
hurts…not as much as before, but Sam’s body is slicked in sweat, his teeth
clenching as John fills him.
The pain eases, if not the sense of being too full, and Sam’s eyes open. His
father’s face is slack, his mouth open, his head back as he moves. Sam blinks
back the tears, because they don’t help and with his face up his father might
see them and think Sam knew.
John grunts and shifts his grip, his speed increasing just before he comes. Sam
gasps for air and rolls to his side, letting him fall in behind him like
before. They spoon together and for a while neither of them move or speak.
When he does, John’s voice is soft. “Mary?”
Sam shifts his head, rubbing the fake hair over his father’s chest in response.
“What is it like? Out there?”
Sam’s heart skips and he has to take a breath to answer. “I…can’t say.”
John’s hand slides down his arm, over his hip. “Why…why did it take so long for
you to come to me?”
Sam catches his hand, holds it for a second. “Sam…” He swallows. “Sam wasn’t
ready.”
“I love you.”
“I know.”
“Will you stay?”
“You know…I can’t.” Sam’s voice quavers and he’s sure his father is going to
realize it isn’t his mother talking to him, but John just kisses his neck,
pulls him closer.
“For now?”
Sam nods agreement, closing his eyes. John is quiet then, holding him close.
Sam isn’t sure how long they lay there, but just as he’s beginning to think
it’s over, John moves and it’s obvious that it isn’t.
Sam squeezes his eyes shut as his cock hardens and shifts and slides into him.
And maybe it didn’t hurt as much as last time, but he’s already sore and John’s
cock seems bigger somehow this second time. He’s slow, rocking their bodies
together, whispering in Sam’s ear about how much he loves Mary and Sam’s
stomach is sick…sick because he isn’t Mary and this is so wrong and it hurts…it
fucking hurts and he wants to cry out, wants to scream and beg his father not
to do this anymore, but he can’t…he can only lay there and pretend and let John
finish.
When it’s over, Sam leaves him sleeping, goes to the bathroom for his throw-up
and shower ritual. The sight in the mirror stops him. Blond hair all askew on
his head, the white satin wrinkled. Tears burn over his face as he pulls the
wig off and drops it, followed by the gown. The tears mix with the hot water as
he turns the shower on full blast, his skin burning like his ass does, turning
red in seconds.
He doesn’t wash, just stands there under the water, crying. His stomach is
violent, crashing around inside him until he is kneeling beside the toilet
again, dripping wet and vomiting until there isn’t anything left. Even then he
waits, his stomach convulsing until it too hurts, joining the symphony of pain
in his body.
He crawls out of the bathroom and up into his attic, crawls into bed because he
can’t stand, can only curl around himself and cry himself to sleep.
Daylight is flooding in through his window when he wakes up, and his first
thought is panic because they were supposed to leave at first light. His second
thought is worse as he hears the creak on the stairs.
“Sam?”
He rolls over and tries to sit up, but his stomach muscles are tight and it
hurts and he groans, gasps. Fuck, he hurts all over and he can’t sit up, can’t
do more than whimper as his father sits on the side of the bed, his big hand
sliding over Sam’s forehead. “Hey, you okay?”
Sam shakes his head, but that only makes it worse. He’s sure he’d be throwing
up if he’d left anything of substance in his stomach. “I brought you some
water.” His father cracks the bottle and holds it to Sam’s mouth. He sips at
it, then lays back. His father’s hand strokes over his forehead, smoothing his
unruly hair. Sam wants to turn away, hide, but his father’s face is so tender,
so concerned.
He’s sweaty and shaky and it still fucking hurts, but he sits up, smiles for
his father. “I…I was sick.”
His Dad nods. “I heard you. How’s it feel now?”
“Better.” Sam nods because he knows his father needs him to be okay. “My
stomach muscles are sore.”
He hands Sam the bottle of water. “Drink this. You need to rehydrate. I’ll make
you some toast.”
“What about Oklahoma?”
His father stops at the top of the stairs. “We’ll leave when you’re ready.”
 
 
 
***********
 
 
His father is attentive all the way to Oklahoma, stopping whenever Sam looks
even a little queasy that whole first day. By the time it’s getting dark, Sam
is mostly feeling better, though his ass hurts and sitting in the car all
afternoon hasn’t helped it any.
They never actually make it to Jim’s, finding a small house in the outskirts of
the town his Dad is interested in. Dean’s off helping Bobby with a hunt, so it
doesn’t really matter.
The place isn’t as nice, and there’s only two bedrooms, so he’s back to sharing
with Dean, but really, Sam doesn’t mind that as much as he used to. He knew
nothing would happen with Dean in the same room.
Only Dean isn’t. Not yet.
It’s only been two weeks, and Sam can already see his father looking at him,
wondering, waiting. Sam tries to ignore it, because he’s not sure he can handle
another night like that, another day so sick he can’t move.
And maybe that should be getting better instead of worse, but it isn’t.
His father’s a third of the way into a bottle when it occurs to Sam that he can
make it stop. He gets up from the couch and goes to his room, closing the door.
He can tell his father it has to stop. He shakes his head. Mary can tell him it
has to stop.
His dad would listen to her. Sam licks his lips and paces the room, trying to
bring himself to pull out the wig and nightgown. He kneels by the bed, pulls
out the bag he’s got them hidden in. Once more. He would put them on and tell
his father it had to stop.
