Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.) If you haven't read Full Moon, Fast Cars and Cracks in the Glass yet, you'll probably want to read those first or this probably won't make sense… Betaed by the wonderful Phx :)

Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed the last chapter, I really appreciate hearing your thoughts and feedback :) The next chapter will be up same time, next week.

Chapter 14

"Don't cry, Dean. Please don't cry."

But Dean was still crying, Sam could see the tears up close, making shiny tracks on the older man's cheeks. He tried to wipe them away, pressing fingers that felt numb and too-big to Dean's face. He could see the moon behind Dean, floating in the sky the same as it ever had, and the unconscious slump that Gareth had fallen into, and he remembered his vision, his certainty that Dean never cried.

Dean didn't say anything, only pressed his forehead hard against Sam's like he wanted to absorb Sam's body into his own.

It occurred to Sam that his hand was shaking against Dean's face, that he was shivering. Half naked and shivering. He pulled away quickly, trying to tug his clothes back to their rightful places before Dean noticed.

"Sammy…" It was a whisper, a breath of a word. Dean's hands were suddenly covering his, helping him straighten his shirt and the hoodie he wore on top, pulling it down to cover...

There was probably all kinds of filth stuck to his skin, he thought as his eyes scanned the dirty alleyway. Piss, vomit, garbage and rat shit, all over him. On him, in him. He tugged the sleeve of his hoodie down over one hand, using it to scrub hard at the backs of his thighs.

Dean's hands stopped him as his skin began to burn, gently untangling his body like it was a complex knot. He didn't meet Sam's eyes, even when Sam tried to reach out to him again.

"Here, Sammy. Here, let me…" He whispered, pulling Sam's pants up over his bare ass. Dean's fingers brushed against his hip bone, and Sam jerked before he could think about it. Dean rocked back on his heels instantly, his eyes wide like he'd accidentally killed someone. "Oh god, sorry, sorry, oh fuck…"

The look on Dean's face, the absolute terror of his expression, was what finally did it. Sam barely had time to lean to one side before he threw up.

Every muscle in Dean's body felt heavy and solid as rock, like he'd been holding the tension for days without release. He watched as Sam vomited, wet and messy onto the cold cement, feeling impotent, angry, and ridiculously stupid. All his training, all his experience, everything he was, it was all because he wanted – needed – to keep his family safe.

The most important thing he'd ever had to do, and he'd failed.

Sam, his beautiful boy, throwing up in an alley behind a not-even-worth-mentioning bar with his clothes torn off him and his body dirty and abused. Nothing, not anything Dean did, could ever take that back.

His breath hitched on a loud sob that turned out to be Sam's name. "Sammy-" He couldn't even comfort the kid. Couldn't risk touching him, even though it was all he wanted to do, because what if Sam thought it was…what if his mind linked it to…

He was worse than fucking useless, and he'd thought just the other day that he couldn't feel any lower, any more insignificant. What the fuck had he known? Right now he might as well be on the damned moon for all the good he could do.

Sam was shuddering now, his entire body wracked with tremors like he'd been submerged in ice water, except the curve of his pale throat and the thin ribbon of skin at his hip were shiny with sweat. It reminded Dean of the last time, the only other time he'd seen Sam abused, albeit in a way that was so far removed from this it was like comparing dogs to horses. Back in Elmstead, in that crappy little apartment Sam's father had rented; Sam had been on the floor, sweating and shaking like a junkie coming off a binge, Jim Miller a taunting presence behind Dean as he took the scene in. Dean had thought that day that abuse couldn't come any worse.

Tonight was just one revelation after the other, painfully ripping away his ignorance and leaving him dumb with it.

"I," Sam started speaking, his breath coming in tiny gasps, "I wanna…wanna go home now. Please."

The perfect emptiness of Sam's voice contrasted with his breathing, rapid pants that were quickly turning into hyperventilation. He was twisted around on the floor, his arms holding him over the pool of half-digested food swimming in alcohol that had just come up. He didn't lift his head, even as his breathing quickened, his hair covering what Dean would bet was a matching emptiness in his eyes.

His jeans were still unbuttoned, the crack of his ass showing above the waistline of his boxers.

