Summary: A rough school, an angry gang, and violent retribution leave Dean broken. Can his family find a way to bring him back from his dark world? Hurt/angst Dean and Sam. Teenchester. AU. RATED M.

Don't own any rights to the Boys, songs, or Ridley James' Brotherhood AU.

This story steps outside the bounds of Brotherhood approval and is not approved of by the Brotherhood creators. If you do not wish to delve into a dark story of violence, rape and torture that in any way involves Brotherhood characters, then please do not read this story.

After Chapter 13 was posted, the Brotherhood creators expressed a wish to the community that future stories involving the Brotherhood avoid the topics found in Dragonfly. Dragonfly is all but written and a revamp to exclude the Brotherhood would be most difficult at this point. Not impossible, but difficult enough that I choose not to do so and can only offer apologies to Brotherhood fans who have found offense, and to the creators of the Brotherhood. The Brotherhood creators and I have talked. I offer this disclaimer as some measure of a compromise to prevent further upset to those involved with the Brotherhood fandom.

I do not condone in any fashion, the abuse, violence, rape, torture, etc. that occurs in this story. That such things occur in the world we live in is horrifying. The aftermath of such deeds lasts a lifetime for those affected, both directly and as collateral damage. I wish I could say many of the sorts of events I've depicted in Dragonfly are an exaggeration of reality, but unfortunately, I know better. I really didn't mean for the brutality the boys experienced to be the focus, but rather how the victims and family deals with these terrible events and the psychological impact events like these can have. This is a disturbing topic and some readers may find it beyond what they care to read. My writing is graphic in some scenes though I try to be as light-handed as I can, when I can.

This disclaimer will prefix every chapter.

Rating: M. Warning. Some chapters have very mature themes of violence, torture, rape, murder, and attempted suicide.

Readers, this is one of the chapters that earned this story its "M" rating. Although I attempt to address it delicately, it's still fairly vicious and dark.

Thank you all for your wonderful reviews of previous chapters! Thanks to my regular beta and my guest beta Megan.Casady. They both contribute such wonderful corrections to the chapter!

See my bio for updates on progress of my stories. Enjoy!

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Breaking the Wings of Dragonflies

Chapter 9

I can see the future boiling up around, I'm so afraid.
Someone told to make her half a girl, she used to be alive.
I can feel the fire, crawling on you like you're superman.
But I would pay to watch you burn.

-Serial Killer, Cold

Then:
March 18th, Deidersville, Illinois

Sam stood frozen by the horror of what he saw.

Dean was naked and half lying on a table, his arms handcuffed behind him. And they were—Juarez was….Sam swallowed back his disgust. He felt his tears and wiped them away angrily as he pulled out his gun. This ended. Now.

He stepped out, gun held tightly in his hand, and stalked forward. "Get away from my brother!" Sam shouted at them.

Silence fell over the group. Juarez gave Dean a few more hard pumps, then pulled out, carefully situated himself, zipped up his pants, and turned to face Sam.

"Well, if it isn't Dean-O's little brother. With a gun of his own," Juarez sneered.

"Get away from him," Sam snarled, pointing the gun at Juarez. A few of the gang started to circle around. "Stop moving or I'll kill him," Sam said, refusing to let the gun's muzzle shift from the bastard who'd been sodomizing his brother.

Juarez still had a smirk on his face. "So you're going to walk your brother out of here, are you?"

"Damn right I am. And no one is going to stop me," Sam said calmly.

"Really?" Juarez said and nodded once to one of his buddies, a teenager standing by Dean holding a pipe in his hand.

Sam didn't want to think what that pipe might have been used for. Too late, Sam realized the teen's intent when the teen said, "Here you go, Dean," and slammed the pipe into Dean's thigh. Dean's scream echoed in the warehouse. In his gut, Sam knew Dean's thigh was fractured; be it a hairline or a complete fracture, it was broken all the same.

"So how are you going to walk him out of here, now, little man?" Juarez grinned.

