Chapter Notes:

Thank you guys so much for your kind reviews! I imagine it's almost hard to like a story like this because it's so... well... disturbing in parts. But in the end it's supposed to be about brotherly love and family. I thought my muse was done with torturing Dean, but apparently she's a really sick mofo. But don't worry -- the scene coming up is more like a warning. Therefore...

WARNING: This chapter contains torture and rape of a minor.


Chapter 4

The room fell into uncomfortable silence for a full sixty second count, and then Sam did what felt natural: he embraced his brother in a much-needed hug. The blonde teen seemed taken aback, momentarily stunned at first, but then leaned into the embrace and hugged back, squeezing fiercely as if he feared the figure in his arms was merely a specter that would dissolve and disappear if he closed his eyes. He breathed deep, savouring the chlorine scent on his baby brother's skin, the baby brother who was real flesh and bone, a dream come true borne in the midst of a living nightmare.

"I can't believe you're really here," Dean whispered into his hair as he clung with all the desperation of a drowning man. "You're really here..."

Sam didn't reply, but merely squeezed harder as well, returning the hug with a deep intense need to convey something – he wasn't sure what – that would let this stranger who wasn't a stranger know that this was right, that this was just as it should be. Sam might not know his brother, but he knew intuitively what he needed. He knew that his brother needed him, right now. His brother needed him so badly he was shaking.

"Dean?" he asked tentatively, pulling away from the embrace to look into his big brother's eyes. And they were big and green, with long full lashes and Sam smiled because there was another piece of the puzzle falling into place. He remembered those eyes.

"I'm okay, Sammy," Dean said with a hitching breath. His eyes were kind of red and watery and Sam spotted a renegade tear slipping off of his chin even though he'd already tried to wipe it away. He sniffed and seemed to gather himself up. "How about you? Are you okay? They treatin' you okay?"

He patted his baby brother's arms and back and scrutinized him like a mother-hen taking count of her eggs.

Sam nodded. He wasn't really sure what he should be saying, and the way his brother was looking at him like he was the most wonderful, precious thing in the whole world, he figured he should be saying something. Maybe he could ask questions instead.

"Are you visiting New York with your family?" he asked. "Is that why you're staying in the hotel? Like us?"

Dean sighed wearily.

"No, Sammy. I live in Queens. I'm just... uh, visiting someone."

Sam didn't miss the way Dean's eyes flicked towards his Mom and Dad before flicking back to him. He was lying.

"Was it the person who was chasing you?" Sam asked. "The bad man?"

Dean looked kind of scared when Sam mentioned the man, but he covered it up quickly, licking his lips nervously and then smiling a shy smile that was almost convincing. It would have been convincing but for the horrible nagging feeling in Sam's gut.

"Nah," Dean said, relaxed and self-assured. "Think I bonked myself on the head pretty hard earlier and convinced myself that the boogie man was after me or something. There's no bad man, Sammy. You're safe."

Sam sighed, trying not to be annoyed. He understood that he'd been four the last time his big brother had seen him, but he wasn't four now. Dean was talking to him as if he expected him to still be wearing diapers or something.

"I'm not scared for me, Dean," Sam chided.

Dean just grinned, sloppy and silly and so obviously distracted, clearly not paying attention to Sam's concerns about him. He patted Sam's head affectionately, running his fingers through the shaggy mop and brushing a stray lock out of Sam's eyes.

"You're gettin' tall, little man," he said affectionately. "God you were like, freakin' tiny the last time I saw you."

Sam smiled at the warmth and love in his brother's eyes, which were so full of hope and relief and genuine gladness that it was breathtaking, overwhelming, even for a ten year-old.

"Dean," Mrs. Wesley spoke up tentatively. "Can you tell us what you're doing here?"

Dean almost seemed startled by her voice, as though he'd forgotten there was anyone else in the room but his brother.

"Visiting a friend who works here cleaning rooms," he lied seamlessly.

"I see," she said somberly.

"And the man?" Mr. Wesley prompted.

"What man?" He was blonde. Playing dumb was so easy, especially if he blinked slowly and squinted in confusion.

"The man you told my son was after you," Mr. Wesley said patiently.