He strips fast, digs out the Vaseline to warm himself up, but he does it fast,
wanting it to just be over. He puts the wig on his head and nods to himself
before opening the door.
John looks up at him from his place on the couch. Sam steps out, moves slowly
out to him.
“Mary?”
Sam nods slowly, goes to sit with him. John’s kiss is tender and Sam let’s
himself melt into it, sitting on John’s knees, holding his face. “We can’t keep
doing this.” Sam whispers.
John trembles. “I need you.”
“Sam…the boys need you.”
“Don’t leave me.”
Sam kisses him, touches his face to make him open his eyes. “We can’t keep
doing this to Sam.” John nods slowly, tears rolling out of his eyes. “This has
to be the last time.”
He slides to his feet, taking John’s hands and drawing him away, toward the
bedroom. One last time. Sam can do this one last time.
“John.” He hesitates once they’re in the room. John’s hands on his hips, his
mouth kissing over Sam’s shoulders. “Last time.”
“Last time.” He echoes the words as Sam lays on the bed, face down. His zipper
is loud and it seems to echo around them as John moves behind him. Sam grabs a
pillow, shoves it under his face as hands slide over his thighs, up to his ass.
He bites into the pillow as John enters him, screaming silently at the burn,
the stretch. His muscles protest, and his eyes leak tears, but he holds his
breath because it will all be over…just as soon as John is done.
The bed creaks and groans and rocks under them as John fucks into him and Sam
holds on…just holds on through the pain and humiliation. It’s almost
over…almost…and John is moaning, grunting…and Sam can’t hold in the cry of pain
as his thrusting goes deeper and harder.
“What the fuck!”
Sam looks up, through the tumble of blond hair, stunned…not as stunned as Dean
though, who has his gun out, shoving at their father who is pulling out now,
his cock spewing come over Sam’s ass as he stumbles back, and Sam scrambles off
the bed, reaching for his brother.
“No…no…Dean…Dean…no…”
“What the fuck!” Dean’s screaming, spitting his words as his father falls back
against the wall, his face a mask of horror as he stares at Sam, at Dean who is
grabbing Sam and shoving him out the door.
“Dean, no…it’s done.” Sam’s grabbing at Dean frantically, pulling at him.
“You sick…sick…fuck…” Dean’s hand is shaking, the gun wavering. He shoves Sam.
Shoves him into the living room. “Stay there.” He stalks back to the room and
Sam can hear him screaming at their father. The words aren’t making sense and
Sam is shaking, gasping, throwing up on the floor of the living room.
“Sam…Sam…” Their father comes stumbling down the hall, Dean’s gun in his back.
“No!” Dean shoved him at the door. “Not a word. Get the fuck out or so help me,
I’ll put a fucking bullet in your brain.”
The door slams shut and Sam doubles over again, vomiting all over the carpet.
Dean’s hands touch him, slide over his back. “God, Sam…I’m sorry.”
Sam shakes his head and the wig falls off, falls into the pool of vomit on the
floor and Sam can’t bring himself to talk. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
Dean’s gentle, starts a shower, helps Sam out of the nightgown, and into the
shower.
When the water’s gone cold, Sam gets out, wraps in a towel. Dean’s waiting in
the bedroom with two beds, Sam’s bag on the bed. “Are you…I…” He shakes his
head. “Holy fuck, Sammy. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”
“Didn’t want you to.” Sam says softly. He reaches for the bag, pulls out sweats
and a t-shirt.
“Did he.” Dean’s eyes close. “Are you hurt?”
Sam licks his lips, shakes his head. “It’s okay.”
“No Sam, it isn’t. It so isn’t okay.”
 
 
 
 
***********
 
 
They drive all night and most of the next day. They don’t really talk. Sam
cries softly into his knees, hopes Dean doesn’t notice.
When they stop, they’re in the middle of nowhere. Dean stops the engine, but
doesn’t get out.
“It was over.” Sam says softly. “I made him promise.”
Dean’s eyes close, his face pained. “Sam…how long?”
Sam looks at him. “He thought I was her.”
“He what?”
“Mom. He thought she came to him through me.”
Dean’s hands cover his face. “How long?” It’s muffled, but Sam can hear him.
“Almost a year.” He’s ashamed that he let it happen, that he didn’t tell
someone. That he let his father believe he was his Mary. “But, it wasn’t…all
the time. Only…” But he doesn’t really want to count.
Dean’s shoulders quake and Sam realizes his brother is crying. He can’t
remember the last time he saw Dean cry. He reaches out to touch Dean’s arm and
Dean inhales deep, raising his head. “He…he’s sick, Sam. You know that, right?
You know Mom wouldn’t ever want…that.”
“I know.” And he does know. He’s known all along. Which only makes what he did
worse. Maybe he’s sick too. “I wanted him to be happy.”
“I’m going to make sure he never hurts you again.” Dean sniffles. “We’ll go to
Pastor Jim’s. He’ll…he’ll know what to do.”
Dean turns the engine over and pulls them back on the road. Sam’s tired of the
silence, so he reaches over to turn the radio on. The Beatles pour out of the
speakers, and the words burn in his ears the way his tears burn on his skin.
When I find myself in times of trouble, mother Mary comes to me, speaking words
of wisdom, let it be. And in my hour of darkness she is standing right in front
of me, speaking words of wisdom, let it be. Let it be, let it be, let it be,
let it be. Whisper words of wisdom, let it be. And when the broken hearted
people living in the world agree, there will be an answer, let it be. For
though they may be parted there is still a chance that they will see, there
will be an answer. let it be. Let it be, let it be, ..... And when the night is
cloudy, there is still a light, that shines on me, shine until tomorrow, let it
be. I wake up to the sound of music, mother Mary comes to me, speaking words of
wisdom, let it be. Let it be, let it be, .....
