So sorry for the delay. Working fifteen hours a day sure does take its toll on you. ;)
With John back in the Singer household, the tension already present in the atmosphere increased tenfold. Bobby had often wondered how it was that his best friend always managed to rip apart every relationship he'd ever had, but then he would remember how selfish and self-destructive John was, and then all the pieces of the puzzle would once again fit together as if they'd never been disassembled in the first place. It was scary to think for one second that the friendship Bobby had put so much stock in for so long was nothing but a sick joke, but it was starting to look like it more and more everyday. He was beginning to see that it was pathetically one-sided, much like all of John's relationships, and it hurt more than he cared to admit because he loved the bastard. But that love was starting to transform into something a little more unpleasant, making Bobby question the bond he'd counted on for as long as he could remember.
That wasn't even the worst part of it all. It was bad enough that Bobby's relationship with John was crumbling to the ground, but having him back was beginning to put a major strain on the boys.
Dean spent most of his time in the salvage yard or in his bedroom, doing whatever he could to keep under his father's radar. Bobby tried talking to him, but the kid was impossible. The impenetrable force that was Dean Winchester blocked all of his attempts at conversation, leaving a dismayed hunter to wonder if he was beginning to lose him the way he was losing his father. No matter what time of day it was, Dean was either fixing cars or lying on his bed in the darkness, no doubt missing Sam and worrying about him nonstop.
Bobby knew the feeling.
The second Sam knew his father was back, the first thing he did was pack up all of his stuff before practically moving in with Jeremy, calling only to check up on Bobby and make sure John and Dean weren't fighting.
Well . . . he never mentioned Dean, per se, but Bobby was smart enough to know what "is everything okay at the house?" meant in Sam talk.
Bobby found it incredible that John didn't lay into Dean the second he found out what had went on in his absence. He found it even more incredible that Sam's departure and Dean's retreat into the shadows didn't bother him nearly as much as it should have. Something was definitely on John's mind, and it was taking up such a large part of it that he couldn't even process what Bobby had told him about his two sons. It was as if he was in a dream that he couldn't wake up from, leaving his best friend confused and beyond frustrated.
To add insult to injury, Dean was in the interrogation room of some rat infested police station while Bobby sat in his study worrying about the little shit even though he knew he probably should be more concerned with Sam. But Sam was strong, and he knew that kid could get through any obstacle life threw his way. Dean, however, can't exactly talk his way out of a murder charge. He just hoped Dean was smart enough to keep his head down and his mouth shut.
Bobby let out a humorless chuckle as he imaged Walsh and Bison asking about Sam, figuring out Dean's weakness and trying to exploit it for their own personal gain. The chances of Dean keeping his cool in that situation was slim to none and he knew it.
Whatever was happening now, Bobby hoped to every God in existence that Dean came out of there unscathed. If he winds up in jail, the kids in school are going to have a field day with Sam, making that boy's life harder than it had to be. Bobby didn't want that for him, and he certainly didn't want Dean to have to take the fall for some one else's handiwork.
Some one else's handiwork. That was another thing he had to worry about. Who the hell was the real murderer and did he or she have a connection to Dean? Is this all just a coincidence? Or is someone out there right at this very moment hell-bent on destroying Dean? For what purpose? Was Rosa's death a murder after all? If so, what did Dean know about it?
All these questions swirled in Bobby's head like a cyclone, leaving him as disoriented as a dementia patient. This town was starting to become a personal hell for everyone in his house. He had no idea whether they'd all make it out of this alive, but he knew this family enough to know that they wouldn't just roll over and surrender. They were Winchesters, and they never went down without a fight.
Dammit, Dean. Where are you?
Bison and Walsh stewed in silence as the young man in front of them sat on the opposite side of the table, staring at the detectives in a way that made Walsh feel like they were somehow participating in a battle of wills, each trying to psych out the other through protruding chests and power gazes. The air in the interrogation room was stifling, but Walsh ignored it in favor of questioning his first and only suspect, hoping against hope that the man before him was the killer he was desperately searching for.
The man's full lips curled into a lopsided smirk, green eyes turning a deep shade of emerald in the flickering light looming over their heads. "So . . . am I under arrest or is this the beginning of a kinky three-way?"
Great. A smartass. "Care to explain to us how it is that you know all the victims, Dean?"