Dean feigned ignorance.

"You said he was going to kill you."

"Really?" Looking into the distance and pursing his lips as if trying to dig through his memory. "I said that?" Laying it on thick. "Wow. I must have been really out of it." And he rolled his eyes in a wide loop in his head, imitating craziness or whacked-out trippiness.

"So your family lives in Queens, Dean?" Mrs. Wesley pressed. The boy turned cold eyes on her, his jaw flexing before he replied.

"All the family I have in the world is in this room, Mrs. Wesley." He said her name as if it were a dirty thing scuffed from underneath his boots, the corner of his pert mouth turning up into a sneer.

"Then how do you live?" Sam asked, baffled. Whenever he dreamed about the brother he always knew he had, he dreamed of him living with a family like his, with a mother and father to love him and with a younger sister to drive him nuts. He'd always pictured him with people around him who loved him, people who Sam could be jealous of for having his brother around when he didn't, for loving his brother when he was Sam's brother. It made him feel cold inside to think that maybe his brother didn't have a family at all. How could he not have a family like the Wesleys? Who took care of him then?

"Take it easy, Sammy," Dean replied, patting his shoulder to reassure him. "I live with a friend. It's cool."

"Is his name John?" Mr. Wesley asked delicately.

"No," Dean snapped. "His name's Vinnie. Are we done with the twenty questions? I haven't seen my brother in five fuckin' years and I'd kind of like to share a moment with him. If that's okay with you."

Dean couldn't help being smug at the matching expressions of shock on the Wesleys' faces. Served them right for taking his brother away from him, the yuppie assholes. The truth was he was desperate to spend this time with Sammy, drinking up every second like precious drops of water in the desert. How long would they let him loiter in their room, he wondered? An hour, maybe two? Sooner or later they'd be sending him on his way, and the very idea of walking out that door and away from Sam was just unfathomable.

He was this close to begging them to take him with them, back to wherever it was they came from. Not that he gave half a rat's ass about the Wesleys – they could go fuck themselves for all he cared – but they were Sam's family now and being near Sam meant being near them. It wasn't as if he could say, "Great! Thanks for bringing my brother back to me. You can go now!" (much as he'd like to). Even if they were crazy enough to let him keep Sam, which they weren't, he'd have nowhere to take the kid. Dean himself didn't really have a proper place to call his own, certainly nowhere safe enough to take Sam. And he wouldn't want Sam anywhere near his unwholesome life. The kid was clean, pure, innocent. He didn't belong anywhere near the filth that Dean had touched, had crawled around in and made a life of.

So that left begging to be taken with them. Because now that he had Sam within his sights, he couldn't let him go. He couldn't. When this trip for the Wesleys was over, they'd be checking out of this glitzy hotel and would be returning back to the life they came from. They'd be taking Sam away and Dean would probably never find him again. Deep down Dean knew he probably wouldn't live long enough to find Sammy again.

"Can he come with us?" Sam suddenly asked, seeming to read his brother's mind. "Since he doesn't have a family of his own, he can join ours!"

Ah yes. Sweet, simple, ten year-old child logic. Dean loved it.

"Sam..." Mr. Wesley said, his voice soft but weary, laced with regret.

Big, fat, resounding no, then.

"Dean's got a life here," the man went on to explain. "School and friends... You wouldn't want to take him away from all that, would you?"

Shows how much you know, Dean thought bitterly. School and friends? I wish! Turns out runaway kids who are nabbed off the streets and forced into prostitution at age eleven don't really get an education. They're the ones who fall through the cracks and get left behind to drown in their own destitution. Their misery is the tar pit that drags them under, allowing no hope of escape.

But Sam was like a dog with a bone. He nodded vigorously, so keen on his idea to adopt his big brother into this Brady clan that he wasn't willing to let it go so easily.

"He'll make new friends," Sam said simply, shrugging.

"Sam..."

"You know what, don't do me any favours," Dean said, his voice laced with bitterness. Hearing any more of the man's protests might just kill what little traces of pride Dean had left. Though why Dean should be worrying about his pride now, when he was so desperate to be with his brother it took everything in him not to cry like a freakin' girl, was beyond him. He figured he must be channeling his inner John Winchester. Oh well, Dean thought. At least I come by it honestly.

