Summary: They'd tried running; always moving, chasing one hunt after another, but it didn't help so they decided to stand still for a while. Even standing still doesn't help them run from their past.
Characters: Dean, Sam, Bobby, Castiel
Pairings: Dean/OFC
Disclaimer: Based on characters created by Eric Kripke, I play with them for fun not profit.
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Angst, drama, bdsm (incl knife-play), language, m/f, OC, descriptions of torture, violence; Spoilers for up to 5.14, My Bloody Valentine.

Prologue

The brutality of the attack was stunning.

One moment Dean was walking into the dim room and then he was down, hit across the back with a tire iron. A hard kick to the side of the head with heavy boots made sure he stayed down. He was sure something had gone crunch because his vision blurred and his motor control fizzed down to nada. That would have been bad enough, if that had been all of it, but it wasn't. His attacker took turns, using the iron on his chest and arms, and his boots to Dean's belly and legs, until bones cracked and blood ran and all his muscles felt like liquid pain that rolled in endless waves from one end of his body to the other.

"This is what you deserve. This is for everything." His attacker's voice came out of the blurry gloom. He recognized it and knew what this was about; knew that he deserved the beating but still didn't want it..

Dean threw up, moaning weakly. He looked at his attacker, standing nearly on top of him. He couldn't see him well but Dean could tell the guy was pretty happy with himself. It had been there in his voice. Oh Christ… this wasn't going to end well.

"Stop," Dean shouted although it came out as a whisper. "You don't want to do this."

He tried to squirm out of range, rolling slowly onto his belly and reaching out a hand to pull himself away. A large boot landed on his wrist and pressed down. Dean could feel the heavy tread leaving imprints on his bloated skin as it pushed and pushed… The snap of breaking bone was audible. The pain travelled up his arm like a freight train and knocked his breath away so that he couldn't even scream. He wished the guy would kick him a couple more times in the head and either knock him out or kill him. Either would be better than this.

Then it was back to tire iron and boots until, at some point, he couldn't think, didn't want to. His world was pain, fire and agony; his old familiar playgrounds.

The attacker looked down at Dean's body. It was an unrecognizable mass, bent, broken, and cracked open like a soft-cooked egg. It looked exactly like he'd wanted it to. He shifted his gaze to his silent companion who smiled at him in approval. "Now, didn't that feel good?" his companion asked in his soft, smooth voice.

"It felt damn good," Sam wiped the blood off his face and smiled back.

This is KMLS and my name is Luke, helping you start, a lazy Saturday morning.
Actually, most people are just getting home from the bars so maybe I'm helping you end your Friday.
Either way, since New Year's is the time for assessing and evaluating your life,
here's hoping 2010 brings you enlightenment and the resolutions you're looking for.

Sam woke up in the cheap motel bed. He was flat on his back, not standing over his brother's ruined body. His face was damp though so he put an anxious hand on it to check... It was clear, not red, so sweat, not blood.

Sam gulped in relief.

"Hey there, sunshine," Dean said from the darkness. "Bad dream?"

Sam looked over. Sure enough, Dean was at the tiny table, fully dressed with a bottle of beer in his hand, sitting in the dark as he often did these days. "Yeah," Sam finally managed. His voice was hoarse. "What time is it?"

Dean shrugged and took another swallow. "I dunno. Four, five… somewhere in there."

Sam sat up and rubbed shaking hands over his face, through his hair, trying to get that last image out of his brain. "Did you get any sleep at all?"

"Nah," Dean answered. "It was your turn to have the nightmare."

Sam almost laughed. Dean may have said it lightly but it was true. Neither one of them was sleeping great these days, not since they'd helped Martin out with the wraith. Being forced crazy had loosened up things inside both of them, things that were refusing to stay buried.

"Lucifer riding your ass?" Dean asked bluntly though not unkindly.

"I guess. Sorta" Sam flopped back down.

Quiet fell between the brothers. The only sound was the trucks on the highway and the clink of the beer bottle hitting the table, each lost in their own useless spiral of regrets and fears. Sam could still feel the 'zing' that had run up his arms when the tire iron had connected, when he'd hit hard enough to break skin and shatter bone. He'd been so angry. Again. Still. Forever and ever, Amen.

He sighed. "This isn't working, Dean," he finally said.

"What isn't?"

"This... what we're doing; chasing anything anywhere as long as it keeps us moving. I don't feel better or calmer or more focussed." He had to pause to gather enough courage to tell the truth. "I feel like a hard wind will make me shatter."

"Sam—"

"No, hear me out." Sam interrupted his brother's stock protest when the conversation became too 'girly'. "Even if we figure out a way to kill Lucifer—which we haven't—we're in no shape to face him... I'm in no shape to face him." That was as close as the younger man could come to saying what he really feared: that he'd give in, that he'd say 'yes' just because he didn't know who he was anymore—didn't know what he was.

"So what, then?" Dean growled out.

The idea was just there, like it had been sitting in his mind waiting for the opportunity to come out. "We've tried running and that hasn't worked. Maybe we should try staying still." He turned to look at his brother but Dean was hidden in the darkness. Sam knew he'd be frowning, though, lips pursed and one eyebrow up.

"Stay still?" he asked back. Sam grunted an affirmative. "Plant ourselves here in the motel?"

"Not here." God no, Sam thought but didn't say. Motels, hotels, inns and hostels; they were all he'd known growing up and they were, in a way, a symbol of just how effed up their lives were. "Let's go to Bobby's."

It was perfect. They'd still be connected to the network of hunters if something urgent came up or there was a new lead they could follow. Bobby was family—or as close as they had left aside from each other—and Bobby had a house, a real home. Suddenly Sam wanted that, wanted the stability of it; of having a fixed address, of coming home to the same place, the same walls, the same bed, even if it was just for a little while. Not for himself so much as for Dean. It used to be his dream but it wasn't anymore. Now, it was his brother's dream, buried and burning inside his soul, never admitted to, never voiced and that was too bad.

Dean had been a good hunter, maybe even a great one, but he was tired and had been even before Hell. These days, Sam could see the cracks in his older brother getting bigger and bigger and he was afraid that when Michael pushed Dean would break. Not because he was weak, but because he was weary of the fight and unable to deal with losing more people they cared about.

A break, to just be, could be enough to boost Dean's confidence out of the pit it had fallen into, might be enough to help Sam get a grip on his own emotions, so Sam held his breath and waited for his brother's response.

"For how long?"

It wasn't a yes, but it wasn't a rejection either. Sam let out his breath.

"Until we're ready to move again." He could see Dean playing with the beer bottle, turning it in small circles on the tabletop, thinking, considering.

"Okay," he finally said. It was firm and steady, like the older Winchester hadn't just turned their lives upside down. He snorted, taking another pull from the bottle. "Maybe Bobby's got something to ward off nightmares and we'll both get some sleep."

AN: There were two major inspirations for this story. One, Sam's revelation at the end of Sam, Interrupted. It was the first time he'd acknowledged that most of his anger was pointless and that it helped no one, especially not himself. I thought it was a big turning point for him and I'm sorry the writer's didn't (get a chance to) explore this futher. The second inspiration was hearing Everlast's cover of Johnny Cash's Folsom Prison Blues and having this instant picture in my head of how Dean would react. This is my attempt to blend these two, completely disparate ideas, into one entity. I hope you enjoy it. [25 Oct 2010]