"Sam… Sam, you gotta breathe." Dean leaned in, close as he dared, one hand hovering in the space between them like an unfinished sentence. "Sammy…"

A groan from over by the dumpster had them both freezing in place, Sam's uneven breath caught in his throat. Dean was on his feet with the gun in his hand, movements fluid like his whole life had been training toward this moment.

"No." Sam's voice stopped him before he could pull the trigger, again.

Dean looked down at Sam's wrecked expression, his awkward limbs. He was right; Sam's eyes looked lifeless and empty when they were turned on him.

"Don't." Sam said in the same dead tone.

Dean clenched his jaw around another sob. "Why not? Why the fuck not?"

"You can't kill someone. You can't be a murderer, Dean. I…I don't want you to be a murderer 'cause of me."

That had Dean lowering the gun. "What?"

With a visible effort, Sam pulled himself off the ground, leaning back against the wall as he hurriedly buttoned his jeans. "You can't. Not…not for this."

"Sam, he tried to…" He couldn't even say it.

"You can't kill him. You can't be like…" Sam's face seemed to crumple in on itself, his hair falling forward to hide his eyes.

"Can't be…be like what?"

Sam didn't get a chance to answer.

Something caught Dean's attention, some flash of movement from the corner of his eye. Before he could turn to check it out, his outstretched hand erupted in fiery pain. He recoiled instinctively, pulling it in with a yelp and falling back against the wall of the alley next to Sam.

The gun was gone.

"You sonovabitch." He looked up to see Gareth's bleeding and beaten face, one side already swelling up. He stood between them and the entrance, holding the gun that had previously been in Dean's hand. "You fuckin'…sonovabitch." Gareth repeated, anger twisting his misshapen features into something grotesque. "You ruined it, you ruined it all."

The big man aimed the gun at Dean's chest, stepping closer. Beside him, Sam made a tiny squeaking sound, pressing into Dean's arm.

"I'mma kill you for this, this was s'posed to be special, goddamnit, but you ruined it!" Gareth's eyes were stretched wide, his teeth bared like a rabid dog. Flecks of blood-tinted spittle dotted his torn lower lip.

Some of the cold fury that had possessed Dean when he'd first stepped into the alleyway, first seen Gareth doing that flared up again. He took his own step forward, leaving less than a foot of space between his chest and the barrel of the loaded gun, spreading his arms out wide to either side of him. "You-"

He was pushed back into the wall before he could finish, before he could even start, and at first he thought Gareth had shoved him.

But it was Sam, Sam standing between him and a gun, just like he had been that day in Elmstead, standing between Dean and his own abuser.

Gareth's aim faltered. "Sammy…"

"You don't call me that." Sam said, his words like dropped stones.

"Sam, I need you-" Gareth said, low and breathy and downright sickening. Dean attempted to shove past Sam, but the hand on his chest was surprisingly firm, pinning him to the wall.

"Get out of here before I kill you myself." Sam wasn't even looking at Gareth, his head turned toward the dumpster, and it would have been so easy for the scarred man to hit him, to aim the gun at Sam's head and order him to do whatever the fuck he wanted. But Gareth's arm was wilting under the weight of the gun, like Sam's words had sucked every ounce of strength from his body.

"Sam…" Gareth took a step into Sam's space, his hand reaching out to touch.

That was it. Dean shoved past Sam, swinging at Gareth's head.

They went down, Dean on top of Gareth. He took advantage of the position, slamming Gareth's head into the concrete. The big man groaned, his hands grasping at Dean's throat and rolling them so Dean was lying flat on his back, a knee in his stomach.

"Get off him!" Sam's voice broke into their struggle, but neither stopped.

The gunshot, loud in the enclosed alleyway, made them freeze.

"Get. Off. Him." Sam stood with his legs apart, the gun held firmly in both hands. It didn't stop the tiny shivers running like waves through his body though.

Gareth stood, his head pivoting between Sam and the gun, and Dean climbing slowly to his feet.

His attention was held when Sam took a step toward him. "Go."

"Sam…"

Sam's finger visibly tightened on the trigger of the gun.

Gareth's eyes narrowed. He backed away, turning and running as he reached the entrance of the alley.