The gang burst into laughter and Sam's face contorted in fury. Hunters didn't kill humans. That was the rule. But Juarez, he didn't count as human in Sam's mind anymore. So long as Juarez lived, Sam would have no chance to rescue his brother.

Sam's finger tightened on the trigger.

A half-empty beer bottle careened into Sam's temple and the shot, its report booming, went wide and the gun was knocked from his hand. Almost of its own accord, the switchblade was in Sam's right hand, snicked open and slashing at his attackers. When one boy grabbed Sam's arm, Sam twisted free, smashed his elbow into the boy's diaphragm, and then brought his fist up to slam into the boy's face. Sam felt the boy's blood spurt down the back of his hand to run down his arm.

He cut someone's hands as he dodged another's grasp. Sliding his foot behind the leg of his newest attacker, he planted his shoulder in the boy's chest and the kid tumbled back onto the floor. A fist planted just below his shoulder blade made Sam stumble forward and his right wrist was grabbed. When he tried to wrench free, the larger teen's grip proved too strong. Sam shifted so he faced the teen and dove between the boy's legs feet first. His weight and momentum carried both his arm and the boy's hand into the boy's crotch. The teen doubled over in pain while Sam cursed as his switchblade slipped from his fingers.

A booted foot smashed into Sam's ribs and he felt an explosion of pain; he knew he'd just had at least one rib cracked. He rolled to his feet, grinding his teeth against the pain. The adrenaline would keep the pain at a minimum and he'd fought against beasts when he was in worse shape. As he got to his feet, he pulled free the lighter fluid and, flicking open the spout, squirted it at those around him. His other hand extracted the Zippo lighter and in a fluid movement slammed the lighter on the side of his leg to flip open the lid, then yanked it back up, spinning the wheel against his jeans and igniting the lighter. He tossed the Zippo into a decent sized puddle of fluid and with a whoosh, the fluid ignited, snaking toward anyone close enough and soaked enough in fluid to offer the flame a meal. Shouts and cries erupted as the gang members afire attempted to extinguish the flames.

A girl came at him and landed a punch on his jaw. Sam let the momentum carry him around and back-fisted the girl hard enough that she staggered. The pipe across his back put Sam on his knees. He barely blocked the first kick to his face, but then they were on him. Even as well trained as he was, a lone twelve-year-old was no match for several teenagers with long-honed street skills. It took two of the largest Dementors to hold his squirming form as they dragged him to Juarez. Blood ran from Sam's nose and from several gashes on his face.

"Two for the price of one," Juarez said. He smiled at Sam. "You tried to shoot me."

"I'll kill you," Sam said evenly, leveling a deadly glare on the leader of the Dementors.

Juarez's smile faltered just a moment as he saw something deep in Sam's eyes that cut through even his thick armor. He slammed his fist into Sam's gut. Sam's eyes widened as he tried to regain the air knocked out of him. His diaphragm struggled to work and draw air back in. Punches rained across his back and into his stomach until he hung in the teenagers' arms like a ragdoll.

"Let him watch his big brother, so he knows just what's in store for him," Juarez said.

The boys dragged Sam to a chair and searched him, finding his cell phone, Dean's thirty dollars, the two extra clips for the gun, the lock picks, the bandanas, and Sam's pocketknife. After tossing his supplies onto a nearby table, they tied him with rope to the chair. Sam found some small comfort that they'd missed the boot knife. He still had that, at least. He slowly clenched and unclenched his fists as he began to try to stretch the ropes for leeway to escape.

"You see, little man," Juarez said, "I don't like it when someone challenges my authority. Dean here," he kicked Dean's broken leg and Dean screamed again, "he did that. So I have to make an example of him. Like I made of the bitch." He pointed to Isabelle's still form on the ground. Blood pooled around her cooling body. She'd been slit open from her lower abdomen up to her sternum and her insides bulged out gruesomely as her glazed, dead eyes stared at his brother. Sam had to swallow back the bile at the terrible sight. "And you, little man, tried to shoot me," Juarez continued. "I can't have that, not in front of my gang. They might think I'm not cut out to be their leader. And believe me. I am."

