Trigger warning: Non-graphic description of rape. Skip the part in italics if you want to avoid that.
Sam urged himself for the umpteenth time to ask to leave the room and go see Jess. But every time he came to open his mouth fireworks went off in his stomach and he found his jaw clamping shut again.
"So we have Heathcliff being taken in by Mr Earnshaw. We get hints about his dark side, lines like 'as if it came from the devil' imply that he doesn't fit into his new family, he's going to be the downfall of the house. He's described to be 'dark' and that links in with the idea of black and white, good and evil. It's like the rest of the family is pure and untainted, whereas he's the black spot that can never be clean."
While Dean had been working hard to take notes previously, Sam noticed he'd started gazing off into the distance, pen unmoving in his hand.
"Dean, are you still with me?" Billy shook his shoulder.
"Uh, yeah, yeah, evil in the family, going to bring down their happy little existence," he started scribbling again.
"I baked some cookies, anyone want some?" Jess walked in, wearing a yellow dress with floral patterns again.
Why am I even thinking about what she's wearing?
What the heck is wrong with me?
(Though it does really suit her)
(Goes really well with her hair)
Seriously… what on Earth is wrong with me?
"I-I'll have one," Sam felt his cheeks flush crimson for the second time that day.
He didn't miss Dean's smothered snort.
He took a cookie and bit down. It was slightly burnt on the outside but the excess of chocolate inside more than made up for it.
"It's, it's really good," he felt a huge (quite possibly goofy) grin spread across his face. God, he was an embarrassment.
"Thank you," she smiled and turned to the boys lying sprawled across the floor, surrounded by papers and anthologies, "Either of you want one?"
"Not if you made it."
"Wasn't offering it to you anyway."
"You said 'either', that includes me."
"Shut up."
"Yeah, shut it Billy, I'll take one, Jess," Dean took a large bite, "Sammy was right, they really are good!" He sent a wink Sam's way.
Sam was so busy looking anywhere but at Jess, he forgot to be annoyed.
Having returned the plate to the kitchen, Jess came over to the sofa as the older boys continued with their character analyses.
"I dunno, if you really like listening to my brother drone on, go for it. But if you're a bit bored, we could go for a walk, it's a nice day."
Sam jumped up with relief. "Let me just get my jacket."
Jess's mother had restricted them to the hill outside their house (because everyone knows axe murderers live just over that hill) and they had to get back in an hour. It wasn't as long or as far as Sam would have liked but anything was better than listening to any more about Heathcliff and Cathy's undying love for each other.
"So how come your brother's having to copy up all the notes for Wuthering Heights? They covered it all in school, didn't they?" asked Jess, her dress clinging to her knees.
Just a friend.
"He went to a different school until recently. I think they did 'Of Mice and Men' there instead. Dean keeps saying "I like machines" while patting the Impala."
"Impressive that you managed to deduce the book from one quote."
"Nah, I asked Mum. Nothing to do with my little grey cells," Sam spoke absentmindedly as he tried to avoid some horse manure.
It was only when he looked up again that he saw the wide eyes and even wider grin on her face. "Poirot?"
"You read Agatha Christie books?" asked Sam, delighted at not only finding another reader, but also for finding a legitimate reason to like Jess apart from the weird part of his brain that kept saying she was pretty.
"Mhmm, now the question is… Poirot or Miss Marple?"
"Miss Marple, definitely. Poirot's a little too idiosyncratic for me."
"Idiohooha?"
"Sorry, idiosyncratic just means odd little behaviours that only that person does. That what Mr Morris, my English teacher, told us." Sam didn't know what to make of the slight hint of amusement in Jess's face. "It's my word of the day, today," he blurted out before he could stop himself.
Jess laughed. It was a sweet, open, laugh that made Sam smile at his own awkwardness. "But that's half the fun of Poirot, his quirky little habits!"