"I know the family through Virginia."
"And how do you know Virginia?"
"I used to fuck her."
Walsh and his partner exchanged knowing glances. Dean's grin widened and Walsh repressed the urge to smile back. "When did that start?"
Dean sighed, putting his hands behind his head. "A little while after my father kicked me out of the house."
Bison's ears perked up. "Yes, we've heard stories about that. Unfortunately, nobody knows the real reason he left you out in the cold. Care to explain?"
"No, not really."
The slight hostility present in Dean's tone made Walsh's gaze all the more scrutinizing. 'You're hiding something from us, Dean. What is it?"
Dean didn't answer, which only enforced Walsh's suspicions that he was being deceitful. There was something about this that wasn't adding up and the brooding detective wanted to know what it was. He didn't know yet, but he couldn't shake the feeling that whatever it was that the Winchester kid was keeping under wraps was somehow connected to the recent murders. It certainly didn't help that the death of Rosa Mendez reeked of foul play, being that she was the one who took Dean in after he was brutally dismissed by his father for reasons unknown to everyone but Dean and John.
Thinking of every possible scenario of why John kicked his son out on the street was tiring to say the least, but there had to be something that connected father to son, something or possibly someone worth fighting about.
Walsh ruled out Bobby. As much a part of them as he is, he didn't seem to have the kind of power it would take to rip their relationship apart. Rosa was definitely out. Bessie Jackson and her pack of gossip hungry vultures may have known the family since before Dean was born, but they definitely didn't have what it took. They were outsiders and didn't seem to be well-loved by anyone in town, much less the Winchester clan. No, if it was a person cherished enough to cause a rift between Dean and John, it had to be someone important, someone who meant more to them than anyone else in the world, someone like . . .
Of course.
"Dean, tell me a little bit about your brother."
The atmosphere in the room immediately darkened, leaving the once cocky boy wound up so tight, it was a wonder he didn't snap. Walsh could see the inner struggle to unleash the animal hiding beneath the kid's exterior, the mask of cool indifference trying so hard to twist into an expression the detective was pretty sure he wouldn't like. The reaction to Sam was a strong one, and Walsh smiled in satisfaction as he allowed the petty victory to sink into his psyche, sadistic pleasure at having gotten what he wanted seeping through his pores.
Rather than answer the question Walsh knew he was trying to avoid, Dean leaned back in his chair and put his left hand on the table, creating invisible patterns in the wood that the detective's acute senses immediately picked up and deciphered. He humphed under his breath, not the least bit affected by the 'fuck you' Dean was tracing with the pad of his index finger.
"Dean," Bison said, speaking up for the second time since this whole thing began. "Walsh asked you a question."
Dean looked up and shot them that godawful smirk. "You think we could leave him out of this?" He asked the question nonchalantly, but there was an undercurrent of warning in the inflection that made Bison smile. "I mean, what does he have to do with any of this? Surely, you don't think he was my accomplice or something."
"By using the term 'accomplice', are you, in fact, admitting that you killed Virginia Peters?"
Dean chuckled. "No. I just don't see what you're gonna get out of talking to me about my brother."
"I'm gonna be frank with you, Dean," Bison said. "I think there's a story here that you're not telling us. I've been doing this a long time and I'm not too stupid to know when someone's hiding something major from me. You want to know what I think?" When Dean didn't answer, Bison went on. "I think something happened between you and Sam. I think whatever it was gave John a reason to throw you out like yesterday's garbage. Now, you're the older brother, right? What did you do to little Sammy that was so terrible that your father saw fit to hand you over to Rosa Mendez? Did you beat him? Get him involved with drugs? Molest him?"
Bison had to hand it to the kid; he certainly was good at keeping his cool. It was too bad that the detective was so good at catching the bad guys, otherwise he would have missed the way Dean's face twitched in a micro expression that resembled shame when he mentioned molestation as a possibility for his sudden departure.
Bison's grin widened, but Dean was on his feet before he could pursue the subject. "If I'm not being arrested-which I assume I'm not, seeing as how you don't have a shred of evidence against me-I think I'll leave now."
Walsh, who was watching the scene pan out, spoke to Dean's back, stopping the man in his tracks. "We're not done with you, Dean. You can attempt to hide the truth from us all you want, but rest assured . . . we're going to get to the bottom of this shit that you insist on keeping a secret. When we do? You'd better be ready for the fallout."