"You cock-sucking son of a bitch," Dean moaned, his words slurred.

Juarez turned back to Dean and dropped his pants. "Yeah, let's finish what we started, eh, Dean?"

Sam tried to look away, but the knife held at his throat forced him to watch as one of the girls primed Juarez. Juarez, and then three others, satisfied their needs with Dean. They dragged Dean back to a chair and he choked out cries of pain as they moved him. Sam could see Dean's right arm and hand were clearly broken, the handcuff on that wrist loosened to its first notch, but it still bit into his swollen flesh. His back was a rainbow of bruises and coated with streaks of both fresh and dried blood. When they moved away from Dean, Sam saw his brother's chest wasn't any better, and there were wicked burns on Dean's stomach. His lips looked cracked and swollen, maybe even burned themselves. A bandana was wrapped around his eyes like a blindfold.

Space heaters were moved closer to Dean and one of the girls caressed his groin. "Can't have you all shriveled up. We got too many plans for you."

Dean spit in her face.

Sam tightened his jaw and fought back his tears. Juarez saw the look of horror in Sam's face and delightedly began Dean's torture anew. Each time before Juarez hit Dean, he said Dean's name. Dean responded with slurred retorts, sometimes a smile sliding to his lips when it was obvious his words had incited a particularly brutal retaliation.

Will you shut your damned mouth, Dean! Sam thought desperately, but was so proud of his brother. No matter what they did, Dean threw it in their faces that he was still stronger than they were. Sam vowed he'd show that same strength.

Juarez turned to Sam a half hour later when Dean was all but unconscious.

"Guess it's your turn, little man," Juarez said, wiping Dean's blood from his hands. "Let's start the night off right."

Juarez motioned to two of his boys and to the table where he'd raped Dean.

"What's the matter, can't get it up for a girl?" Sam snarled at him.

Juarez strode over and stared down at Sam. "It's got absolutely nothing to do with sexual pleasure, little man. It's got everything to do with power. I can do anything to him," he jerked a thumb toward Dean, "and anything to you. If I want you to suck my cock, you will."

"Sure. Be happy to," Sam said, giving him a sinister smile.

Juarez wrapped his fingers in Sam's hair. "That'll come later, when your big brother is conscious enough to watch, conscious enough to scream if you give me anything but the finest of blow jobs." He grinned when he saw the look in Sam's eyes. "But right now? Right now some of my boys want a tight ass. Nothing like virgin ass, little man." Juarez released Sam's hair and straightened. "Have at him, boys."

Two gang members untied Sam and dragged him over to the table. Sam was pulled across it and his pants pulled down. He cried out in pain and fury when they did to him what they'd done to Dean. When they'd finished and started to pull Sam back to his feet, Sam twisted his arm free, Dean's overlarge jacket giving him squirm room. He grabbed his pants, pulled them up, and ran for all he was worth. Shouts followed him as he dodged into the dark. The sun had long since set and the warehouse's interior was dark, the high windows splashing snow-reflected light that chased blackness into grey shadows.

Circling around, Sam looked back on the remaining gang members, trying to sort out what they were doing and if he had any hope of getting Dean out. The adrenaline made the painful bruises, the cracked rib he was fairly certain he had, and the damaged, more tender areas little more than annoyances. Nothing mattered but his brother. Break both his legs and Sam would still crawl, pulling himself on his elbows if he had to, to find a way to save the brother who had always been his protector.

He saw Juarez beating Dean anew. Dammit! Juarez wasn't going to leave Dean to come after Sam. Sam would have to find another way. If only they hadn't taken his cell phone! He still had the boot knife, but one boot knife against all of them—it was a no-brainer. He'd lose. Hell, he couldn't even take them when he had a gun. Dad had always told him the police were a last resort, but he didn't see that he had a choice. There were just too many. He heard movement nearby and slid further back among the machinery and debris, pulling the boot knife out and holding it at the ready.