Dean lunged after him, everything in him wanting to rip the man apart for daring to ever touch Sam.

The hand fisted in his shirt stopped him, turned him to face Sam's wide eyes. "You can't be like him, Dean, you can't." Sam whispered with frantic intensity.

"Be like who, Sam?"

Sam ducked his head, such an achingly familiar gesture that it stopped Dean's heart for a second. "You can't be like my dad. You can't…hate like he does. Please." He met Dean's gaze, the light of the moon catching the unshed tears rimming his eyes. "Can…can we just go home? I just wanna go home."

Sam leaned his forehead against the cool glass of the Impala's passenger window, letting the vibrations of the engine rattle around his head. In the night beyond the window, flashes of streetlights left photo-flare streaks across his eyelids. He huddled further down in the seat, tugging his hoodie tight around his waist.

"Nearly there, kiddo." Dean said, his voice breaking slightly at the end of the sentence. He'd been making inane comments for the last twelve minutes; the twelve minutes it took to walk back from the alley, to pass the laughing group of bikers outside the bar who for some reason stopped talking when they caught sight of the two of them like they knew what had happened, twelve minutes to get into the car, to drive down the street and back to Missouri's house. It hadn't been the home Sam was thinking of – he had no idea where that home might be, only that it involved him and Dean and no one else – but it would do. It was safe, at least, a place nobody unexpected could find him.

He didn't like being in the car, which was weird because it was the first place he'd thought of when he said 'home'. But as soon as he'd climbed inside his skin had started itching and crawling, and it had been all he could do not to jump right back out again. Touching anything, even just sitting back against the seat felt bad, somehow, and it finally occurred to him why as they pulled up outside Missouri's.

It was on him still, the dirt from the alley, stuck to his skin and his clothes and the soles of his sneakers. He was tainting everything he touched, spreading the infection.

Luckily Dean pulled up to the curb at that moment, and he jumped out of the car before the older man had turned off the engine.

"Hey, hey, what's wrong?" Dean scrambled after him, a look of open fear on his face. He winced as the words came out, his hand tightening to a fist on the shiny roof of the Impala. Sam noticed that he kept a foot of space between them. That was good. Dean couldn't be close to him, not while he was covered in filth.

"I…I gotta…" Sam couldn't even get the words out, his lip curling against the urge to spit, to hawk up everything inside himself, everything that had been there while Gareth was… "Shower."

The expression on Dean's face changed, shifted through a myriad of emotions before settling on determined. "Okay Sammy. Let me-" Dean reached out to take Sam's arm.

"No!" Sam said, louder than he'd meant to, but oh god Dean had to stay away from him until he was clean, he had to.

Dean froze, his mouth open slightly and his hand still in the air.

Sam couldn't care, not right now. He had to wash, but to wash meant going into Missouri's house, his shoes touching her carpet, leaving traces all over it that other people would step in and take with them. He stared at the path leading to her front door, seeing all the places he'd have to touch to get inside and feeling panic swelling up inside his gut. His breathing quickened.

"Sammy?" Dean's voice seemed to come from far away. "Sammy, calm down. Breathe, just-" He came closer, and Sam jerked away before anything could touch, stumbling backward into the car. He closed his eyes, imagining the filth spreading into the paintwork like a disease, like a virus.

"Sam!"

It was the last thing he heard as everything turned black.

Dean managed to catch Sam's body as it went limp, one arm around his shoulders, the other around his waist. The weight made him sag almost to his knees, cradling Sam to him like he'd been desperate to do all night.

He cupped the back of Sam's neck, arranging it to rest gently on his shoulder. Sam's face was calm and peaceful, and Dean wanted to laugh at how much he wished the same were true of Sam's mind.

Rocking him slightly, Dean allowed his own despair to overtake him, just for a moment. Nothing would ever be the same now. He'd allowed Sam to be hurt, and nothing was ever going to be the same.

He pressed a soft kiss to the top of Sam's head, mindful of the fact that he might not be able to kiss him again, not for a while. Maybe not at all.

He hooked an arm under Sam's knees, picking him up bridal-style, and walked toward Missouri's front door.