"Well why don't you at least stay the night," Mrs. Wesley suggested as a peace offering. "Give you boys a chance to catch up."

"Okay." Dean's reply was instant, immediate, too eager to be anything less than desperate. But he'd take what he could get.

One night with Sammy, to bond with him and get to know him again, to find out what kinds of things the little runt liked to do. Maybe it would be enough. Or maybe I'll just follow them back to wherever they're going and set up shop there instead, he thought. Because his options in New York were looking grim. Going back to Vinnie's at this point would surely be suicide. He'd officially screwed his new pimp-daddy over by bailing on the weekend trick and leaving Vinnie high and dry. If he dared show his face in that apartment again Vinnie wouldn't bother showing restraint – he'd kill Dean. Might feel like shit for it afterwards, but Dean doubted it. And there was also the potential psycho-killer John to worry about. Now it was possible the guy just had his weird sexual quirks and maybe Dean had overreacted in assuming that he was some kind of axe murderer. But again, Dean doubted it. His gut had told him to run before he'd discovered the bag of lethal goodies, when he'd noticed the John pushing him to drink the champagne a little too insistently. And the roofied champagne was another pretty damning piece of evidence. What the hell was the point in drugging a kid who was guaranteed to be compliant because he'd already been bought and paid for? Unless, of course, he had plans that were more sinister.

So basically Dean was screwed. If he'd called Vinnie to tell him what's what about the John as soon as he'd made his escape there might have been hope for him. But now that was shot all to hell. And honestly, Dean suspected now might be the time to cut his losses and break free of the surly bastard anyway. His mood swings were getting worse and his outbursts disturbingly more violent and traumatic. If Dean wasn't careful he'd end up getting on the wrong side of him and end up with his brains bashed in – which is what almost happened less than two weeks ago.

So one night with Sammy and then... Dean guessed he'd just cross that bridge when he came to it (or maybe burn it down).

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The Winchester boys were left entirely to their own devices with the spacious double room to themselves for the night. Suzie would be sleeping with the parents so that Sam and Dean could have some privacy. Dean had to grudgingly admit that the Wesleys weren't entirely possessed by Satan. Maybe only partially.

Sammy was a real talker, which was great, because Dean didn't really have much to share. The kid was into all sorts of things: soccer, video games, movies, school, drama club, Tae Kwon Do. He talked about his best friend Jason and Jason's older sister Shelly (on whom Dean suspected his little brother had a major crush), and about the schoolyard bullies and about his favourite teacher. He talked about his little sister and how much she bugged the crap out of him, even though he really loved her most of the time, and about their house and their pool and how hot it gets in Phoenix, and had Dean ever been to Phoenix? And about Christmas at his grandparents' house and all the cousins and second cousins who came to the reunions. Dean listened in rapt attention, eating up every word with wide, bright eyes. He could listen to his little brother talk forever.

When they got hungry they ordered room service and watched a movie on the big screen TV. Dean wasn't really paying attention, opting instead to watch his little brother, relishing in the way his cheeks dimpled when he laughed or his eyes lit up when the plot in the story twisted in a direction he hadn't expected. Now that he was getting older Dean could see the similarities between Sam and their Dad. They both had the same dark eyes, though Sammy's were more hazel and would probably turn greener when he got older like Dean's had. And Sammy's hair was lighter too, not black like Dad's. Still, there was something about the intensity of their gazes that was so strikingly similar, the brightness of their smiles. Dad wasn't big on smiling, but when he did he could light up a room. Dean wondered if his Dad ever had reason to smile these days, being in jail and all. Probably not.

Inevitably the conversation turned to their family. Sam wanted to know where they came from, what had happened to their parents, and how Dean had ended up in New York. It was a difficult string of questions to answer because Dean didn't want to upset him. They only had the one night together – would it really be worth it to tell him that their father was in jail, on death row, for killing six people? Since he couldn't very well tell the kid that those people were in fact werewolves who had reverted to their human forms when Dad shot them through the heart, it was probably not the best idea to go with the truth.