A blond girl came into view, scanning for signs of the young Winchester. Sam watched, motionless, as she passed by his niche. Once she was well past him, he eased out and padded silently to another group of machinery. He carefully made his way along the equipment, mindful that a misstep in the debris might give his location away. He heard a few of the Dementors pass frustrated words to one another and he smiled to himself. He'd played hide and seek with some of the finest hunters and even a psychic; a handful of thugs shouldn't be a problem. He moved to the next batch of machinery. There were noises behind him and to his right and growing closer. He dodged up to the next flock of decrepit apparatus.

"There he is!" a girl shouted.

Sam cursed his light-colored flannel and broke into a full run. He finally veered into the shadows and stopped, plastering himself against a massive machine. When a Dementor turned the corner, he spotted Sam and lunged for him.

Sam sliced at him with Dean's boot knife, leaving a thin crimson line on the boy's arm. The teen jerked back in surprise then came at Sam more cautiously, a grin on his face. "You're going to be as much fun as your brother was," the gang member said. He swung a fist at Sam.

Sam ducked and sliced, clipping the teen's side. A second Dementor rounded the corner. "The little brother's not as good as pretty boy was, is he? Dean-O kept us hunting a lot longer."

Sam kept the machine to his back, but knew it was only a matter of time before more Dementors arrived. To make a run for it, he needed to slow them down in the process. Sam feinted left then dove between the two. Rolling to a crouch, he swung the knife in an arc, hamstringing the first arrival and following through to deeply gash the other Dementor in the side of his knee. Their howls of pain were satisfying, but he wanted to hear them scream the way his brother had screamed. He used his blade to cut a bloody trough up the back of the second Dementor then slashed a long diagonal gash across the back of the boy with the scarred face, a new scar to remember the Winchesters by. Sam turned, and ran. Further revenge would have to wait. He had to move before more Dementors arrived.

Sam held his arm against his injured rib as he veered around the machines and ran hard. The cries of the injured would bring other gang members, but at least those two wouldn't be following Sam anytime soon. Avoiding sounds of the others, he dodged around pieces of machinery, doubled back and zigzagged through the warehouse. He paused in a dark niche to catch his breath and to get his bearings. He had to get out and get help. Juarez might very well be beating Dean to death while Sam played hide and seek. What would he do when he learned Sam had crippled two of his cronies? "He'll take it out on Dean," Sam whispered to himself as he slipped off the empty gun holster, removed his flannel shirt and put the holster back on. He quickly ripped the shirt into strips and, after tying them together, tightly wrapped his ribs.

He knew the injuries to the gang members' legs had been necessary for his escape. The other two slashes had merely been perks and a promise of the revenge Sam swore he'd wreak on these bastards once he knew Dean was safe.

They played cat and mouse with Dean, too, Sam thought. They caught Dean. They're going to expect they can catch me. I can't let the happen. Dean's depending on me. With a little luck, they'll get cocky and I can use that. Like I just did. Dean probably didn't have the bonus of the dark, but it's making it damned hard to figure a way out of here.

He studied his surroundings and finally chose a direction. He moved slower, placing the sounds he heard into a mental map. He traveled deeper into the warehouse. A broken out bottom window caught his eye. There was a large hulk of a machine that led up that window. It would be a bit of a jump, but he thought he could make it. As he got close to it, he saw dark droplets on the floor and paused long enough to run his finger over a few. Spatters of blood. He knew that blood was his brother's. He looked up at the window and whispered, "It wasn't for nothing, Dean. It's my way out and I'll bring help."

Sam quickly climbed the machinery and made the jump, getting one hand to the window frame and one hand on the ledge. He ground his teeth as glass cut into his palm and his rib shrieked in agony but he doggedly pulled himself up. There was more blood here and it wasn't his. Maybe Dean had made it out the window and they caught him outside and brought him back? Were they likewise waiting for him? Then I'll just have to be ready to fight my way out, Sam thought grimly.