"…I just think…" There was a voice. Sam frowned, keeping his eyes tightly closed. If he ignored it, maybe it'd go away.

It had to go away.

"…we need to call someone…" A different voice. A woman's voice. Missouri's.

"…will you just let me look after him? I've been doing it for the past year, I know how to care for Sam!" Dean hissed, obviously trying to keep his voice down. A second later Sam felt the ghost of a touch, millimetres from his cheek. It hesitated for a moment before being snatched away. He wished it would come back, give him something to focus on, but at the same time he was glad that it didn't connect because no one should touch him. Not while he was dirty.

Footsteps, muffled by carpet. "I never said you didn't, Dean. I just think-"

"I know what you think!"

Sam could hear it in Dean's voice, the low warning growl as he built up to a massive explosion. He forced his eyes open before the older man could get going. "Dean?" His head ached, a lump forming at the back, and he remembered getting thrown into a wall. Stopped thinking quickly before the memory could carry on.

He tried pushing himself upright, but his arms felt weak and wobbly. Dean came into view, his face pale. "Sammy, god. Are you…how are you feelin'?"

Sam ignored him, glancing around the room. His room; or at least the room Missouri was letting him stay in. He was lying on the bed, and it made something in his stomach turn to think Dean must have carried him up the stairs while he was out of it, touched him before he could get clean.

"I…I want a shower."

Dean nodded, his lips pressed tight together.

"Sam, honey-" He looked over at the doorway, saw Missouri standing there with her hands covering her mouth.

Dean shot her a sharp look. "Missouri, I think Sam would appreciate some privacy while he showers."

"I'm sure he would." She met his eyes evenly. "Maybe you should step outside too, give the poor child some room to breathe."

"No." Dean didn't pause to think about it, didn't even bother looking at her as he snapped out his reply.

"No?"

"No. No, I am not going to step outside and leave Sam alone." Sam watched as Dean stood, facing off with the older woman. "It's my job to look after him."

Missouri's hand fell away from her face, her jaw tightening. Sam closed his eyes, expecting the start of yet another fight. He was surprised to hear her voice, gentle and soothing. "Sam, sweetie, you call me if you need anything. I'll be right downstairs. I'll make you some soup for when you're done in the shower." With a last disdainful look in Dean's direction, she turned and left.

Alone in the room with Sam, Dean stood awkwardly by the door. His gaze fell to the left of Sam's shoulder, like he couldn't quite bring himself to meet his eyes.

Sam pushed himself to his feet quickly, ignoring the way his vision swam and his head seemed to pulse.

"Do you, uh, want some help? In the shower?" Dean asked, stepping back when Sam moved too close. "Or I could wait here for you. It's up to you, whatever you want."

"I'll just be a minute." Sam said softly, shuffling out of the room.

"Sam, do you…do you want to go to the hospital? Just to get checked over?"

The sentence made his muscles lock. "No. I-I'm fine, I don't need a hospital."

"Okay, alrightthen." Dean said, placating. "I'll just…be here, waiting."

Sam felt the weight of Dean's eyes on him as he walked down the hallway, but the older man made no move to follow him. Something occurred to Sam as he reached the bathroom door and he paused to look back. "Dean? Can you…do you mind changing the sheets on my bed? And vacuuming the carpet?"

Dean cocked his head, looking remarkably like a puppy, confused but eager to please. "Uh…sure, if you want me too. Yell if you need anything, okay?"

Sam nodded and stepped into the bathroom, closing the door firmly behind him. After a second's thought he latched it tight too. The window was open, and he closed that and locked it, ignoring the vein of fear that ran through him when he caught sight of the pulled shower curtain in the mirror, the space behind big enough to hold two men.

There was no one in the room with him. Of course there was no one in the room with him.

He still took a deep breath before pulling the curtain aside.

The only thing he found in the tub was a soggy sponge, and he let out a breathy laugh at the absurdity of his own mind, the stupid tricks it could play. No one was in the room with him, the doors and windows were locked, he was alone.

Turning up the water as high as it could go, he stripped his clothes off efficiently. Hoodie, then shirt, then jeans, then socks, then boxers. The same way he'd always taken his clothes off, the only way that felt right.