He did tell Sam about the fire in Lawrence, omitting the detail that their mother had died on the ceiling at the hands of some supernatural sonofabitch. He opted for a partial lie regarding their Dad, claiming that John was in jail for manslaughter – killed a rapist he caught in the act. Of course, then he'd had to explain what a rapist was, to his extreme mortification and horror. And as for himself? Well he'd just flat out lied.

"I lived a few years with a family in Connecticut," he said. "They were real great. We'd take trips to Yew York every Christmas and go skating in Central Park." His bullshitting skills were astounding. "That's how I met Vinnie. Stayed on with him to be like an apprentice."

"What does he do?"

"He's an electrician." In another life Dean would have been on the stage, or maybe been a politician.

"So you don't wanna go to college?" Sam queried.

Dean actually snorted a laugh.

"Hell no!" He'd never really liked school so it wasn't a lie. "I'm the handsome Winchester. Looks like you got all the book smarts, Sammy." He grinned and ruffled his little brother's shaggy hair.

"Do you have a girlfriend?" Sam asked, and he looked so young and sheepish and curious and cute that Dean had to fight not to laugh.

"Not right now, runt," he admitted. Though I do live with a fat ugly pig who likes to fuck me sideways, he thought bitterly. "Can't be tied down to one chick when there are so many to choose from..."

Sam rolled his eyes but was clearly in awe of his big brother, who he was certain lived a very exciting and glamorous life in New York City.

It felt so natural to be sitting here chatting with Sam, falling into teasing each other as if they hadn't been separated for the past five years. Dean got the feeling that Sam was itching to have his big brother in his life and suspected he'd even trade in the little sister if given the chance. Right now Dean thought he'd sell his soul to be able to be with his brother again, to have him in his life every day like real brothers were supposed to. The very idea of getting up in the morning and leaving him made him ache.

All too soon the time passed, evening bleeding into night. They both would have preferred to stay up all night so that they could squeeze every last second out of their time together, but eventually Sam succumbed to sleep as his head sagged and his eyes dropped. Dean settled his baby brother under the blankets and smoothed his hair away from his forehead, allowing himself a token big brother kiss on the forehead because there was no telling when they'd see each other again.

Then he took a seat on the opposite bed and watched the steady rising and falling of Sam's breathing, toppling over with exhaustion himself a little after three am.

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Dean is being very cautious. He moves stealthily on socked feet, sneakers in hand, his head swiveling left to right to check that the coast is clear before stepping out of the elevator into the parking garage to make his escape. Everything appears to be clear. Heaving a sigh of relief, he drops his shoes onto the cold concrete and slips his feet inside.

He doesn't even see the dark figure looming up behind him, doesn't even hear his quiet steps, until a hand materializes from the gloom and presses a white cloth to his mouth and nose, pinning him in place until he goes limp.

Everything fades to darkness.

Flashes of light in fast-forward motion, new images and sounds stabbing at his brain. A room: large four-poster king sized bed with a nightstand, crystal fluted glass with partially-drunk champagne. Dean bound and gagged on the bed, his arms and legs spread wide in thick restraints tied to the four gleaming bedposts. His eyes are wild with fear and he's tugging frantically at the restraints as they cut into his pale flesh. Sam can hear him whimpering through the gag, can hear his frantic breaths, can feel his heartbeat pounding a furious rhythm in his chest.

Fast-forward flashes: the dark figure emerges from the bathroom, all slick skin and raw energy. Dean writhes frantically, sees the man approaching and screams something inaudible through the fabric in his mouth. His eyes are filled with hate and unshed tears that pool and clump his long lashes.

A knife. It makes short work of Dean's shirt, slicing through with quick flicks of the wrist, so sharp it glides like a pearl slithering down fresh-spun silk. Dean renews his frantic squirming when hands invade his flesh, caressing and teasing and making him shudder with fear and revulsion.

Sam wishes he could look away when the man climbs onto the bed and wrestles with his brother's jeans, pulling them down his slender hips with no resistance because his captive is bound, but he can't look away. He's trapped in this nightmare, forced to bear witness to the violation. The man turns, releases the clasp that ties Dean's left leg in place, forces the jeans and boxer shorts off the leg amidst frantic kicks to his face and torso, which he ignores as though made of stone. He refastens the leg when the jeans are free and repeats the process with the other leg.