Dean's shoulders trembled, but he still managed to walk away without saying a word. Walsh turned to Bison. "Did you see what I saw?"
"Oh, hell yes. I should have known that little demon would be fucking his baby brother. He was kicked out when he was sixteen. That means little Sammy was twelve when all this shit went down. This is beyond exciting. The boss would have a field day with this one. You think he's the one we're looking for?"
Walsh sighed. "He has to be, Bison. If not, we're in way over our heads. The big guy will have us screaming like a chick in a horror movie if we fuck this up again. This is our last chance, B. Trust me; there's no way in hell that little bastard is getting out of this one alive."
Bison smiled. "Just what I wanted to hear."
Roger Eaton was watching Sam from across the cafeteria. He knew this, and yet he allowed his bangs to fall over his eyes as he bit into his sandwich, looking down in a blatant attempt to ignore the little bastard. He was waiting for the kid to get up and make his usual snide remarks about Dean being a murderer, hands tightening on his food in anger. Roger didn't know it, but the crap Sam was going through made him just the tiniest bit cranky, and he couldn't help but scowl in annoyance when he realized he was about to get suspended from school for putting an asshole like Roger in his place.
If you're gonna stir the shitpot, be prepared to lick the spoon.
The boy got up-Sam knew he would-and made his way over to the other side of the room, leaning over Sam and pouring his soda all over the Winchester's head.
A string of collective 'ooh's' erupted from the cafeteria, the satisfied snickers of the other kids making Sam's blood boil. Pop fell down his back and dripped from his hair, sticky puddles forming on the green table in front of him. Air puffed from his flared nostrils as he tried to keep his control in check, not wanting to be seen as the brother of a murderer who went crazy and annihilated an 'innocent' boy on his lunch break. It just sucked that Roger was making it increasingly difficult, laughing at his actions like the sadistic prick that he was.
"This makes you mad, doesn't it?" Roger said, chuckling darkly. "Well, that's nothing compared to how mad you're gonna be when the police fry your brother's ass for murdering that Virginia girl."
Sam took a deep breath, body shaking with suppressed rage.
"You probably helped, you little shit. Probably had a good laugh over what Dean did. Hell, you could have been the one to rape her. You couldn't get it from a girl any other way. With the way you are with your brother, I wouldn't be surprised if you were bending over and taking it up the ass like the freak that you are, Winchester. I bet you got fucked and liked it. Hey, everyone! Sam likes to have sex with his brother!"
The kids laughed and jeered, shouting the words 'brother fucker' so loud, the lunch lady had to leave her place in the kitchen to try to calm everyone down. Sam listened to the chant while looking at the floor, the tears that formed beneath his eyelids strengthening the urge to release all of his pent up anger. He'd been through so much and managed to keep his cool for so long. He couldn't do it anymore. Didn't want to do it anymore, and with those thoughts in his head, Sam Winchester finally snapped.
Before he knew what was happening, he'd turned around and punched Roger in the face. The boy took a couple of steps back, blinking profusely while putting a hand up to his cheek in surprise. When the shock subsided, he tried to take a swing at Sam, but Sam grabbed his fist and kicked him in the balls. Roger cupped his crotch and hunched over in pain, giving Sam the chance to hit him in the side before delivering an uppercut with his lunch tray that sent Roger flying in the air and landing on the ground.
Sam threw the tray off to the side, falling on top of Roger and punching him over and over. He couldn't see anything but red, that same red that blinded him when he tried to destroy Dean back at the house. Everything he's gone through flashed in front of his face: the conflicting emotions he felt for his brother, the shame for what Dean did to him, the father that was never there, the mother who died, the kids in school, the murders . . . they were all tormenting him, chipping away at his sanity piece by piece until the person that he was faded away into the darkness that was eating him alive, leaving behind only a shell, an empty vessel that would never again be filled.
Somebody tried to push Sam off Roger, but that person was brutally shoved aside as Sam ran out the door and up the block, his destination so crystal clear in his mind that he could have described the leaves on the trees. He was beyond all reason, knowing what he needed and not giving a shit that it was wrong and twisted. He didn't care that he was conditioned for this, that the comfort he sought was too depraved to ever be considered right. He didn't care that the shame would tear him apart and make him feel like he was a fucking whore. All he cared about was a temporary solution to the unendurable pain that everyone around him implanted in his broken heart, something that would get him by until the next morning when he'd hate himself all over again.