The drop was long, but his Dad and brother had taught him how to roll and not hurt himself. His rib protested the hard jarring but the bandage wrapping his ribs and his continued adrenaline made it tolerable. Sam stood up, pulled free the stowed boot knife, and evaluated his surroundings. The snow was nearly pristine. They'd stopped Dean before he'd gotten out and there were no Dementors waiting for Sam. He kept the bloodied knife gripped in his hand and began running.

He had to get to a phone, and then get back to Dean. Glancing over his shoulder, Sam saw that no one seemed to be following him. He could bring help to rescue his brother. If Juarez hadn't killed him by then. That thought froze Sam's blood colder than the icy temperatures around him could ever hope to and he pushed harder and ran faster. A phone. He needed a god-damned fucking phone. Or a police car. Either would do.

Five blocks away he saw the beckoning lights of a mini-mart and charged inside. "Phone!" he demanded of the cashier, taking no notice of the blood dripping from his wounds or the bloody knife still in his hand.

The attendant pointed to the rear wall. Sam headed for it and dialed 911 as soon as he reached it.

"State the nature of your emergency," a woman said.

"Police. My brother's being beat up by a gang, the Dementors," Sam said, breathing hard. His lungs burned from the cold air. He forced himself to keep his panic under control and tried to slow his breathing. He wanted nothing more than to scream at the dispatcher to get the whole fucking force to the warehouse to rescue his brother before Juarez could do anything else to him, before Juarez could make his brother pay for what Sam had done to two of the gang.

"What's your name?" she asked.

"Sam." He looked at his bleeding hand and could see shiny slivers of glass still buried in the wound. Use any respite you get to tend to your wounds, John's voice boomed in his head. After cleaning the boot knife of Dementor blood, he carefully dug glass from his palm, his jaw clenched against the pain.

"Where are they doing this, Sam?"

Her voice was clear and calm, and Sam felt some measure of that calm settle into him "Inside the Shumacker warehouse on Eighth," Sam gritted out as he loosened another piece of glass and extracted it. Help would be on the way any minute.

"How many are there?" she asked.

He could hear the murmur of other dispatchers. "Thirteen, I think. They already killed a girl and they're hurting my brother bad." Remembering the dead girl, a tremor came into Sam's voice. "I think they're going to kill him."

"Don't hang up, Sam," she soothed. "Stay on the line. Understand? I'm going to dispatch some officers, but I'll be right back. Just stay on the line. Okay?"

"I will." Sam leaned against the wall, relief filling him. He prayed the police would arrive quickly and that Dean would still be alive when they reached him. He felt his gut clench as a tiny voice whispered, what if he wasn't? Sam forced himself to return to digging out the last fragments of glass. His brother still needed him. He had to make sure nothing would keep him from helping Dean.

The dispatcher returned to the line about twenty seconds later. "Sam?"

"I'm here," Sam said, cleaning his own blood from the boot knife by wiping it on his jeans and sliding it back into its holster. He realized his shirt was generously splattered with Dementor blood. He knew it shouldn't, but it pleased him beyond measure.

"The police are on their way. Can you give me a better location than just 'the warehouse'?"

"Yes, ma'am," Sam said, his voice beginning to quaver worse. He fought back his tears and concentrated on calling up the layout of the warehouse. "Go in through the loading docks, turn left and go maybe two hundred feet, turn right at the four pillars and go maybe another hundred feet, then left again near the machine with big metal rollers. After maybe twenty or thirty feet you can see them."

"That's very good, Sam. That helps a lot. Where are you calling from?"

"I dunno. Closest mini-mart I could find. I think I'm on Mercy Lane," Sam said, doubt in his voice.

"Okay, Sam. How badly is your brother hurt?"

Sam felt his tears start, and was disgusted he couldn't keep them at bay. Report! he heard his father demand. John wouldn't approve of Sam's blubbering. Sam took a deep breath to try to steady himself. "They broke his leg and his arm and have been beating on him all day. His stomach looked burned and so did his mouth. You've got to tell them to hurry. I think he might," Sam swallowed hard, "die."