Dean is crying when the man climbs on top of his now naked body, salty tears trailing from the corner of his eyes and pooling in his ears. His muffled screams fall on deaf ears as the man bucks, and Dean's head throws back into the pillow, his eyes rolling back in their sockets as a deep, soulful moan of agony tears from his throat. Sam trembles and can do nothing as the man moves inside of Dean, digging his fingers into Dean's hips to hold him in place.

Flash-forward: the man is holding something silver in his hands. At first Sam thinks it's a knife, but it looks too rounded, too solid, like a large, silver sausage. It would be funny except Dean's staring at it as though it is poison. The man is holding it over a lighter, warming it in the flame, making it orange and hot. He heats it until it glows like a light saber and then lowers it between Dean's legs. Dean screams himself hoarse but no one hears it, his wrists and ankles bloodied from the friction of his desperate and futile struggles.

The man laughs.

Flash-forward: Dean's eyes are glassy, lids heavy and drooping, sweat and tears glistening on his face, which is slack with exhaustion. He's trembling in shock, his head lolling listlessly from side to side, like a rudderless ship with no direction. The man is a shadow of death, his hand poised over Dean's head in final benediction. He removes the gag, running a gentle finger along Dean's tear-stained face.

"So beautiful..." the man whispers.

Dean is bruised from head to toe, large marks purpling his stark white skin like an abstract painting. His eyes are dark like a burglar's mask and his lips are white from being stretched in the gag. He's shaking uncontrollably, strange marks that look like burns and crisscrossing cuts mar the canvas of his milk white skin. The man unties his right hand slowly, ceremoniously, and then his left. He lifts Dean's torso from the bed and holds his trembling frame to his chest.

"You've been a good boy," the man coos, patting the back of Dean's head. "You screamed just how I knew you would."

And Dean's shaking and crying into the man's shoulder.

"Please don't... h-hurt me anymore," his brother begs brokenly. "Won't... r-run away... again."

"Shhhh... It's all over now."

And the man pulls away from the perverse embrace, sliding behind Dean on the bed as he hiccups through the last of his sobs. The blue paisley necktie glides around the ashen flesh and Dean gasps and flails, falling back against the bare chest of the monster as he tightens his grip and strangles him. The sounds of Dean's choking stab through Sam's brain, staccato gasps that abruptly end as Dean taps uselessly at his assailant's shoulder: the universal sign for 'Stop Now."

The room shifts: Sam can see Dean through the monster's eyes, watching as the broken figure against him stills its feeble attempts, goes limp and slack, limbs fall useless and lifeless on the bed. The light in Dean's green eyes goes dark, the last vestiges of tears shaking loose as the killer releases his hold. Slides out from beneath the mannequin that was once Dean Winchester. Eases the body back onto the bed.

Showers. Hums a tune Sam doesn't recognize. Packs his bags with the view of naked, abused flesh bereft of life in his peripheral vision.

Leaves.

Sam gasps awake screaming and sobbing for his brother.

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The scream was so loud and shrill it pierced the night. Dean jerked awake, jack-knifing into a sitting position and stumbling onto the floor in a frantic scramble to get his bearings. He could just make out the trembling form of Sam in the next bed where he sat screaming Dean's name, sobbing helplessly and without fear of recrimination. His eyes were squeezed shut tightly, his still-chubby fists gripping the sheets as he called out to his big brother in utter desperation.

"Sammy!" Dean cried, flying to his brother's bedside and gripping his shoulders tightly.

A quick glance revealed that everything was where it should be: no bruises, cuts, or visible physical signs of distress. Just a nightmare, albeit a doozie.

"Sammy!" Dean repeated, more insistently this time. "I'm here, buddy! I'm here!" He pulled his little brother close to still the trembling, hoping to snap him out of the nightmare. The kid was absolutely wrecked with terror.

"What's going on?" Mr. Wesley demanded amidst the thunder of feet as the entire Wesley clan barged into the adjoining room. "What happened?"