Sam reached Bobby's house and went around to the junkyard to search for Dean. When he didn't find him, he stormed up the stairs to the older boy's bedroom. With no one in sight, he did the first thing he could think of and snatched up one of Dean's dirty shirts and fell on his brother's bed, ripping his clothes off and putting on Dean's tee. Grabbing the collar and breathing in his brother's scent, he wrapped his fingers around his cock and began stroking himself, moaning quietly at the slide of his palm against his sensitive skin.
A strange moment came over Sam as he pleasured himself, where a memory of the past came shooting into his brain, creating parallels between what happened to him then and what was happening to him now. He saw the scene play out before him as if he were living in it that very second, the sound of whispers in his ears so clear that he could have sworn there was someone else in the room with him. He heard his twelve year old self moan, followed by the squeaking of bed springs as Dean began to slowly work his cock in and out of Sam's asshole, already wet and sensitive from Dean's tongue. The longer it went on, the more his past self moaned, pleasure becoming stronger every time his brother impaled him. Dean's thick shaft was dripping as he forced himself back in, groaning filthily when the action caused the lube to make a loud squishing sound.
Sam's hand sped up at the same time as Dean's hips, cursing appreciatively under his breath as the sensation amplified. His past self cried out when Dean switched angles, hitting his prostate dead on.
"Oh, my god. Oh, shit, Sammy. Are you gonna come? Oh, god. I'm gonna do it aren't I? I'm gonna make you fucking come again. Oooh, shiiit yes."
"Aaaah," Sam moaned. "Dean, my ass. God, my ass. Ah!"
"Shit!" Dean swore, voice shaky. "My fucking cock. I'm fucking aching from your ass, Sammy. Goddammit! I can feel it inside that wet, tight hole. It's gonna be a powerful one, isn't it, Sammy? Aaah, I can fucking feel it. I love massaging those insides, makin' my baby brother fucking squirm. It's making your little hole feel so good, isn't it? Fuck, baby. God, I'm fucking my little brother. Should have done this shit when you were ten. Should have wrapped my lips around your little cock and made you come inside my mouth."
Present Sam whimpered pitifully, yelling at the same time as the little boy he saw so vividly in his mind.
"You're coming aren't you? You're coming on your big brother's cock, you nasty little fucker. Ooooh, yeees. Look at all that come."
"Aaah! Dean!" both Sam's shouted.
"Oh, yeah. Give me that come. Let me massage that come out of your hard little prick. Give it to big brother. Aaah, shit. Oh, I'm doing it. I'm fucking doing it. I'm making you come. I can see myself destroying your ass and makin' my little Sammy come. Oooh, that sound of my cock in your ass. That fucking sound! Let me hold those little legs wide open so I can see myself screwing you, see what I'm doing that's pleasuring my little fucking brother."
"Dean, stop! It feels too good," Sam sobbed openly.
Dean sighed loudly. "Fuck, I'm gonna come. You're gonna make me come. Oh, yes! Keep that little ass open for me. Yes, yes, yes. Sammy. Shit, I'm coming. You're making me fuckin' come. Oooh, you little fucker!"
"Dean!" Sam screamed, thick spurts of sticky white oozing from his slit to the back of his hand. He bit his lip as tears ran down his face, finishing himself off with a groan. When it was over, the past disappeared and left the raw truth of the present in its wake, lust fading from Sam's consciousness and replacing itself with the familiar guilt and shame at what he'd been reduced to in his time of need. He looked at himself like he didn't recognize his own body. Those hands weren't his. The come on his thighs wasn't his. None of it belonged to him. It never did. It was Dean's. It's always been Dean's.
Dirty boy.
Sam turned on his side and curled up in a little ball, sobbing so hard, the bed shook with the force of it. He was coming home because he wanted to get fucked by his big brother. Why? Why would he want something so wrong? After everything that's happened, how could he want this? What the fuck was the matter with him?
As Sam fell asleep drowning in his own shame, one last thought flew into his head, making him frown before falling into unconsciousness.
Why is there a Jeep Wrangler parked in the driveway?