"We'll do our best to make sure that doesn't happen. Are you hurt?" she asked.

"I'm fine," Sam lied. "He needs the help."

"How old is your brother, Sam?"

"Seventeen." Sam sniffled. He hated that he was crying, but he was so scared for his brother. If Dean died, it would be all his fault. He knew he should have tried harder to get Dean to stay home from school. As soon as he had that bad feeling start in his gut after lunch, he should have called Dean again. He should have been able to find Dean sooner. He was the son of one of the best hunters in the Brotherhood, the son of the fucking Knight, for God's sake, and it took him over two damned hours to track Dean down. He was pathetic beyond pathetic. His hands began to shake.

Her voice still calm, the dispatcher asked, "What's his name?"

"Dean."

Her voice took on a more gentle tone as she asked, "How old are you, Sam?"

"Twelve, almost thirteen."

"Okay, Sam, you're doing really well," she said encouragingly. "Let me tell the officers what you told me. Stay on the line, okay? Don't hang up."

"Yes, ma'am."

The dispatcher returned a handful of seconds later. "Okay, Sam—"

"How soon will they be there?" Sam interrupted.

"They're not far. I've also dispatched an ambulance for your brother. Can you tell me what happened?"

"The gang jumped him. I think they've had him since noon or one. He's really hurt."

"Is Dean involved with drugs, Sam?"

"No!" Sam said, his voice getting louder as he defended his brother. "He'd never do anything like that! He stood up to the Dementors, he even broke Juarez's nose, and they want to get back at him for it."

"Okay, Sam—"

"I have to go," Sam said, this time listening to that voice in the back of his head. "I have to be there to help him." Sam hung up the phone, cutting off her protests. He grabbed a large bottle of water and a bag of peanut M&Ms and went to the register. Blood smeared onto his watch's wristband as he pulled it across his cut hand and shoved it into the slot in the enclosure protecting the employee from robbery. The watch wasn't much, but he wasn't about to give up Dean's knife.

"Please, my brother's really hurt. I'll come back and pay you. I promise. You can hold my watch until I do."

The clerk, a young man of about nineteen with a nametag that read "Ramone", studied the twelve year old. Crimson splattered the kid's shirt, smeared his jeans, and streamed in small rivulets down his bruised and cut face, mixing with his tears. The kid's left hand dripped blood and the knife he'd seen the kid enter with was no longer in view. A gun's black shoulder holster, empty, was strapped on the youth. Ramone had heard the boy's side of the conversation. Dementors. He remembered the fear of walking the school halls, praying the Dementors took no notice of him. He remembered the one time they had. Ramone looked at the two-dollar watch lying in the metal slot in front of him. "I hear right, the Dementors have him?"

Sam nodded and wiped at his tears. Ramone unlocked the door to the protective enclosure and exited, pocketing a key. He grabbed a bottle of water from the bin by the register, took a box of bandages off the shelf and a roll of scotch tape. He pulled a pack of 4x4 gauze from the box and motioned at Sam's hand. Sam held his hand out, his brow furrowed. After Ramone poured the icy water over Sam's hand, he covered the wound with the 4x4 and wrapped the scotch tape around his hand a few times. Sam stood motionless, long trained to stand so as Dean or John tended his injuries. Soaking another 4x4, Ramone wiped the blood and tears from Sam's face and after studying the cuts, he put a Band-aid on one.

"That's the worst one," he said, straightening up. "Kid, zip up your fly," he tossed back at Sam as he went to the enclosure, grabbed a bag, then returned to Sam's side. After dropping in Sam's desired purchases, the supplies he'd just appropriated and a small can of mace, Ramone handed Sam the bag and returned Sam's watch. "Go on, I've got this," Ramone said. "Good luck. I hope your brother's okay."

Sam stared in surprise at him. "T-thanks," he stammered and ran out the door, clutching the bag to his chest as he headed back toward the warehouse.

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TBC.