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Sam stiffened as he saw his mother turn her head in his direction, then began inching closer to him with small, measured steps. She all but forgot about Dean, leaving him semiconscious on the blood-stained carpet. Sam tensed at seeing, not his own blood, but Dean's. It felt like he was ridden of what was left of his heart and was thrown to the dogs, then recycled for canned goods usage. It was bad. No- fucking terrible. It trailed off Dean's face, soaked through his clothes, and onto the carpet, seeping through the material with abundance. It was enticing to look at, in a bad sort of way, his eyes transfixed on the pool of red under and around Dean. He seemed aware, despite his condition- maybe too aware.
Sam turned back to face his parents. They now stood directly in front of him and were a mite less enthused than previously. Their eyes conveyed something he had seen frequently as a child-anger. Bloodcurdling, unadulterated fury. It wasn't often they gave a real, genuine smile. Unless, of course, they were going down on him, which was when the real, malicious grins broke out. He cringed. This was it, if he couldn't think of something fast there was no way he could escape this.
That's when he saw it. It was barely obvious to the human eye, but he caught it. It was Dean. He was inching over to the edge of the table, which displayed a small pocketknife with a nice, smooth handle with label of "JW" in gold lettering. John Winchester. Even if his parents looked back at him, it wouldn't be noticeable at all. And they did-they would look back to check on Dean every fifteen seconds or so and didn't even realize he had moved nearly two feet. Sam kept a straight face all the while. As he said before, if he expected to survive he had to play his part perfectly. And he could do just that.
He continued to look both his parents in the eyes, making sure to keep all eye contact off Dean and on him. It wasn't that hard, of course, seeing how his parents' obsession with him was becoming drastically obvious by the second. If he ever looked that way, however, it could end with his parents becoming increasingly suspicious, and he could live without. His parents had known him to be the kid with a mission, bold and determined. He may not be as strong as his parents, combined, at least, but he could stare anyone down effectively, with the right incentive. And his parents were more than aware of that fact. If he kept looking off to the side and trying to mentally rid himself of his parents, they would know. He'd be caught in an instant.
What they didn't know, however, was that he could lie to their faces and not get caught at all.
He kept his composure calm and chilled as he watched Dean slowly ease off the floor, using only his peripheral vision; his eyes never once strayed off his mother's, then his father's. Their faces were now inches from his, their eyes gleaming with a malice he was truly getting tired of. Ignoring it, he discreetly checked their weaponry. His mother still held a knife in her palm, her hand twitching to use it every so often, but his father stood confidently bare-handed. He was assured of the fact that he could knock his son out in a second's notice if he misbehaved.
By now, Dean had the knife and was walking back to the couple with slow, steady, and calculated steps. Everything had to be perfect. Sam watched from his side vision as he dodged some parts of the floor, as if he knew they would squeak from the weight. Dean, only inches from the Lautners, tightened the grip on his knife and thrust it at Sam's mother's head.
She ducked right before the knife connected with her skull, and twisted her arm around, connecting with Dean's left knee. He hissed in pain, falling to the ground with a thud. Sam attempted a kick to his mother, whom was right at his feet, but was quickly stopped by his father, who all but lifted him off the ground and flung him against the wall.
His head connected with the wall and he felt his vision begin to blur. He was almost expecting to see little birds floating around his head, chirping softly in his ear. There were no stupid birds, but they sure got a run for its money. A large, muscular, and exceptionally hazy figure walked over to him. Bending down to eye level, the person swept his bangs out of his eyes. Sam visibly cringed- it was no doubt is father. He could pick out those callouse, rough, and bloodwrenching hands in a heartbeat. Those same hands began to slowly caress his cheek, soothing the soft skin. Sam squeezed his eyes shut. Where was Dean? The last thing he remembered was his ass getting whupped by Mom. He was on the ground, but was he down for the count? No, he couldn't be, he had to be fighting his mother right now.
In the distance, he heard the shattering of a vase, and the breaking of something hard, sturdy- maybe be a table, or a chair. Or someone's skull.
Sam tried hard to keep his father's prying hands off-so fucking hard. It was no use, though. His body wasn't cooperating with the demands his brain was blaring out. He wanted all feelings, all emotions, gone. He couldn't handle this, not again. He tensed as the hands slowly went from his face and trailed slowly, mockingly, down his body. They stopped at the waistband of Sam's jeans, then crawled up his shirt. The hands were memorizing every square-inch of Sam, feeling every muscle, every scratch. He was disgusted as the hands teased him, demanded a response from him. He did nothing, however. He would not let this man win, he couldn't.
The hands grew more rapid as they crawled to the top of his shirt, and grabbed ahold of his chin. A strong pair of lips crushed his own, making his gag almost instantaneously. Sam, teary-eyed, was forced to breathe through his nose as his father defiled him further. He dropped the hand from his chin, and slowly moved it back down the shirt. Once again, they settled on the waistband of his jeans.
Suddenly, he heard something else fall, but it wasn't the sound of breaking glass, nor was it the spund of tearing cloth. A body. A body had fallen with a loud thud. There was one of two choices. One, it was his mother. Two, Dean had lost and now lay unconscious on the floor. Sam, disbelieving in God, prayed his fucking heart out it'd be the latter.
The hands on his chest were jerked away almost so instantaneously Sam wondered if they were there to begin with. He opened his eyes, and saw three figures and one off to the side, John, each having their fair share of blurriness. One lay on the ground, a woman...So his mother had lost.
That meant Dean won.
The other two figures were in a fighting stance, one in much worse shape than the other. Appearances are not what they seem, however, as the pominently more beat up figure could hold his own just fine. He could almost feel the rage radiating from him as he kicked the man's, his father's, gut. He did not tarry nor did he wait for him to fall. Instead, he held him up, then threw nearly a million punches a minute to the bigger, more muscular figure. It was a losing battle for the man. He lay crumpled on the floor, slowly easing into unconscousness. It was a short fight, but not nearly short enough. For Dean, at least. He was sure that Dean had won, but why was he still beating on the man, his father? He was already unconscious, maybe even dead. He didn't have to keep going.
But maybe he had to. In order to let out all his anger, all his fury, on someone other than Sam, he had to do this.
Sam watched as the violent fury turned into useless hostility. He was beyond drained, he had to be. The dark bruises all over Dean's body told a lot, but the real damage was all mental. He had witnessed Sam when he was most vulnerable, and that was something his mind couldn't lighten or rid himself the burden of.
Sam's vision had increased drastically since his father had thrown him into the wall. Not only could he see the contour's of Dean's body, but he could also see the lines of distress in his face, the small details an average person could never think to find. The eyebrows were furrowed in a hostile, malevolent position, but Sam thought nothing of it. He wasn't planning to do anything else to the man, nor the woman. He was all out. Everything he had had been drained from his body, there was no energy to keep him going.
In other words, he collapsed.
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Insight would definitely help; I would LOVE to know for future reference!!! Sorry it's so short, I just wanted to get something up so nobody'd hate me =)
Also, as i said at the beginning of the chapter, I have no beta and, once again, never double-checked this chapter so all grammatical, punctual, spelling, etc. errors are mine for the taking. I was in a bit of a rush to get this fanfic updated...
Remember to check out my new fanfic, "Left to Die"!!!
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