"Poirot's not bad, I just like the way Miss Marple seems like this typical, nosy, old lady but really, she's as sharp as razor blades. It really shows you that people tend to be really different to how they seem to be."
Jess considered Sam's words, looking back over her shoulder at the house at the base of the hill. "That sounds a bit like Dean."
"What do you mean?" Sam was genuinely curious as to how Dean could be similar to a spinster that liked to solve murder mysteries.
"Well, when Billy first spoke about him, he said he was a weirdo who didn't talk to anyone and seemed scared of everything. But look at them now. They're best friends who can't shut up about what's the best type of pie." Jess stopped to shake a stone out of her shoe. "I think Billy just needs a while to make friends with anyone, really."
"I don't think it's his fault he came to that conclusion. Dean wasn't exactly the nicest to Priya on his first day. I can imagine Billy being annoyed at someone who was rude to his friend."
"Dean seems alright, if a little quiet, if you don't mind me saying so."
"Nah, I don't mind, it's true," Sam glanced over his shoulder as they approached the crest of the hill, "I wish he wasn't."
Once at the top, Jess smoothed out her dress and placed herself on a patch of bracken, while Sam plopped himself down, his ever-growing legs folding up beneath him.
"I mean, I don't mind him being quiet, heck I don't even mind his antisocial side all that much. It's when I feel like he wants to say something, but he doesn't. He seems to want to avoid any kind of argument or confrontation."
"Wait, you want arguments? We should swap brothers, you'll get plenty of arguments with Billy," said Jess, rolling her eyes.
"No, no, it's not that. It's just- " Sam looked down at the house in which his brother was eagerly trying to catch up on around a year's worth of English lessons, eagerly trying not to be a disappointment. "That cast on his leg, that's my fault, but he must have apologised a bazillion times for it. I'm the one who ran into the middle of the road without looking, I'm the one who should be sorry he broke his leg saving me, I'm the complete idiot in all this. But no, he blames himself for everything and it makes me mad." Sam remembered where he was when he felt Jess's hand rest lightly on his. "Sorry, I'm rambling again, I'll stop."
"It's alright. And not meaning to sound soppy or anything, but surely you can see it's because he really cares about you?"
"Oh trust me, I can see that. How many people jump in front of a car for you? If anything, I wish he cared less."
"He's your older brother, what else did you expect?"
He drags himself onto the toilet seat and rips a few sheets of tissue off, for once not caring about being 'wasteful' or 'inconsiderate' of his father's hard earned money. He knows how much his father owes him.
"Terry, stop trying to fucking deny it, I've seen you eyeing him up and I'm okay with it. In fact, I'd like to make you a deal. Come over here, bring a hundred quid with you, and have your way with the boy." His father paused, listening intently. Then a drunken smile spread across his face, "Completely unused goods. Don't forget to bring the money." He ended the call.
He dabs away as much blood as he can, then takes some more tissue, folds it up, and places it in his oversized boxers. Using the edge of the bathtub to pull himself up, he hobbles to the sink, careful to keep the tissue in place, and watches the scarlet rivers drain down the plughole.
His cheek twitches from the irony as he realises he's grateful for the blood. The blood stopped the chafing after the first few thrusts. The blood acted as a- what was it? He knew the word. He'd met it before. Lubrifant? Something like that.
He shouldn't have said it. It was a lie, a damned lie. Almost a statistic.
"It's not my fault mum died."
It was. There was nobody to blame but the boy she had been pushing out when her number was called. He had yelled it when his father had once again accused him of what he had spent a lifetime holding himself accountable for. He was the reason his father drank. He had nobody but himself to blame for the fact he couldn't be like other kids. He was the cause of all misery in a poor widower's life.
The man had arrived in less than half an hour. He had pulled his shorts and boxers off in less than half a minute. The agony of forced entry had bloomed in less than half a second.
