Raised by Winchesters

Chapter 8: A better place (Sam's point of view)

Sam's POV

I open my eyes to the dimly lit motel room that I've come to know over the past couple of days. Black spots cloud my vision and I give myself to a count of ten before trying to sit up. My hand automatically goes to my head and my left arm shakes behind me as it supports my weight.

"Sammy," a hoarse voice says.

"Dean," I say my voice barely a whisper.

I feel the rush of movement as my brother makes his way ungracefully to my side. He smiles weakly at me and his eyes are red and puffy, almost like he's been crying.

"I was worried about you, Sam. You were out for so long."

"What happened?" I ask.

I look around the room trying to piece together what happened. The kitchen is clean and orderly. All the windows are closed and the blinds are drawn.

"You don't remember?" Dean says. "Well there was this demon that came in and it attacked you and…."

My eyes lock onto the front door. The motel phone is lying on the ground, ripped from the wall. There's a section of the carpet that's splattered in blood with single droplets that trail all the way to the bed that I'm sitting on. Ropes lie discarded in loops on the floor next to my dad's knife.

"… and that's how you got so beat up. Luckily Dad came home in time to save our asses," Dean says with a smile.

In one clean movement I swing a right hook into Dean's jaw and push myself off the bed. I dash into the kitchen then the bathroom, swaying in my nauseated state. I even look in the mop cupboard. I storm back to Dean as he pulls himself to his feet and looks at me with narrowed eyes and pressed lips.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" He asks, his voice trembling as it gets louder.

"How about you stop telling lies and tell me where my sister is." I say, keeping my voice purposefully even and cold.

I watch as his face distorts when I say "my sister". The eyebrows no longer furrow together. The sneer disappears. The angry light goes out in his eyes and when he sighs he looks a thousand years old.

"I don't know."

I take a step towards him. "Please, you owe me this much."

He shakes his head and walks towards the foyer, the scene of the crime. He stares at the blood splatters and the broken phone for a long time before answering.

"I would tell you if I knew. Trust me."

"Trust you?!" I say scornfully. "Why would I trust the person that held me back while I was being beaten? Why would I trust the person that watched their sister be abused and didn't do anything? How can I trust you when you're not being my big brother? You were supposed to protect us!"

"Sammy," he whispers.

Tears slide slowly down his face, getting caught in the days' worth of stubble on his jaw. He looks up and blinks quickly, hiding his emotions the way we were taught. Stretching out a tentative hand he takes a step towards me.

"I didn't mean to," he says. "I didn't want to."

I close my eyes briefly. In those seconds I see my sister spasm in pain as she jerks her arm free of the rope. I watch her eyes fill with hate as John rains down blow after blow on me. Lastly I see Dean standing there letting it all happen.

"I don't care, Dean. I don't care if you wanted to or not. You did it. You let him hurt me. You let that monster hurt Katie and that's something that I'll never forgive you for."

I don't stay to watch his reaction. I turn and grab the first aid kit and head into the bathroom, closing and locking the door behind me. I prop the kit up on the tiny sink and stare into the mirror. My face is a mixture of black, purple and blue. The skin around my eyes, cheeks and on my lips is bright red and swollen from the tears in the skin. Dried blood, now a brown colour, sticks to my hairline and jaw.

A sharp pain twinges in my hand. The joint in my thumb is extended backwards and more colourful bruising covers the inflamed area. Using a wet cloth I carefully wash the dried blood away, revealing the true extent of the cuts. I apply the whiskey to my cuts to disinfect them, then quickly I start to stitch the deep cut on my cheek together.

"Argh, fuck. Fuck that hurts," I curse quietly.

More whiskey. Whiskey is an essential in our first aid kits. Looking back at my face there is nothing I can do to fix the bruising except to ice it. Thumb fractures should be dealt with at the emergency room but I don't think I'll be allowed to go any time soon.

Sighing softly to myself I create a makeshift splint for my thumb and tape it to my other fingers. I down two of our stolen pain killers with a bit of whiskey to ease the pain.

"Sam," Dean says from behind the door. "I know you don't want to talk to me but dad is back."

I pack up the first aid kit, slipping the pain killers into the pocket of my hoodie. Unlocking the door I step out without looking at Dean.

"I think you mean your dad, Dean."

I stand there. I just stand there impassively as the monster that was our father says his little spiel about how evil my sister was and how she's gone to a place that suits her better than our 'loving' home. He goes on about how we've betrayed him and he can't trust us at the moment. He threatens us before sending us off to pack. Throughout the whole thing 'slut', 'bitch' and 'tramp' are used instead of my sister's name.

The worst part isn't what he said. It was the way that Dean stood, hooked on his every word. He flinched slightly at the mention of our sister's disposal but jumped straight into packing as soon as John's sentence was over.

It takes me a while longer to start moving. I throw the stray book and shirt of mine into the duffel bag which is always readily packed in case of attack.

"I'll be in the car. We are leaving in five minutes," He says and spins resolutely on his head and slams the motel door.

I zip up my bag with a sigh and sling the heavy load onto my shoulder using my good hand.

"We'll find her," Dean says.

I've always admired the way he looks so certain with his broad shoulders, height and muscle. He looks the way a hunter should look but recently he hasn't been acting like some of the hunters I've met. Independent, assertive and generally wanting to help people; the way Kate is.

"Maybe John is right," I say. "Maybe she's in a better place than here."

"You can't believe that Sammy…"

I turn and leave halfway through his sentence and prepare myself for a long car ride in silence.