Chapter Nine

Sam remembered he was nine when Dean and Dad took him on his first hunting trip. They were tracking a rawhead through the old sewer lines with oil lamps and rusted iron pieces, broken off some old car and sharpened to an edge and wrapped in live wires. Sam had gleefully swiped at the air with his own small weapon, significantly duller than the others, as they tracked the creature that, according to Ol' Pam, tasted just like craw-daddies. Sam had never eaten crawfish. When he caught his first glimpse of the rawhead, he didn't think he ever wanted to.

It was emaciated and broken, with greying flesh rotting and peeling away in chunks. Sam felt fear clog his throat as the sunken eyes met his, gleaming with bloodlust. He wanted to cry out for his brother who stood several meters away, not yet seeing their quarry. The rawhead parted its dry lips, exhaling a rattling breath and a feral hiss, bending torn and bloodied knees as it prepared to strike. Sam gasped in a breath of air, stale with the tang of decay, and felt a squeak of fear pass his lips.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Dean turn as the monster leapt at him. Sammy squeezed his eyes shut, feet rooted to the moist floor in terror. Just as he was sure he would feel brine encrusted teeth close around his throat, a solid weight slammed into him, knocking him to the moldy floor and landing heavily on his left arm. An audible pop came from his elbow and he whimpered at the fiery pain in the joint.

He looked up, blinking through hot tears as his father drove his pike into the thing's chest, activating the connected taser and frying it from within. John turned back to his youngest son, breathing heavily as he knelt down next to him. Reaching out, he took Sam's arm in gentle, calloused hands, examining his elbow. Sam whimpered and turned his head away from the arm that was bending all the wrong way, and was surprised to find a familiar warmth pressed to his cheek. He hadn't even known Dean had moved before his arm was around Sam's back, supporting him, with his other hand smoothing Sam's hair away from his face soothingly. Sam relaxed slightly, leaning his head on his brother's chest.

He distantly heard his dad speak. "Dislocated. Dean?"

Without a word, Dean withdrew from Sam's side, causing him to whine in protest. He heard fabric ripping and lifted his head to see Dean ripping his flannel, one of the few pieces of clothing he had in semi-decent condition. Sam wanted to argue, but the burning pain in his elbow rendered him speechless.

Dean had begun tying a knot in the long piece of fabric he had created when Sam became vaguely aware of his father moving on his other side. He had barely turned his head before John roughly snapped his elbow back into place. Sam gasped at the cool numb feeling in his arm that lasted only a moment before his vision whitened out and he screamed at the blinding pain. Sam bit his lip, panting and blinking spots out of his eyes as he shuddered, meeting the pained eyes of his father and brother. Dean stepped forward, gingerly maneuvering Sam's arm into the makeshift sling and helping him stand. Sam relied heavily on his brother as they hobbled home. They feasted well on rawhead that night.

Until now, Sam had always considered that the worst pain he had ever known. As Maritza ripped away another swath of leg hair, along with at least three layers of skin, he found he thought otherwise.

"Sorry." The small pishtaco woman flinched in sympathy as Sam bit down on his fist to keep from crying out. "The latest trend here has been kinda…hairless."

Sam offered her a tight-lipped smile. "You all do this voluntarily?" He gasped out the last word as another strip was torn away.

Maritza shrugged. "What can I say? Beauty is pain. And for beauty here, well…it's hell."

Sam chuckled through gritted teeth. "Wonder how my brother's doing with this?"

Maritza smiled. "When we were assigned to you two, my brother Alonso and I drew straws to see who got who. He drew the short straw. I just hope your brother doesn't kill him."

Sam's snort was lost in a groan as the last bit of leg fuzz came away on waxy fabric. Maritza sat back, relieved.

"There. Done."

Sam sighed in relief. The past two hours had been agonizing and humiliating. He was pretty sure he had lost the last vestiges of his pride between plucking his eyebrows and waxing his legs. On the bright side, he had never smelled nicer; like lavender and vanilla.

Maritza took a step back, admiring her handiwork. The well-built fifteen year old looked terribly uncomfortable in his little lilac robe that was almost too small; arms crossed over his red, now completely hairless chest, feet swinging under the metal table he was seated on. Every few moments he tilted his head back and absently blew fluffy brown bangs out of his eyes, previously held back by dirt and grime. He hadn't let her trim them.

