Sam longed to go home.
He watched through slitted eyes as Dean scraped away at the bars. He checked his watch, then checked it again. It would've been dinnertime, had he been home. Dinner meant packages of Doritos, Wonder Bread sandwiches, or a bowl of microwave mac n' cheese. His mouth salivated. Anything but cake. Anything but that God-awful, sugary-sweet birthday cake.
"Sammy? You still alive over there?" Dean asked in a stage-whisper.
Sam mumbled in response.
"You ever think that packing on the pounds might be a good idea?" Dean continued.
Sam scrambled to a sitting position, wincing as a sharp pain rocketed through his spine. "No!" he answered.
The scraping paused. "They'd take us away, and we might have a chance at stopping them. Pound their asses straight to hell."
Sam cracked a smile. "Right where they belong."
Dean chuckled. "Right, Sammy. You're right. Right where they belong. But," he added gently, crouching down, "we need to get our strength up. We need to stand a chance."
Sam's eyes fluttered shut. He tried ignoring the hollowness in his belly, the way it protruded over the lip of his pants, swollen from starvation.
"I never thought of it that way," he said eventually.
Dean grinned. "Because you didn't have me."
Sam shot him a pointed look, eyes wide and wet to the point of glassiness, and they fixated on his brother with such an intense gaze, it was hard for Dean to not turn away.
"Yeah," Sam said bitterly. A spark caught in his eyes, then fizzled to a wisp of defeated gray smoke.
Suddenly, one of the prisoners let out a shriek. The others followed, groaning, wailing, and Dean leapt to his feet. Far off, the door opened. Quietly, Dean picked his way across the cage and looked out.
And so they came.
Dean gritted his teeth.
Dinnertime.
In the clowns pranced in a calliope of bells and singing, running their fingers over the bars. They peered into the eyes of the boys, licking their black lips.
By the time Dean realized what was happening, it was too late.
One particularly large clown produced a key and shoved it into the lock of the cage next to theirs. It was like a bomb went off. Its occupants heaved their way to the corners, covering their faces with their hands, shaking their heads and moaning "Oh, no, no, no, no, no!"
Eerily silent, the clowns enveloped them in a ring. One of the boys scrambled to the edge of the cage, right next to Sam, and grabbed hold of Sam's arm.
"Help me!" the kid screamed. "It ain't fair, it ain't fair, it ain't—" Dean acted quickly, prying the fat fingers off his brother. The two watched in slack-jawed horror as the next events took place.
Sam would later recall that this was the scene that would keep him awake at night for years to come; Dean would later say that even a seasoned hunter wouldn't have been prepared to see what they saw.
The boys were being eaten alive.
The clowns were quick in their work, if not brutal. For once, Sam didn't mind when Dean shoved his palm over his eyes, because some sick part of him couldn't help but watch. Still, he could see shadows through the cracks of Dean's fingers, hear the sound of bones cracking, the agonized screams.
"I wish—I wish I were home," Sam murmured. "With you. And Mom. And Dad." Dean caught a glimpse of teeth in his brother's grimace. Another loud cracking noise caused both brothers to flinch.
A kick of sorrow punctured Dean in the heart. It wasn't fair. God, it wasn't ever fair.
Why was Sam so young? Why did he have to look so little, so childlike, cocooned in the crook of Dean's elbow, shivering like an animal caught in the snow? Why did he have to see the things he did at such a young age, causing him to lose his innocence before he could even toddle?
"I know it's hard," Dean said, "but could you try not to listen? To what they're doing over there?"
Sam batted Dean's hand away from his eyes, then fixed him with a look much older than his fourteen years. "Could you?"
Dean smiled. It took effort, muscles screaming in complaint, but he reached over, cuffing Sam's ear. "It's a deal."
"What's that song Mom used to sing to us? When we were real little?" Sam asked. They turned their backs to the scene, holding each other, because both brothers at that moment felt very young, very small, very scared. Their stomachs growled, minds heavy from sleeplessness, skin itchy from the dirt.
Dean hummed the tune to Hey Jude. "Sound familiar?" he asked.
Sam nodded. And then, timidly, he asked, "Could you sing it?"
"Yeah, bud. I'll sing it." Dean was too tired to make a joke about his crappy singing voice. He sang on and off for over an hour, until the screams died away, until the clowns quit their jeering, until the cell doors clanged shut and the prisoners were finally left alone. Sam quit his shaking after drifting off into a tangled sleep. Dean released a shudder.
It was over.
He chanced a glance over his shoulder. He couldn't see much, just formless shapes and a mess of buzzing flies.
"Don't you worry, Sam," Dean murmured into his brother's hair, trying to keep his voice light. "We're gonna hurt them, me and you. We're gonna hurt them, and we're gonna kill them."
Sam was a dead weight in his sleep. Dean concentrated on his brother's even breaths, grateful to finally be here and awake.
What had Sam seen while he was out? What had set that animalistic terror to his eyes, what had caused the bruises along his skin?
Dean bit his lip and settled down as best he could.
That was a story for another time.
For now, all they could do was sleep.
A/N I'm back again. Thanks to everyone for your awesome feedback. As always, I love hearing how I'm doing, so don't forget to leave a review! Happy summer! :)