He coughs into the basin, his voice hoarse from the name calling. Everything from 'poohead' to the more exotic 'junkless pervert' had been exhausted. The man hadn't listened. The man hadn't stopped. The man had held down his throat until he could do no more than let his body be a mannequin 'til he'd served his time.
He looks up at the mirror. The finger-shaped bruises around his neck will fade. The repulsion he feels when he looks into his eyes to see the filthy, stained soul underneath is far more permanent.
The man ran his hand down his back one last time before smacking his rear and getting up. "I'll be back," said the man.
He thinks about the line as he shuffles into the living room. He's heard the line before. Something in school. Probably something to do with the magic media box his father does not approve of. Termites? Termination?
A little part of him wishes something would terminate him.
He lies down on the carpet, glad the evening is warm, and places his head on the worn pillow. Thank God for creature comforts.
His father is sat at the table, a glass of Scotch in one hand, five twenty pound notes in the other. Their eyes catch and his father averts, knocks back the drink, and leaves.
It's only when he hears the bedroom door click shut he allows the tears to spill. His entire body shakes as he tries to come to terms with the fact he has now been broken in every way one can be.
"Hey Jude, don't make it bad," he sings, his whispers broken by sobs, "take a sad song and make it-"
He can't remember the next word. He strains his memories, trying to remember his father's drunken, tuneless, crooning of his mother's favourite song.
"Better." Better. He even feels better now he's remembered it. Marginally so, but if anything is going to go right today, he is going to remember this. He is going to hold onto this like a glowstick in the dark. Utterly useless and yet all he has.
Suddenly, the floor starts shaking. He feels his body rock, especially his shoulders.
The singing gets louder. It is no longer his voice.
"Dean! Are you alright?"
Dean jerked his head up to find himself in the year eleven common room of Moreton High, Billy on his left, holding the arm he'd just been shaking to steady him, and Priya on his right, offering him a tissue.
Confused by the tissue, he rubbed his fingers across his cheek, they came off wet.
Shit. He'd tried so hard not to fall asleep. But the exhaustion of revising late into the night for the upcoming exams was taking its toll.
"Remember to let her into your heart," the common room speakers continued to play the best of The Beatles.
The man. The first one. His hand wrapping around Dean's. His tongue gliding along his neck.
The croaking voice, the forgotten lyrics, the desperate wish to be clean.
"This song. I've-I've got to go." His voice broke as he fumbled to get his rucksack onto his back.
With the aid of his crutches, Dean walked into the deserted middle yard, pausing intermittently to wipe away tears to find more soon taking their place.
"Wait up, Dea-ow!" Priya ran straight into his bag as he stopped short. Rubbing her nose, she continued, "What was that about?"
"Nothing, the song…" He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping to black out the images, "Nothing."
"What song?"
If there was anyone in this new school he trusted, it was the girl stood in front of him, wishing to only help, showing only concern. Still, there were some stories not made for sharing.
"I'm fine, really, must just be my time of the month." He tried for a patented Dean-grin.
"You do realise that wasn't funny?" she said, bluntly.
Dean knew it wasn't. But being seen as a dick was better than being seen for who he was. He didn't reply and let the silence grow.
In the end, she broke it. "Do you want to talk about it?" she asked as she leaned against the pillar next to him.
Dean shook his head lightly. He might have been acting a little emotional lately, but that didn't mean he was up for all the sharin' and carin' shit.
"No."
She lifted up his left wrist, exposing the two white scars and the Pandora's Box full of bad memories. "Will you ever talk about it?"
Damn girl didn't miss a thing.
"No."
She let go of his hand. Dean found he missed the feel of her warm skin on his.
"Well, if you ever change your mind, feel free to drag me out of whatever I'm doing and ramble on at me for however long you want."
"Thanks," he said, smiling as the Led Zeppelin lyrics replaced the melody that haunted his dreams.
She laughed and punched his shoulder. "Don't mention it, that's what pain-in-the-ass friends are for."