unbetaed; title from bottom of the river by delta rae.
Deeks was twelve when his mother took him to the animal rescue.
He remembers it was summer, sweet and sticky, and camp didn't start for another week, so he tagged along with his mom to work. He didn't mind, however, because back then, Deeks wanted to be just like her-a veterinarian. She mostly saw cats and dogs, the occasional rabbit or bird, and Deeks loved them all. He'd help feed and groom them, even scrubbing cages down on his knees, blowing shaggy bangs out of his face.
His mom saw to bigger animals too, cows and horses and sheep, and Deeks came along when she was called out to a horse rescue. He followed her into the barn, past curious heads sticking out of stalls and big, bright eyes, dragging his feet in the hay dust to make it dance.
Deeks remembers, clear as day, that it was the second to last stall on the left.
The pony was small, lying on her side; he could count her ribs, if he had wanted, and her hip bones jutted out sharply. Her coat was like burnt toast, dark and charred and crumbling in certain places, the hair matted and spotted with sores. The hooves were tiny, cracked, and cloven; curving up like elf shoes, one slowly oozing pus and blood. There was a broad gash down one flank, badly scabbed over and painful looking, and her eyes were dull and lifeless. Every so often, her sickly thin sides would heave as she took a shallow, shuddering breath.
Deeks couldn't tear his eyes away, not even as the rescue owner explained to his mother that they had found her locked up and abandoned in an old shed by an obviously abusive owner, screaming to get out. She couldn't walk, wouldn't eat.
It was that moment in which Deeks saw her mouth.
It was torn in the corners, shredded and messy like grotesque clown paint. Her lips were crusted with a mixture of foam and blood. The result of a harsh bit and the heavy hand of an owner who knew exactly what he was doing, said the horse rescue lady, and Deeks-Deeks couldn't comprehend the horror of it, not then, not the ripped lips or ruined mouth.
But now? Now is a different story. Because now, he's tied down to a chair, his head thrown back and mouth forced open, the cold metal of some sort of contraption biting into his tongue. He gurgles out a "no", manages a "don't"-but he knows it's too late, because the moment he refused to talk had decided this. It wasn't because of Sam, not the slight shake of his head or the tears in his eyes or the tremble in his limbs, remnants of electricity; it wasn't because of the chlorine sting in his scraped knuckles, dragging him out of the pool and breathing life back into his lungs, because Deeks had never hated someone as much as he hated Sam right now.
It was because the very second he told them there were more agents on the case, she'd be in danger. The instant he admitted to not being alone, her life would be on the line-and Deeks just couldn't do it. He couldn't hurt Kensi. The day he found himself responsible for the bullet in her heart, he'd put one through his own head.
The bit in his mouth tightens, the whirl of the screw rasping. He gasps, shudders, clenches-
He screams.
Deeks' entire mind goes numb, blank of everything but the unearthly, piercing pain; he hears himself still yelling, still screaming as the drill bit embeds itself deeper in his jaw. He chokes as blood and bile fill his mouth, his throat; he wretches and the bit jerks, causing another static wave of pain to white out his vision.
Right before he blacks out, he remembers.
The pony had died three days later.