Author's Note: Thank you all so much for reading the first chapter. And an extra thank you to the ones who took the time to review. I believe I wrote back to all of you, unless you weren't signed in. But it's all good, I still read what you wrote and took what you said into consideration. Thank you for that. You don't understand how much I appreciate it.
Writing Fact About Me: I cannot write a chapter unless I'm listening to The Script. If you're familiar with them, this chapter was written to 'The Man Who Can't Be Moved.' and 'This Is Love'
Warning: Torture scenes (flashbacks)
Chapter Two:
They left the door swaying back and forth; left it defenseless against the heavy and raging winds outside. Eventually, it gave in and slammed shut on it's own. Neither John nor Dean looked back at the sudden noise.
Once inside, though, Dean was forced to walk backwards to the closest bed. He and his father kept their eyes glued on Sam; it was amazing that they even made it to the bed without really looking. If they would've tripped over something and Sam happened to fall, they would've surely lost it. They moved the best they could without going too fast. They were afraid that any sudden move would hurt Sam even more. Finally, Dean stood parallel to the bed. He have his father a quick little nod and they began to let Sam down easily.
"Careful...," John mumbled as his youngest son was lowered to the bed. Both he and Dean slipped their hands out from under him gently. Instantly, Dean sat on the bed next to him. He pressed both of has hands to the side of his brother's face and just held them there. John took a step to the side and caught a good glimpse of Dean's face when the lightning struck, illuminating the room a blueish-white color. He saw Dean's face turned sad. His eyes were near closed, open just enough for tears to slide out. Usually Dean kept his emotions under control, even in the worst of situations. It was unusual for him to breakdown this quickly and easily. This only gave John a worse feeling in his stomach.
Reaching his hand out, John pulled the lamp string and the room brightened slightly.
To his side, he heard Dean gasp slightly. When he looked over, John noticed that Dean had retracted his hands from Sam's face and he held them frozen just about him like he'd something something wrong. When John looked up a little, he saw Sam covered in more bruises then he and Dean both initially thought. He lay there in soaking wet clothes, torn, dirty and bloody. The side of his head had some type of gash on it. It bled freely and made a river of blood down the side of his face and his neck, it didn't stop until it came to the edge of his stretched out shirt collar. His lip was busted, it bled from a cut that was just off to the right of the center of his lip. The left side of his face had the most bruises. That only led John to come to the conclusion that whoever- - or whatever did this to Sam was dominantly right-handed. His left cheekbone was discolored, damn near purple. The blackening of the bruise and the blood mixing together to make it's color. The jacket that he had on when he was taken was removed - gone, probably left wherever he was kept. On his exposed arms were thin cuts, from what looked like a knife. Around his wrists were deep rope burns that had tore away at his skin and left ragged, harsh wounds. His knuckles were bloody, too. One was turned at an awkward angle. That proved that Sam put up one hell of a fight for as long as he could. Even though the sight of seeing his son like this was killing him, he smiled. He was proud. Sam never did give up. Letting his eyes continue, John took notice of Sam's ripped shirt and pants. By the size of it, they seemed to be from a whip of some sort. Whatever was used on him had to be strong enough to break through his shirt and the top layer of skin. Around his neck and from what he could see of Sam's chest there were markings on him. On his chest it looked like scratch marks of some sort. John squinted, trying to keep himself under control. With a more closer look, John realized that the black bracelet Sam usually wore on his right wrist was gone, but that made sense. It probably snapped and fell off during his struggle to defend himself. His belt and sneakers were gone, too. The button to his Jeans was gone. John swallowed hard. He didn't let himself think of anything. Figuring, it was likely that his cellphone was gone, too. Probably broken into a thousand pieces by his captor. Whenever John or Dean had called, it said his phone was disconnected.
"Oh my God," both he and Dean breathed in unison as John silently walked behind Dean. He placed a soft hand on his shoulder and gave it a slight squeeze. He didn't say anything. There wasn't anything to say. No words could fix this. Nothing they said would heal Sam.
Shrugging off his father's hand, Dean leaned forward. He pressed his hand to the side of his face again. Even though all three were soaking wet from being out in the rain, Dean and John had began to warm up. But when Dean's hand came into contact with Sam, his temperature shocked him. Sam was freezing, his body shook uncontrollably. As soft as he could, Dean tapped his face. He didn't want to cause him any pain; but more than anything he just wanted Sam to wake up.
"Sammy?" he called, trying to get any type of reaction he could out of him. But he got nothing in return. Not a twitch of the hand or anything. Sam was still, deadly still. They could barely tell when he took a breath. Trying a few more times, Dean called his name. Nothing happened. John pulled on Dean's damp shirt and brought him to his feet.