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Summary
     Dean takes Sam to Pastor Jim, hoping they can somehow overcome what
     has happened. Sam insists that he's fine, but Dean knows better.
     Bobby hunts John down, only to discover that maybe not every monster
     is evil through and through.
Dean stopped the Impala and looked at his brother. Asleep, his head lolling
against the back of the seat, he looked so young, so vulnerable.
Sam snuffled and Dean looked away. Sam was young. And vulnerable. And Dean had
let him down.
He rubbed his eyes, digging the heels of his hands in, in a vain attempt to
burn away the image that had been playing in his mind for the last two days,
hundreds of miles and all he could see was his father on top of Sam, the wig,
the noises.
Dean opened the car door and stumbled away in the church parking lot, doubling
over and throwing up for maybe the fifth time since that moment. He turned to
look up at the church, familiar, if not comforting. They'd come here time and
time again over the years, sometimes to help Pastor Jim, sometimes to get his
help.
They'd never needed his help like this.
"Dean?"
He turned, wiping over his face as Pastor Jim came down the steps of the parish
house. "Hi, sorry we didn't call."
"Everything okay?" Jim was getting close. Dean stepped in between him and the
car, between him and Sam.
"No." Dean managed to keep the pain out of his voice. "Really not okay." He
scrubbed over his face again. "I…didn't know where else to go. Can we…Sam and
me, can we stay with you until I…while I figure out…"
Jim's hand was on his shoulder. "You boys are always welcome, you know that."
Dean couldn't look up into his open, trusting face. "Your Daddy coming along?"
Dean shook his head, fighting to hold himself together. Jim's compassion was
just melting all his walls though and Dean squeezed his eyes shut. Jim didn't
push, just pulled Dean in, holding him and letting him fall against him.
After a few minutes, Dean drew a shuddering breath and stood back. "Can we get
Sam inside and settled? I'll…I'll tell you what I can…after."
Jim nodded and Dean went back to the car, reaching in to touch Sam who had
already started to stir. Sam's eyes were wild as he woke, his hand grabbing
Dean while he sorted out where he was and that he was okay.
Sam shied away from Pastor Jim as they got out of the car, curling into Dean in
a way that made his heart hurt. Jim seemed to read something into that, keeping
his distance and following them inside. Dean took Sam up the stairs; into the
spare room they had stayed in countless times.
"Please don't." Sam said, his voice plaintive and young. He sat on the bed,
arms folded around his stomach, holding himself, his eyes on the floor.
Dean stood in the door. "Get some sleep Sam."
"Dean, please."
He crossed to the bed, his hand petting over Sam's hair, soothing it down. "I
have to Sam…we can't…we need help."
Sam shook his head, rubbing his tear stained face over Dean's stomach. "Don't
want it. I'm fine, Dean. I'm fine." He tilted his head back, eyes shining
bright. "Please, just…tell him Dad's sick…or…just, please don't tell him."
Warm, wet tears slid down his cheeks as Dean kissed the top of Sam's head.
"I…just get some sleep Sam. I have to go down and tell him something, okay?
I'll be up in a bit."
Dean pulled the door closed behind him and leaned against it dragging air into
protesting lungs. This was his fault, he should have seen it, should have known
something wasn't right. He wiped his face and pushed the thoughts away. Right
now he needed to concentrate on helping Sam, getting him through this…though he
had to admit he didn't know if he could…or how anyone survived something like
this.
He found Pastor Jim in the kitchen, a pot of coffee on, two mugs sitting on the
table. Dean wanted something a hell of a lot stronger than coffee, but he sat,
cradling the cup between his hands.
"You boys look rough." Jim observed, sitting himself. "Sam especially."
Dean nodded, swallowing around the knot of anguish lodged just behind his
tonsils. "And your Dad isn't with you, so I assume this has something to do
with him."
Dean nodded again, his hands tightening around the mug. The last time he'd seen
his father it had been over the barrel of a gun. Dean had run him off,
threatened to kill him.
"Is he okay?"
Dean inhaled sharply and looked up at Jim for the first time. Jim sat back,
eyes skimming over Dean's face.
"No, he's anything but okay." Dean said finally. "He's…sick. Fucking sick in
the head." He pulled his hands away from the coffee mug, rubbed the warm skin
over his face. "He…I didn't know. God help me, how could I not know?" He pushed
the chair back, pacing around the table. "How could I not…I should have stopped
it."
"Dean, you aren't making sense. Come sit down and tell me what happened."
He shook his head, kept pacing as he remembered the strange sounds he'd heard
from the living room, his father's voice groaning out the name of his dead
wife, the whimpering sounds that he only recognized as Sam when he opened the
bedroom door.
And when he opened that door--Dean stopped pacing and looked at Jim. "Dad." He
had to swallow again and he crossed to the table and sat, his knee bouncing.
"He…he…" He wasn't sure he could actually say it. Jim's hand touched his,
squeezing lightly. "He ra…raped Sam."
“What the fuck!” Dean blinked rapidly, shaking his head as he realized what he
was seeing.