Was he sure the door was locked?

The thought made his heart skip a beat, and he grabbed at his discarded clothes. He'd locked it, he knew he'd locked it…

He shuffled over to check, holding his bundled-up clothes around his waist like a shield. The latch was firmly in place, just like it was supposed it, and he pressed down against the metal with his fingers, just to make sure. The breath whooshed out of him in an audible rush and he turned back to the room, shooting tiny glances at the door from the corner of his eye. Just in case it unlocked itself.

Steam was fogging up the mirror, covering his reflection in veils of grey. Sam watched his face as it was slowly obscured, until he was just a pinkish blotch surrounded by ghosts. A faint fuzz of moisture grew on his bare skin, condensing into beads of water that pooled at the hollow of his throat and itched along his arms. He closed his eyes, taking big breaths of the damp air like it could clean him from the inside out.

Somewhere outside Dean started up the vacuum, the sound making him jump a little, bringing him back to the present.

Shower. He needed to shower.

The sides of the tub were slippery as he stepped in. Missouri's bathtub was huge, an old white porcelain bowl that curved to the lines of the body. It reminded him of the tub in Stephen's sprawling mansion-house, claw-footed with a curled lip around the edge that Sam used to pretend was a boat when he was little. He'd hold on to the edges with both hands and rock back and forth until the water sloshed with the movement of his body, imagining he was in the middle of the ocean, commanding the waves, making them do as he asked.

The hard beat of water on his skull instantly soaked his hair and ran into his eyes. He realised that he was still holding onto the bundle of clothes, now dripping with water. That was okay. They were dirty too.

Dean was vacuuming. It was actually kind of soothing, pushing the vacuum back and forth over the carpet, seeing the specks of dirt disappear like magic. Considering he'd never owned a vacuum before, he thought he was doing a pretty good job of it.

Why Sam had asked him to vacuum in the first place was a whole other story, one that had Dean mystified. But it wasn't like he could expect Sam to be completely rational right now.

He pressed the off switch, letting the hum of the vacuum cleaner die away. From down the hall the sound of water hitting skin was barely audible, but it reassured Dean all the same. He could do this, take care of Sam. He just had to take it one step at a time, be cautious, be supportive.

And then, when Sam was okay, he could hunt Gareth down and kill him. Slowly.

Sam was taking his time in the shower. Dean frowned. Surely it shouldn't take that long to wash?

He stuck his head out into the hall, glancing both ways. But the sound of the shower went on, and downstairs he heard a clang and a muttered curse as Missouri dropped something while preparing Sam's soup. Dean padded over to the closed bathroom door, pressing his ear close to it.

All he could hear was the patter of water. His fingers flirted with the door handle. Would Sam freak out if he just walked in? Should he call through the door first? Unless Sam was already freaking out, being alone for the first time since... Dean's mind flashed back to that alleyway, to the sight of Sam scrubbing at his own skin so hard he left rug-burn.

The door opening suddenly was the last thing Dean expected. He jumped back in surprise, stumbling over his own feet and hitting the wall.

"Sam!"

Sam stood in the doorway, his face bright pink from the heat of the water and his hair slicked back. He'd used what looked like every towel in the house, wrapping them around his waist and neck and chest so the only parts of his body showing were his bare feet.

"Dean? What-what're you doing?"

"I, uh…" Dean scratched at his temple. "I was just, checking, y'know…"

Sam pursed his lips tight. "Checking?"

"Yeah. I just thought…I just wanted to…make sure you were okay?" Dean chewed at his lip, hating the embarrassed flush rising on his cheeks. Of course the kid wasn't okay, he had just been attacked by a psycho.

Sam started walking back to his room, his hands clinging to the towels around his chest like they would protect him. "I'm fine. I just…need some sleep."

Dean trailed after him, pausing in the doorway to Sam's room. "Oh, yeah, okay, I'll…" The door closed in his face. "I'll get your clothes from the bathroom." He finished quietly, sparing one last look at the door.

He walked back to the open bathroom door. And stopped at the threshold, his stomach lurching.