He pointed to the bathroom across the cabin. "Go run the water in the bath. We can't keep him like this..." he commanded gently as he replaced Dean's spot on the bed beside Sam. He didn't say anything or try to wake him. He could tell that it was a lost cause right now. Instead, he took hold of his hand and rubbed it gently; with the other, he carded through his hair and tried to give him as much comfort as he could at moment. During this time, he had time to think. Think about how he was foolish enough to let Sam out of his sight. How much he'd like to get his hands on whoever dared to touch his son, let alone do this to him. Obviously, they didn't know they picked the wrong kid. They picked a Winchester: their first mistake. He went into deeper thought. His hand fell into a rhythm as he stroked the side of Sam's head. Through all the bumps and bruises, John couldn't help but smirk a little. Yes, Sam was only seventeen, but in this moment, John could've sworn he was seven again. Both he and Dean got that look on their face when they were asleep that literally took years off. John sighed. He scanned Sam again and shook his head, disappointment and anger in himself coming to the surface. Leaning forward, he pressed his forehead to Sam's and whispered, "I'm so sorry, son. I'm gonna fix this. I promise."
- Mind's Eye-
Teamwork was always something the Winchesters seemed to do well. And that's just what they needed right now. It took both John and Dean to carry Sam into the bathroom. John had sat on the toilet with Sam in his arms as if he were a small child. Both he and Dean moved gently as they took off all his layers as softly as they could without hurting him. Once his shirt was off, they uncovered more signs of just what type of hell Sam had gone through. Covering his torso were not only the whip-like bruising John had spotted earlier but other marks that were scattered. They looked like they came from a bat or a pipe, something of that sort. John swallowed hard and his eyes met Deans. Both were overwhelmed at this point. But they kept going.
Finally, they got Sam into the water and it almost instantly changed color. The dirt and the blood dissolving off of Sam and mixed in with the water. Moving to the side of the tub, John held Sam's arm, making sure he didn't go under while Dean took off as much dirt and cleaned the wounds as much as he could before they both had to patch and stitch up as much as they could.
"I just don't get it," Dean mumbled was he wiped the wash cloth across Sam's neck and down his arm.
John cleared his throat and brought his eyes to Dean.
"Get what?"
There was silence for a moment before Dean answered with, "Who would do this to Sam? What did he ever do to anyone?"
"It's not Sam's fault," John answered.
Dean nodded. " I know that. I don't care who he happened to piss off. He didn't deserve this. But still... it makes you wonder. I mean, who would do this to him?"
John shrugged.
"I've been wondering the same thing since the moment he was taken," John's voice was flat and steady, his emotions on such an overload that he suddenly felt nothing at all. He looked down at Sam again. His head leaned to the side and rested on John's knee. Still his eyes remained closed and he hasn't moved a muscle yet. That scared both of them more then they said or let on.
Dean dunked the washcloth under the water, swam it around, then brought it back to Sam's skin.
"Yeah but to do this? I mean, beating him up is one thing. Or maybe even taking him for money. But this, this was..."
"Torture," John finished his sentence. His voice was harsh and low. He hated saying it, but there was no going around it. It was apparent.
Dean stood from off his knees. "Doesn't matter. I don't care who it is, I'm gonna kill him."
"Not if I kill them first," John contradicted after a second of pure silence.
Both he and Dean's eyes bet again, and they smiled.
- Mind's Eye-
Dean pressed his hands to the top of Sam's back, keeping him in the sitting position as their father wrapped cloth strips around Sam's midsection and then kept them in place with athletic tape they held in their first aid kit. Just minutes before, they had cleaned as many of his cuts as they could find. John had stitched the one of the side of his head and taped a gauze over it to try to keep infection out as much as possible. He had done the same thing for his wrists.
Once he was finished, he had given Dean a nod and they laid Sam down on the bed gently. They pulled the blanket up to his chest. Dean took a seat right next to him, looking down at him with remorse and helplessness. There was nothing else they could do.
By now it was near the next day, probably close to two o'clock in the morning. But still, the storm went strong. The heavy rain could still be heard shoot from the storm clouds and slamming against the dirt.
John stood and went over to the side of the bed that Dean was sitting.
"You should try to get some sleep, okay?" he says to his son.
Dean looks up at him. "I can't sleep; I know I can't."
John sighed slightly, then gave in, knowing he was in the same position.
"Yeah me either."
Dean shrugged.
"I guess it's just another one of those sleepless nights, then," he said softly, then turned all his attention back to Sam as he waited impatiently for his brother to wake.
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