Sam looked up at him, through a tumble of blond hair that sat skewed on his
head, stunned…mouth open in horror. Dean's gun was in his hand, heavier than it
should be, leveled over Sam's back at the man fucking his brother. He shoved at
their father who pulled out as he came, his cock spewing come over Sam’s bare
ass as he stumbled back, and Sam scrambled off the bed, reaching for Dean, eyes
wide and filled with unshed tears.
“No…no…Dean…Dean…no…”
“What the fuck!” Dean scream echoed in the small room, the words spit at his
father who was falling back against the wall, his face a mask of horror as he
stared at Sam. Dean grabbed Sam and shoved him out the door.
“Dean, no…it’s done.” Sam was grabbing at Dean frantically, pulling at him.
“You sick…sick…fuck…” Dean’s hand was shaking, the gun wavering. He shoved Sam
again. Shoved him into the living room. “Stay there.” He stalked back to face
his father, dousing him with holy water and yelling "Christo" at him like he
was some kind of fucking monster.
Jim's hand fell still on his, and Dean looked up. Jim looked like Dean had
struck him. "He…what?"
Dean's stomach grumbled, and he'd probably throw up again if there was anything
left in his stomach. "I walked in…he had Sam on the bed, wearing this…wig."
Dean gestured at his head. "God, Sam didn't want me to tell you…he's…he keeps
telling me he's fine and it was…over, and I don't know what to do, I don't know
what to say…and it was Dad, he wasn't possessed or a shifter or…and I hit him
and I kicked him and I made him leave, put a gun in his face and made him
leave…I should have known…"
The tears burned down his face. Jim came around the table, squatting beside
him, one hand still in his, the other rising up to caress his face, wiping at
his tears. "You did the right thing, Dean. Coming here, telling me. Let me help
you."
 
Dean didn't want to sleep, but he hadn't slept much more than a little dozing
on the side of the road in days. He crawled into the second twin bed in the
small room, his eyes watching Sam until he couldn't keep them open any longer.
The memory played out in his head as soon as he was asleep.
"Dean, wait…let me explain."
"I don't want an explanation, you sick fuck. Put your goddamn pants on." The
gun wavered, and tears burned at the corner of his eyes.
"Dean…it isn't what you think."
"No? No, Dad? I think I just walked in on you fucking Sam. And you aren't
possessed so that must mean you're just a fucking monster! You trained me to
kill monsters." Dean wouldn't let himself think about what he'd seen, about
what it meant, about how it could happen…this was his father and that was the
only thing that kept Dean from shooting him on the spot.
His father had his pants on and Dean kicked a pair of shoes toward him. "Now
get the fuck out." He shoved his father into the hall, the gun in his back.
“Sam…Sam…” His hand was out, reaching for Sam, who pulled back, looking down
into the pool of vomit on the floor under him.
“No!” Dean shoved him at the door. “Not a word. Get the fuck out or so help me,
I’ll put a fucking bullet in your brain.”
Dean slammed the door shut and Sam doubled over, vomiting all over the carpet.
Dean tucked the gun back in his belt, his hands sliding up over Sam's back.
“God, Sam…I’m sorry. I'm so sorry." His mouth was moving, words pouring out of
him, but they were empty, broken platitudes that he couldn't begin to
understand as he focused on just keeping them moving.
Dean woke with a start, instantly on alert, his hand on the gun under his
pillow. Sam wasn't in the room and panic nibbled Dean's heart as he climbed out
of bed. "Sam?"
He opened the bedroom door, tiptoeing down the hall toward the bathroom. He
could hear running water. Pastor Jim emerged from his bedroom, his bathrobe
pulled tight around him as he yawned. "He's been in there a while."
Dean nodded and lowered the hand with the gun. "We drove…didn't stop."
"Why don't you get dressed. I'll start breakfast."
Jim headed for the stairs and Dean forced himself to go back into the bedroom
when all he really wanted to do was make sure Sam was okay. He snorted as he
pulled his bag up onto the bed. Okay. Sam wasn't okay. There was no way he was,
not after…and it had been going on for a year.
Dean's anguish slowly burned and boiled over into rage again as he pulled out
jeans and a t-shirt and his button down. A year. His father-no, that monster
wasn't their father. He'd been touching Sam for a year that Sam would admit to.
He was nearly dressed when the bedroom door opened and Sam came in, wrapped in
towels, his hair wet and dripping.
"Oh, you're up." Sam sort of stood there at the door for a minute, like he was
uncertain of himself.
"I'll be done in a minute." Dean offered, shrugging his t-shirt on.
"Yeah, whatever." Sam sat on the bed, made no move to uncover himself or get
dressed.
"Jim's making breakfast."
"Not hungry."
"How can you not be hungry?" Dean snapped. He hadn't gotten Sam to eat much
more than a few fries since they'd left.
Sam flinched and Dean closed his eyes, kicking himself. "I'm sorry. Sam…I
just…you need to eat. You know that."
Sam didn't answer, his fingers playing with the zipper on his duffle bag. Dean
stopped to pull on his boots and Sam sighed. "You told him, didn't you."
It wasn't a question. "Sam, you know I had to."
Sam shook his head, wet hair covering his face so Dean couldn't see him. "You
know what they'll do. They'll hunt him down, Dean, like he's…like he's some
kind of monster."
Dean didn't say what he was thinking. He knew Sam wouldn't hear him. "I'm not
worried about him Sam. I'm worried about you."
"I had it under control. I ended it. It was over."