The plug hole in the bathtub was stuffed with the clothes Sam had been wearing, a pool of water about a foot deep still filling the tub. Floating on the surface of the water were empty bottles of shampoo, shower gel, bath salts, mouthwash, toothpaste tubes. Every cleaning-based product Missouri had kept in her bathroom, used up and floating. The painted walls, the mirror and windows, the tiles on the floor, everything glistened with water and popping soap bubbles, like someone had hosed down the entire room.

Like someone had wanted it all to be clean.

Dean took a moment to turn the water off, feeling eternally grateful that Missouri didn't keep bleach in her bathroom, and then he turned and ran back to Sam's bedroom door.

"Sam? Sammy, can I come in?"

A muffled thud.

"Sam?" Dean held his breath, listening intently. But there was no reply, no movement behind the door. He turned the handle and let it swing open.

Sam sat on the floor, his back against the bed. His arms were wrapped around his legs, drawn up tight to his chest, and only a glimpse of his dark eyes was visible over his bare knees. He'd pulled on a pair of boxers, but apparently that was as far as he'd gotten in dressing himself. The towels lay discarded all over the room.

Sam looked wild, terrified like a cornered animal. Dean was able to feel the kid's emotions from across the room, he was strung out so tightly. He didn't say anything, avoiding Dean's eyes, but his fingers were twitching where they gripped his elbows, squeeze-release-squeeze-releasing, the movements so tiny Dean thought at first it was a trick of the light.

"Do I-do I do something?" Sam suddenly spoke, his voice small and afraid. But he sounded lucid, with it, which was more than Dean had expected after seeing the state of the bathroom. Cautiously he moved closer to the pathetic huddle of Sam, crouching down to him and cocking his head in silent question. "Do I do something to…lead people on? Make them think…"

"What?" Dean frowned. The question was about the last thing he'd been expecting from Sam.

"That guy, in the bar. Tristan. He thought…he thought that I wanted to have sex in the bathroom. And I couldn't tell that he was…flirting with me. I didn't know…and then he thought that I…that I'd been…leading him on or something. I didn't mean to, but obviously I was doing something. And then, tonight, Gareth thought that I wanted… What if there's some…mysterious thing I've been doing without realising it, and some other guy is going to think I'm coming onto him?"

"Sammy…" Dean breathed. "Sam, I promise you, you're not doing anything. Tristan, he was just a guy who thought he could get lucky. He just…he picked the wrong guy to try it on with. He was the one who saw things that weren't there, not you.

"But kid, you can't even compare…" He sucked in a deep breath, tentatively moving to sit on the floor beside Sam, making sure there was a good foot of space between the two of them, just in case. "Sam, Gareth's a fucking monster. A psychopath. He's no different to the things we hunt, except he happens to be human. He didn't care what you wanted."

"But I'm the one who followed him! Gareth just told me to come with him, and I did it without even thinking!" Sam raised a fist to his face, rubbing the knuckles at his eyes furiously. Dean could see the suspicious wetness that smeared over his cheekbones. "I'm just…so fucked up. I couldn't even tell…" His breath hitched.

"Sammy…" Dean whispered.

But Sam shook his head roughly, his wet bangs flicking water in Dean's face. His fingers clenched and then let go, leaving red handprints in the skin of his upper arms. "I'm gonna go to bed now."

Dean swallowed hard, nodded when Sam looked at him for a response. He pushed himself to his feet, watching as Sam made a concerted effort to act normal, pulling on a thin tee shirt, turning down the bed covers, setting the alarm on his cell – an act that Dean knew was mostly for his benefit.

He faltered with his finger on the lamp switch, his breath hitching.

"Dean?" Sam looked almost unbearably young, a lost and frightened little boy.

Dean caught himself before he could touch Sam. The kid wanted to prove that he was okay, even if it was obviously the furthest thing from the truth. Touching him would take away that thin illusion. But Dean would be damned if he was just going to walk away and leave Sam alone for the night. He took a deep breath and prepared to sacrifice his manly pride. Not surprisingly, it wasn't hard to do. "Can I…can I stay here tonight, kiddo? Just so I don't worry. I'll sleep in the chair…"

The tension in Sam's shoulders released and he answered before Dean could finish. "Yeah. Yeah, okay."