She smiled fondly at him. Sam still clung to the impetuous nature of a child in a world in which he'd had to grow up too soon. He reminded her so much of Alonso when he was young. Shaking herself slightly, she reviewed her preliminary checklist, absently swatting Sam's hand as he picked at his manicured nails. At length, she looked up with a smile.

"Time to meet your stylist. You ready?"

Sam swallowed dryly. "No."

Maritza barked out a laugh. "No one ever is. Don't worry. I promise he's more scared of you than you are of him."

Sam stood and she nudged him gently towards an elevator. He reached out for a button, glowing a faint blue before stopping short and turning.

"Maritza? Um..thanks for treating me like a person and not, ya know, Bantha fodder."

Maritza's cheeks glowed a dull teal as she smiled softly. "Despite appearances, we're not all monsters here."

He grinned at her, lopsidedly as he pressed the button. He barely caught her faint "good luck" as the elevator doors closed.

Leaning against the back wall and closing his eyes, Sam took a deep breath. The small, logical part of his brain, that sounded an awful lot like John Winchester, told him it was ridiculous to be nervous. He was meeting someone who would dress him up in some hideous outfit to be paraded around in a chariot with ribbons and sequins and crap. You'd think he'd be more worried about the impending death battle. He really needs to get his priorities straight.

Sam shut that part of his brain up. He had every right to be nervous. His first impression tonight on these rich idiots/sponsors may decide whether he lives or dies. He didn't want to end up like poor Garth Fitzgerald a few years back. The skinny fourteen year old kid had nothing on but strategically placed coal dust. He didn't last an hour in the arena.

Sam's breath quickened and he squeezed his eyes tighter. The polished metal box was beginning to feel like a cage. He shook himself roughly. It was already getting to him. Stupid Lucifer and his stupid Games.

Sam blamed the elevator. He'd never liked small spaces and the music was definitely not helping his sanity. Yes, volunteering was a rash decision. Yes, he was probably going to die because of it. But hearing Asia over the grainy speakers basically calling him an idiot made him want to bash his head on the walls.

"It was the heat of the moment!"

"Shut up!"

Sam jerked his head up at a startled yelp and a thud. He hadn't noticed the elevator doors opening. He blinked at the bright light coming through the wall sized window opposite him. A desk-sized shadow and an oddly shaped lump sat between him and the blinding light. The lump moved, touching something on the desk and the light dimmed. Sam could now make out the shape of a posh leather chair lying on its side and a man sprawled beside it. The man's left leg was thrown in the air and bent over the edge of his desk, his foot pressing a button. He turned his face towards Sam and smiled apologetically before attempting to sit up. Sam watched, frozen in fascination for a moment. It was like watching an overturned turtle trying to save itself. A skinny, pathetic, college-dropout turtle who was cursing in at least five different languages. After eight minutes of watching him fail, Sam moved forward to help, easily pulling the man to his feet.

The man gasped for a few moments. "Thanks. That, uh, wasn't a great first impression, was it?" He chuckled, nervously. Sam gave him a pained smile, embarrassed for the poor guy. He really did look sad in a stained and wrinkled hoodie, a pair of old sweatpants, and worn-out purple slippers that were at least three sizes too big.

Clearing his throat he extended his hand. "Chuck Shirley."

Sam grasped his hand firmly. "Sam Winchester."

Chuck grinned brightly, deep smile lines forming around his eyes. "Well Sam, I must say…you scared the living shit out of me."

Sam laughed, surprising himself. Chuck turned back to his desk, muttering something that sounded to Sam like, "why I got rid of the Sasquatch," as he retrieved a fallen pen. Turning back, Chuck adopted a calculating air.

"So Sam…the Parade of Tributes tonight will demonstrate your worth to all potential sponsors. It's up to me to make sure you don't look like you suck."

Sam's eyes widened. This guy? This guy was his stylist? Chuck seemed like a nice guy but he looked like a District Nine hobo. Chuck raised his arms in self defense, as if reading Sam's mind.

"Now, I know I look like Death's dead tooth right now, but that's only because I like being comfortable when I work. Trust me, I'm great at designing things. I can't rememberer I time when I wasn't creating random crap." He nodded reassuringly, mumbling again. Sam caught the words, "bouncy cat with a pocket," and "century long acid trip." Sam was so confused.

"So," Chuck rubbed his hands together excitedly, seeming to come back to Earth. "Let's get started."

AN: "Angie, write the parade."

"But I want to get to the blood and murder!"

"Angie…no."

Next chapter will be the parade.