Dean shook his head. "I know you think that, and maybe it's true Sam, maybe he
would have ended it, but that's not what I saw." He tried to keep his voice
gentle, tried to not let his own pain into his tone…because no matter how he
felt, no matter how betrayed and angry he felt, it didn't begin to compare with
what his brother must be feeling.
"You never…" Sam looked up finally, looking young and scared. "You were never
supposed to know. I didn't want you to."
"Sam…" Dean sat on his bed, his hand falling short of actually touching him.
"God, I could have helped you. I could have stopped him."
Sam sort of shrugged, like it didn't matter. "You didn't see him…before I
mean." Sam cleared his throat, his arms sliding around his stomach. "When I put
on the wig, and the nightgown and he thought I was her…" Sam leaned forward,
rocking slightly, his eyes unfocused and distant. "He really did, Dean. He
really thought I was Mom. He talked…sometimes for hours. He was so happy. He
cried."
Dean really didn't know what to say to that, so he sat there, looking at his
hand on the blanket, trying to picture his father any other way than the way
he'd found him. "He…he isn't…what he did was wrong, Sam." Dean finally said.
Sam sucked in a shuddering breath and nodded. "I know." He actually looked up
at Dean then. "But I let him. I…knew it was wrong, and I let him do it anyway."
"It isn't your fault. You're just…you're the kid in this."
"I don't feel much like a kid." Sam said. Dean closed his eyes, burying the
hurt.
"Get dressed, come down to breakfast. Please?" Dean asked as he stood.
Sam nodded. "Yeah, okay."
Dean's chest was tight and hurting as he descended the stairs. He rounded the
corner into the kitchen to the smell of bacon and coffee and Jim with the phone
to his ear. "Just keep me updated, Bobby. Thanks."
Jim put the phone on the counter and looked up at Dean.
Sam was right about that. They were already going after John. Dean had given
them enough the night before to start looking from him…and truth was he
probably hadn't run far, just to the nearest bottle of whiskey he could pour
himself into.
Dean didn't say anything, just reached around the priest for the coffee pot.
"Sam should be down in a little bit. He's getting dressed."
"Dean, I--"
Dean shook his head. "No, you're right. I don't need to know." He took his
coffee to the table and sat. "Just…don't tell Sam."
"Don't tell Sam what?" Sam asked as he stopped in the doorway. He looked small
and like he might bolt if anyone actually spoke to him, arms folded in around
his stomach.
Jim smiled softly and nodded toward the pan. "I broke the yolks."
Sam looked like he knew that wasn't what they meant and for a minute Dean
thought he might call them on it, then he sagged and slouched into a chair.
"I'm not five, Dean."
"You still scream like a girl." His comeback lacked it's usual zip and the
kitchen fell quiet after, none of them really looking at one another.
It wasn't until Jim put plates in front of them with eggs and bacon and toast
that any of them spoke, and even then it was just Jim saying grace. Sam picked
at his food, only putting anything in his mouth when Dean nudged him.
"I know Dean told you." Sam said suddenly without looking up. "And I know you
want to help. But I'm okay."
"Sam--" Jim's hand on his arm stopped Dean.
"I know you think you're okay, Sam. But I'm hoping that you'll let me help you
anyway." Jim's voice was quiet, his eyes on Sam.
Sam glanced aside at Dean, then up at Jim before returning his eyes to his
plate. "Help how?"
Jim inhaled slowly and let the breath out even more slowly. "To begin with, we
should have you checked out by a doctor."
Sam stiffened and Dean stood, pacing away from the table. "No, I said I was
fine."
Jim waited until Sam looked up again. "I know what you've said Sam, but I saw
the way you walked last night, I see how you're sitting now. I know you're
hurting."
Dean turned, his eyes narrowing. Sam shifted, sitting back, and wincing. He
hadn't seen it. Two days on the road and he hadn't seen. "Sam?"
Sam tried to shake it off, but now that Dean knew, he wasn't going to let go of
it. "He's right, if you're still hurting now…he must have done something, you
need to make sure you're okay."
"It's always hurt." Sam snapped and stood, trying hard to walk like everything
is fine. "This is nothing."
Jim held Dean off and went to Sam himself. "I know, Sam. And I know that you
love him, and don't want him to get into trouble, and I know that you're
embarrassed and don't want anyone to know. But we have to worry about you right
now, and making sure there's no permanent damage. I've already called a friend
of mine. She's waiting for us. Will you come with me?"
Sam didn't actually say yes, but he didn't resist as Jim's hand on his arm drew
him away either. Dean followed, out to the car, sliding behind the wheel as Jim
and Sam climbed in back. Jim offered directions and in a few minutes they were
parked outside a hospital.
The woman who emerged from what seemed to be a private office looked young and
her smile was gentle. "You must be Sam." She held out her hand and Sam took it
hesitantly. "Why don't you come on in and we'll get started."
Sam moved past her into the office and Dean moved to follow, but she held up
her hand to stop him. "That's my brother."
"I appreciate that, but he's been through something humiliating enough. Do you
think he needs you in here with him while he goes through this too?"
"It's my job to protect him."
She nodded, her eyes meeting his, both of her hands on his shoulders. "And you
feel like you let him down, and you're overcompensating. Now, have a seat. Your
brother is in good hands."
Dean growled as she shut the door in his face. Jim sat on one of the hard
plastic chairs. "It might be a while, Son."
Dean only growled more, stomping to the chairs and throwing himself into one.
"I belong in there with him."