"Dean!" Sam sobbed, clinging to his brother's t-shirt with desperate need. "No! No-no-no, Dean!"

"I'm here, Sammy!" Dean soothed, rocking his little brother back and forth and rubbing soothing circles down his back, like their Mom used to do when Dean was little and would wake up from a nightmare. "Everything's okay. I'm right here."

Mrs. Wesley rushed towards the bed, intent on swooping in to calm her weeping child, but Dean held her off with a death glare.

"Nooooo, Dean!" Sam continued to sob, his whole frame shaking as he choked on his tears, hiccupping like a drunkard and gasping for air. It was starting to really freak Dean out, seeing his brother so terrified and heartbroken.

"Sam!" Dean cried, doing his best John Winchester imitation as he gripped his brother's shoulders and giving him a gentle yet firm shake. "Snap out of it! It was just a dream!"

Sam hitched a breath and hiccupped, then froze, wild glistening eyes locking on his brother's. He seemed to stare at Dean's eyes in awe, the yet-to-be-shed tears jiggling like jello in his eyes as he gaped at his brother without blinking. Then his face positively crumbled as he began to sob with more gusto, diving into his brother's embrace again and burying his face in his neck.

"I don't want you to die!" he sobbed. "He's gonna kill you you can't die please don't leave he's gonna kill you Dean please don't die!" he sobbed, not pausing for breath between his broken pleading, his words melting into each other.

"Dude!" Dean said. "I'm okay. Look at me, Sammy. I'm okay. Look at me."

And Sam did. He lifted his shaggy-haired head and peered up at his brother, seeing the living flesh and blood and bone, seeing the not-dead eyes, the not-bruised face, the not-strangled brother looming large as legend in living colour inches from his face. And he calmed. The trembling subsided, the sobbing quieted, but the tears kept up their pace in a steady trickle down his dimpled cheeks.

"Oh Dean, it was so awful!" he whispered. "I saw... I saw him take you! And he hurt you... and then he... he... he killed you!"

"Nobody killed me, Sammy," Dean assured him, holding him close. "I'm right here. See? I'm right here. Nobody hurt me."

Sam nodded into his shoulder and sniffed loudly.

It was strange and awe-inspiring for the Wesleys to witness the open affection between the two brothers. Suzie was simply perplexed and terrified, her big brother's fear morphing into her own to the point that she was sobbing as she clung to her mother's pajama-clad leg. Jane and Peter were dumbstruck, having thought the bond between the brothers would have been severed, since Sam didn't seem to remember Dean at all.

But that was obviously not the case. Time may have washed away the details of the memories of Dean, but that Winchester boy was deeply etched into his little brother's heart. Their hearts were intertwined, and both Wesley parents felt most keenly the disservice they'd done them in separating them five years ago. It was plain to anyone with eyes and half a brain that Dean Winchester lived and breathed for his little brother. He seemed to come alive with purpose when Sam was in the room – and especially when Sam needed him. And Sam, intuitive little child that he was, seemed to be tied inextricably to his brother, sensitive to his needs and feelings in spite of the fact that he had almost no memory of him whatsoever. The bond between them was undoubtedly unbreakable.

"I need to talk to my Mom and Dad," Sam suddenly announced, pulling away from his brother's embrace.

Dean froze, his eyes dimming, and then checked himself, pulled up a mask and secured it firmly in place on his handsome young face. He looked relaxed, at ease, self-assured, when only seconds prior he'd looked devastated, afraid, unsure. The kid's features could be carved out of stone for how perfectly flawless they were, and if Jane hadn't seen the weakness before the mask came in place she wouldn't have known it was a mask at all.

"Sure thing," he said, breezy, confident, reassuring. "You know where to find me."

Sam nodded and got up on slightly wobbly legs, following his Mom and Dad into his parents' room and closing the door behind him before Suzie could join in.

"Dean's coming with us," Sam announced without preamble.

"What?" both Wesleys exclaimed in unison.

"Dean's coming with us," Sam repeated firmly. No room for arguments. "To Phoenix. He's coming with us, to live with us."