"No, you don't." Jim disagreed. Dean glared at him. "She's right about what
you're feeling though, and it's understandable."
"Don't." Dean said, crossing his arms and slouching down further. "Don't pastor
me, Jim. I'm not the one who got raped by his lunatic father who thought his
dead wife had come back to him."
"No, you're the big brother who didn't know it was happening and is kicking his
own ass from here to Biloxi with guilt for not knowing and not stopping it."
Jim's hand fell on his shoulder. "It's natural to feel that way, Dean."
"Nothing about this is natural." Dean muttered, getting up to pace. "How could
he do this?"
Jim leaned back in the seat and crossed his arms. "We won't know that until we
find him."
Dean didn't slow his pacing, but he hadn't meant his father. Or rather, not
just his father. Sam had let him. Sam knew it was wrong, Sam didn't stop him,
didn't fight back. Sam let it happen.
"Unless you're blaming your brother for this." Jim said softly. That stopped
Dean cold, shaking his head. "It isn't Sam's fault, Dean, no matter what he
might tell you."
Dean's entire body is clenched up tight, his hands in fists. "He said he let it
happen, that he let Dad…" He didn't blame Sam. He didn't. And yet, he didn't
understand. "Why didn't he tell me? Why didn't he tell someone?"
Jim was standing now, standing and close. "I'm guessing because he was
protecting you."
Dean shook his head, staring at the door. "It's my job to protect him." And a
fucking great job he was doing of it so far.
"And you did, Dean. You got him out of there as soon as you knew."
"It's not enough." Dean said tightly, blinking his suddenly burning eyes. "Not
anything damn near enough."
"It's going to have to be." Jim said. "Sam is going to need you."
As if on cue, the door burst open and Sam flew at them grabbing Dean and
burying his face in Dean's chest. Hot tears soaked Dean's shirt as the doctor
appeared at the door, calling Jim closer. Dean wrapped his arms around his
brother and held on, not sure what else he could do.
After a few minutes Jim rejoined them, a hand brushing over Sam's head. "I
suggest we take this somewhere a little more private." Jim said softly,
gesturing down the hall.
Dean kept Sam close as they walked, despite the awkward angles and stumbling
steps. "You okay?" he whispered as they neared the car.
Sam snuffled and rubbed his nose and nodded. "Yeah." Sam sat up front with him
as they headed back to the church, in the middle of the bench seat like when
they were little.
When they got back to the parish house, Sam excused himself to go upstairs.
Dean turned on Jim. "So?"
Jim waited until they heard the bedroom door close. "As I suspected, he's a
little torn up, but it's healing." Jim rubbed his chin with one hand. "She gave
him an ointment to use to make it feel better, but it's going to take some
time. She suggested counseling."
Dean had expected that. "Yeah, he won't like it though."
"For both of you."
Dean frowned and turned back. "What?"
"It might make it easier for him, if you lead by example."
"I'm not…I don't need…" Dean shook his head. "Just no." He paced away and back
again. "No. No."
He was saved from any further argument by the phone. Jim crossed to the table
and answered. Dean could tell it was Bobby just by the way Jim turned away and
lowered his voice. He hung up and pulled his hand through his graying hair with
a heavy sigh.
"Did he find him?"
Jim didn't have to answer, the taut line of his body, the worry on his face was
enough. "Where?"
"Hospital." Jim said, dropping into the chair.
Dean hadn't expected that. "Why?"
"Not sure. Started as a bar fight, but then he collapsed and went into
convulsions. Doctors are still running tests."
Guilt stabbed at his stomach, but he pushed it away, after what his father did,
Dean had no need of feeling guilty for leaving him behind. "What's Bobby going
to do?"
"Right now, he's waiting to see what the diagnosis is."
"That's easy, he's fucked up in the head by this damn obsession of his. What
else could it be?" He didn't want it to be anything else, didn't want to feel
guilty, to feel sympathy for the man. He wanted to hate him.
"He's still your father." Jim said wearily.
"No." Dean moved to the stairs. "He stopped being that the very first time he
touched Sam."
 
Dean woke to the feeling of Sam poking at him, and opened one eye. "Let me
sleep with you." Sam sounded sleepy and uncertain and Dean might have argued
about the bed being too small for two of them except for the look on Sam's
face.
He moved until his ass was hanging at the edge of the bed, and held up the
blankets for Sam to slide in with him. Sam shifted and turned and curled up
small, like he used to when he was little and afraid of the dark.
Dean lowered the blanket and curled around him protectively. Sam's hand pulled
Dean's arm closer and Dean closed his eyes and tried to go back to sleep. "I
didn't know." Sam said softly after a few minutes.
"What?" Dean tightens his hold just a little and Sam curls in tighter.
"When it started, I didn't know what was going on. He was drunk, and sad and
crying. I just wanted to make it better."
"Sam…" Dean wasn't sure why Sam was talking now, when it had been days he and
Jim had been trying to get him to talk.
Sam rolled onto his back, looking up at Dean with scared, young eyes. "He came
into my bed and he held me and he cried. He cried Mom's name. It was like he
didn't even see me there."
Dean didn't want to hear it, didn't want to know the sordid, awful details, but
he wouldn't have stopped Sam from talking, not for anything. "I don't think he
knew what he was doing…and I didn't…he just…sort of moved and then he…" Sam
lowered his eyes. "It wasn't like he did anything to me, not really. He was…it
wasn't anything…that first time…it wasn't like." Sam closed his eyes and
swallowed. "It wasn't rape, Dean. He didn't even touch me there."
Dean lowered his head onto Sam's shoulder, his eyes closed. Sam's hand came up
into Dean's hair, combing through it gently. "He was so sad." Sam's hands
stilled and Dean lifted his head. "I don't think he meant it to happen. I think
he really believed that it was…Mom."
"That doesn't make it right, Sam." Dean said softly, laying back beside his
brother.
"I think something's wrong with him." Sam sat up, rolling his eyes. "I mean,
more than the obvious. If you'd seen him those nights, when…when he thought I
was her…"
Dean hesitated to ask, but this is as open as Sam has been about this. "Sammy,
can you…when?"
Sam shrugged a little. "You were in the hospital. Dad…he worked me hard those
first few days, then one day I came home and he was drinking instead of waiting
with training stuff. He kissed me." Sam's hand brushed over his lips, his eyes
distant and hazy. "In the kitchen, called me Mary. I went to my room and hid.
He drank."
Sam laid back, his eyes closing, his face scrunching up. "It hurt. That first
time. I didn't understand and he…" Suddenly Sam curled up, rolling toward Dean,
his hands fisting in Dean's t-shirt and holding on so very tight that Dean
thought the material was going to rip. Sam's body shook as he sobbed silently
against Dean. "Why? Why did he do it Dean?"
Dean was shaking himself, filled with rage and guilt and anguish, but he clung
to Sam, held him close. "I don't know Sammy. I don't know."
 
Dean didn't ask about their father. Most of the time when he thought about him,
Dean still wanted to put a bullet in his brain. It was Sam who finally asked,
one night a few weeks after they'd ended up at Jim's place.
He just put his fork down and asked. "Is he still alive?"
Jim wiped his face and glanced at Dean. "Your father?"
Sam nodded. "I know Bobby went to find him."
"He's alive." Jim said. "He's had a rough time, and he's still in the hospital,
but he's alive."
Dean glowered at him. "He's still in the hospital?"
"You weren't ready to hear it." Jim offered as he stood to clear the plates.
"Still not." Dean responded, one hand brushing over Sam's. "Whatever his
problems, they're his and not ours."
"Dean, he's still Dad." Sam said, a note of anger in his voice.
"No, Sam. He's not."
Sam ignored him, pulled his hand away and under the table. "Is he…okay?"
Jim turned at the sink, leaning back against the counter, his eyes completely
on Sam as though Dean weren't there. "We're not sure yet. Physically he seems
to be out of the woods. The surgery went well."
"Surgery?" Dean crossed his arms and paced. He really didn't want to know. He
wanted to be angry. He wanted to hate the man for what he'd done.
"Your father had a pretty sizeable tumor in his brain, and it caused delusions
and aggressive behavior."
Sam swallowed and looked up at Dean, all big eyes and looking so young it was
hard to believe he was going to be 15 soon. "No Sam." Dean said, knowing his
brother was going to demand they go see him.
"We have to, Dean." Sam said.
"No, we don't."
"Does he know?" Sam asked. "What happened?"
Jim shook his head. "He has a lot of memory gaps. He's asked for you both a few
times. He says he knows he did something wrong, but he doesn't know what. He
knows Dean threatened to kill him for it."
"Bobby's still with him?" Sam wasn't going to let it go.
"Yes, Bobby's there."
"I want to see him."
 
"I want to see him." Dean didn't. Dean didn't want Sam to. What their father
did was unforgivable. Evil. He was a monster.
Dean paced the hallway outside the room where John Winchester waited. Sam had
stopped in the men's room down the hall. He was nervous and shaking and as far
as Dean was concerned that was further proof he wasn't ready for this.
But Sam was as stubborn and obsessive as their father and he wasn't going to
back down. Dean could be just as stubborn though and there was no way he was
letting his brother go near him alone.
Sam emerged from the bathroom, his hair a little damp around the edges like
he'd washed his face. "You okay?"
Sam nodded. "I threw up."
Dean exhaled and pulled Sam away from the door. "We don't have to do this. We
never have to see him again, Sam. Never."
There were tears in Sam's eyes, but he blinked them away. "No, everything I did
was to try to help him. He needs us, Dean."
Dean put his hands on Sam's shoulders and shook him a little. "Do you hear what
you're saying, Sam?"
"He didn't do it on purpose." Sam's voice was quiet, but solid. "I'm going in,
are you coming?"
Dean clenched his jaw and thought about refusing, about dragging Sam physically
out of the hospital and back to the car. But he knew Sam well enough to know
that was only going to postpone the inevitable. Sam would just find a way to
get here without him, and Dean wasn't going to let that happen.
"Fine. But he doesn't touch you. And you stay close. And we're not staying
long."
Sam nodded his agreement and Dean turned for the door. Bobby had already told
them what to expect, but that didn't ready Dean for what he found when he
pushed open the door.
His father sat on the bed, his head wrapped in white bandages, his face cleanly
shaved and pale. He seemed…smaller than Dean remembered, and the smile that lit
his face at the sight of Sam and Dean was strange to see, out of place. It made
Dean want to hit him.
Dean swallowed and nodded tightly. "Dean. Sam. You came."
Sam fidgeted next to him, not quite as sure as he'd been moments before. "Dad."
His voice cracked and their father's smile dimmed.
"I wasn't sure you would." He looked away, his hands wringing, then lifting to
rub at his head. "I know…I mean, I don't really…but Bobby said…" He shook his
head. "He said I hurt you."