"Sam," his father argued calmly. "I understand that you're upset, and that he's your brother, but..."

"He's coming with us," Sam repeated, a dark edge to his voice now. Tears were still rolling freely down his cheeks and his lips trembled with suppressed emotion as he spoke.

"We can't bring your brother with us, Sam," his mother placated. "I wish we could, but we can't."

Sam turned on his mother with a righteous glare.

"If we leave him here he'll die."

"Sam..."

"I saw it!" Sam said sternly. "I saw it!" He set his jaw forward, his bottom lip jutting out in obstinate defiance. "Dean wasn't lying earlier when he said someone was trying to kill him. I don't know who and I don't know why, but someone's going to kill him. Someone who's watching him from this hotel."

"It was just a dream, son," his father assured him.

"NO!" Sam insisted, his voice rising with anger and panic. "It wasn't a dream! It was like... like a warning. If we don't bring him with us that man will find Dean and he'll kill him!"

"Honey," his mother soothed. "Baby, I know you're scared..."

"Mom, will you just trust me?" Sam begged. "Will you please just listen to me and trust me?" He looked at each of his parents in turn, his eyes pleading for understanding. "We can save Dean," he insisted. "We have to save Dean."

"Did your brother put you up to this?" his mother asked warily, and Sam felt his heart harden at the implication.

"No," Sam hissed. "He doesn't know what I saw, and if you guys will just listen to me he'll never know."

"Baby, it's okay to have bad dreams," she soothed, bending down to meet her son at eye level. "You were worried about what your brother said earlier and that worry came through in your dreams. It's natural. But that doesn't mean that you saw what was going to happen. That just isn't possible."

Sam shook his head adamantly.

"NO!" he cried, tears springing fresh with newborn frustration. "I couldn't have dreamed that! There were things that... he did things that... I don't understand..."

Both parents exchanged nervous glances.

"What kind of things?" his father asked timidly. "What did you dream, Sam?"

"H-he... the man... he did things to Dean," Sam whispered. "Tied him to a bed and... and climbed on t-top of him and... he put his... thing... in Dean, and he moved inside him... like..." his voice cracked and his lip quivered as he pointed at his own backside. "Down there," he whispered.

The Wesleys both blanched, knowing that their naive young son didn't know the first thing about sex, that he couldn't possibly know about sodomy, and that it was therefore very unlikely that his own imagination had conjured up these images.

"Did..." his father cleared his throat with a cough. "Did Dean tell you about... what happens when... a man lies in bed with another man?"

Sam's expression was one of complete bafflement. His brow drew together in confusion, his mouth dipping down into a frown.

"Why would a man lie in bed with another man?" he asked quietly, completely bewildered. "And why would the bad man...." Sam swallowed convulsively. "Why would he hurt Dean... by doing that to him?"

It was entirely too late to be having this discussion with a ten year-old, Peter Wesley thought. And the boy was entirely too young. He didn't want to know how Sam had come to know about homosexual sex, and he especially didn't want to think about what that said about Dean. But it just couldn't be possible that Sam had somehow dreamt of a future attack on his older brother. That kind of thing just didn't happen, unless there was witchcraft or devilry involved. And he refused to believe that sweet little Sam could somehow be tainted with the mark of Cain.

"Sam, it was just a dream, son," Peter insisted, calmly but firmly. "Dean is going to be just fine."

Sam was shaking his head again.

"No," he said adamantly. "No he won't."

"Sam..."

"If you don't let Dean come with us, I will never forgive you," Sam declared. And by the dangerous glint in his eye they could tell he meant every word.

"Honey, that isn't fair," his mother said.

"I will never forgive you!" Sam repeated, his jaw set.

It was as simple as that, really. Sam had drawn his line in the sand and he wasn't backing down. He was convinced that his brother's life was in their hands and that if they didn't bring him with them to Phoenix to live with them he would be brutally murdered.

"Dean doesn't have a home," Sam added pointedly. "He needs us. He needs me." His eyes burned like flint, reminding them both of the older brother when he was Sam's age and had declared his intention to kill them for taking Sam away from him. "And if you don't let him come with us I'll never, ever, ever forgive you."

And it was as simple as that.

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