Sam nodded, his eyes wide. "Yeah, you did." Sam's hand gripped Dean's wrist and
Dean couldn't helped the way his hands tightened into fists.
John rubbed his face. "Are you…" He looked like he might be sick. "Are you
okay?"
"No, he's not okay." Dean said darkly. Sam's hand tightened around his wrist.
"I'm fine, Dad." Sam said. He shuffled forward and Dean moved with him.
"I can't remember." John shifted on the bed. "I know I was having
these…headaches, and drinking…and I know we moved…but there are all these…black
holes. The doctor doesn't know if it'll ever come back."
"Maybe it's better that way." Sam said, moving still closer. Dean lifted his
other hand to stop him. "He's not going to hurt me."
"You promised." Dean said, his tone cold, his eyes on Sam not on his father.
"Dean?"
John was looking at him now though, looking for forgiveness, for acceptance.
Dean shook his head. "No." He didn't like the way his whole insides trembled
with anger. "No. You don't get to—" He bit off his words, his eyes flashing up
at his father. "Not after what I saw you do."
His face seemed paler, his eyes wide like Sam's. "Bobby told me it was bad…you
know I'd never hurt you boys."
"And yet, you did." Dean reigned in his fury as Sam's hand tightened. "You've
seen him, let's go."
"No." Sam let go of him. "It wasn't his fault. You can go if you want. I'm
staying."
"Like hell you are." Dean grabbed his shoulder and Sam pulled back, stumbling
back against the bed.
Dean saw it the minute their father's hand touched him, saw Sam's face dissolve
into a mask of fear and anguish. Sam jerked forward and away from him, into
Dean, turning them until he could get around him and bolt into the hallway.
"Sam!" John called after him, but Dean scowled, putting himself between and his
brother's disappearing back. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."
"Not good enough." Dean growled, crossing the few steps and taking a certain
pleasure in the way his father shrank away from him. "You don't get to touch
him. Ever."
He started to follow Sam, but stopped when his father's voice called his name,
cracking. Dean stopped, but didn't turn around. "What did I do?"
Dean stared out into the hall where Sam sat all huddled into himself, probably
feeling guilty that he'd reacted that way when he was the one pushing this
whole thing. Dean took a deep breath. They'd told them not to tell their
father. That he was fragile. That it could damage his recovery.
Right at that moment, Dean didn't care. He drew himself up, shut the door and
turned to face the man that had raised him, the man who had taught him to hunt
evil. "You want to know what you did, Dad? Fine. Let's start with your goddamn
obsession with that demon, dragging us around the country, dragging Sammy
around from town to town when all he wanted was something normal. The training,
the hunting, the ghost and demons and werewolves. When all the time the real
monster was living with us."
Dean moved toward the bed. "You were deluded long before that fucking tumor was
in your head. Hell, maybe it's all been delusion. Maybe all of it. I don't
know."
John held his fiery gaze. "Tell me what I did to Sam."
"You raped him." Dean said it cold and hard and simple. Just like that. He
watched his father shake his head, watched what little color he had drain from
his face. "You dressed him up in a fucking wig and nightgown and called him by
Mom's name and you fucked him. You told him that Mom was inside him, that she
wanted that, that it was good. And he went along with it because he thought he
was helping you. He thought you would get better. He never told anyone." Dean
was leaning over him now, spitting the words at him. "For a year. A goddamn
fucking year you did it to him, until I walked in on you and held a gun to your
head and told you to get the fuck out."
John broke the stare, deflated against the bed, his face wet with tears, his
hands quivering as he tried to reach for Dean. "I should have put a bullet in
your head."
John gasped for air, doubling over as Dean stepped back. "You won't see us
again. Do yourself a favor. Don't come looking."
Dean opened the door, pulling himself back from the edge of his anger as Sam
stood. "It's okay, Sam. Let's go."
Sam stared at their father's door for a long minute, then nodded. He followed
Dean out to the car. They were on the road for nearly twenty minutes before
Dean spoke. "You okay?"
Sam pulled his knees up, feet on the dashboard. "Yeah. I think so. I needed to
know…if I could…"
"And now?"
"You were right Dean. Can it be just you and me? Can we do that?"
Dean glanced at him and nodded. "No more hunting, Sam. No more running. Where
do you want to go?"
Sam inhaled deeply and stared at the road ahead of them. "Just drive for now.
Let's just get lost."
"Yeah, Sammy. We can do that."
Dean slipped on a pair of sunglasses and flipped on the radio. The Beatles
poured out of the speakers, a little more mellow than Dean wanted, but the song
fit the moment and he let it play.
 
Two of us riding nowhere
Spending someone's
Hard earned pay
Two of us Sunday driving
Not arriving
On our way back home
We're on our way home
We're on our way home
We're going home
Two of us sending postcards
Writing letters
On my wall
You and me burning matches
Lifting latches
On our way back home
We're on our way home
We're on our way home
We're going home
You and I have memories
Longer than the road that stretches out ahead
Two of us wearing raincoats
Standing so low
In the sun
You and me chasing paper
Getting nowhere
On our way back home
We're on our way home
We're on our way home
We're going home
You and I have memories
Longer than the road that stretches out ahead
Two of us wearing raincoats
Standing so low
In the sun
You and me chasing paper
Getting nowhere
On our way back home
We're on our way home
We're on our way home
We're going home
We're going home
Better believe it
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