Author Note: I'm going to be away for three weeks from this weekend onwards so I'm releasing two chapters today to make up for it. I apologise if I don't get round to replying to messages or comments before I go, but I promise to reply once I'm back.
As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts!
Rex Hall sat with his head in his hands at the grimy dining table, an overwhelming sense of despair washing over him as another slap reverberated around the house.
He first thinks the kid's weak spot has got to be the bitch. After all, he has the audacity to call her 'mum' and his eyes darken at the sight of her being hurt. And maybe she is a weak spot, but she can't be his Achilles' heel, seen as he comes back out without doing the job.
It's funny how three years away from the sheets is enough to make the kid grow a sense of pride. He can see it in his gait, in his gaze. He now has a thin veneer of confidence and he speaks with force. He's even willing to die if it means not losing the pathetic amount of self-worth he seems to have gained.
Just as Rex starts to worry the kid really never will go back in there, he tries a different tack, a different pressure point.
And this one works. It works like a charm.
One mention of his brother being dragged down to his level and the boy's a begging, pleading mess. Rex feels glee surge up within him as he drives the stake further into the kid's Achilles' heel. A little part of his mind hates himself for it, but he just reminds himself that the thing in front of him took the one person he ever truly loved and he doesn't feel so bad anymore.
But now, listening to the hits land to nothing more than sharp breaths, he felt a deep, aching sense of shame. Dean was his mother all over. The same unwavering kindness, the same stubborn determination, the same willingness to give everything for those he loved.
But why should he love these people when I'm his father?
Rage rose up within him, hot and bitter. Why was he sat here pitying someone who felt nothing but hatred for him?
He was getting soft in his old age. Either that or this was a mid-life crisis of sorts.
The grunting and obscenities reached a crescendo and was followed by the sound of two bodies hitting the mattress. A few minutes later, the door clicked open.
Rex left the small dining room and headed up the stairs. At the top was Terry, an oxytocin-induced grin sloping across his face. "Another session and I'd say your debt's been paid."
Rex forced himself to smile back. "I hope he was alright in the end?"
"Oh yeah, I dunno what you said, but it really did the trick." Terry started down the stairs, grabbing his jacket from the banister on the way down. "I'll be back in a couple of days. Tell me if you need anything."
Rex nodded, watching until the tall shoulders disappeared out of the front door and the lock clicked shut once again. He then went into the room. The kid was tentatively sitting upright, a permanent grimace plastered to his face. One hand was cradled in the other.
Dean answered Rex's silent gaze. "He really started pissing me off towards the end so I gave him the finger." He lifted his right hand up, the middle digit hanging uselessly out of its socket.
"You can get that back in?" Rex asked, his voice gruff with concern he was trying to ignore. "Sorry about that."
"Save it." Dean bit out. He grabbed the finger and jerked it back in place with a pained whimper. "Don't say it if you don't mean it."
Anger flared up within Rex at the boy's cheek. "Don't talk back to me, whore."
There was just a stony glare from Dean, before his stomach rumbled loudly and broke the silence.
"There's food downstairs, go make three meals. And you'd better not give that bitch -" he noted the spark that shot through those bright green eyes at the term, "and her kid more food than they need."
The kid grunted and hauled himself off the bed. Rex started stripping the sheets off, trying to avoid the crimson stains left by Dean's weeping torso. The room had a lingering smell of sex and blood that made Rex's stomach curl.
Once he'd laid out new sheets and put the old ones in the bathtub later for Dean, he headed downstairs and stood by the kitchen door, watching as the boy rummaged in the fridge and pulled out a few reduced price ready meals that Rex had bought a week ago. Dean flipped them over and grimaced at their sell-by dates. Cautiously, he opened each in turn and sniffed them. The last, some kind of shepherd's pie, had the kid taking a step back and blanching before popping it in the microwave.
The whore seemed to have gotten picky over the years. So what if the food was a little off?
I always did make sure my kid had enough green in his diet.
Wincing at the grimness of the joke, Rex stepped into the kitchen as the microwave pinged for the last time and the third ready meal came out. Something akin to guilt flooded through him as he watched Dean set the curry and what looked like a bad attempt at a risotto on the two plates, leaving the shepherd's pie aside for himself.
"Why do you care?" Rex found himself asking, desperate to know how these people came to mean so much more to his son than his father ever had. "They're not blood."
Dean shrugged. "They're family."
He walked over to the basement door and waited patiently for Rex to open it, his jaw set and his eyes drenched in shame. Rex came over, unlocked the door, and put the gun to Dean's temple, trying to ignore the boy's flinch.
He opened the door and the bedraggled kid inside started to run towards him, rage etched in every fibre of his being, but he stopped short when he caught sight of the semi-automatic pointed at Dean's head.
"Wouldn't want my finger to accidentally slip, would we?" Rex said casually, delighting in the way all that anger so quickly gave way into fear. It seemed he'd found little Sammy's Achilles' heel too.
Dean saw his brother's distress and started to speak in a low, reassuring voice. "It's okay, Sammy. He's not hurt me." Dean advanced towards him, the slight trembling in his arms making the plates shake and giving away his terror. "I'm fine. Are you and mum okay?" Rex hit Dean's temple with the gun at the word but there was nothing but a quick blink from Dean in response. He was too busy straining his eyes to see Sam in the dark.
"Yeah, we're okay. Mum won't talk though; she's been sat silently in the corner all day." Sam looked over his shoulder and Dean followed his gaze with concern. He turned back and shot Rex a look that could only be described as murderous. "You're a monster."
Dean closed his eyes and shook his head. He silently handed the plates over to Sam and exited. Rex followed him out, locked the door behind him, and pocketed the key. He turned to see Dean leaning his forehead against the wall, his hand in his pocket, tears crusading down his cheeks.
The walls of the house were paper thin.
Sam didn't know what scared him more, the sounds from upstairs or the silence from his mum. Despite the rat that was sharing their living space with them, his mum had spent the vast majority of the last forty eight hours sat in the corner of the basement with her head resting on her bent knees.
She rarely spoke and ate only when Sam made her.
Most of the time, she just listened.
Sam listened too. The sounds of squeaking bedsprings, the grunts and whimpers, the crack of whips meeting pale skin.
The crack echoes for the fourteenth time. Sam's been counting. They're all followed by sharp breaths, but this one seems to have landed on a sore spot, for Dean yells 'fuckbugger'.
At that, Sam's mum lets out a hitched sob and buries her face in her knees once again.
He thought back to the scars running down Dean's back. That day at the beach, Sam had been desperate to know how Dean had got them. Now, he wished he'd never found out.
And to top it all off, it was all so Sam wouldn't be hurt.
The now familiar feeling of rage started to build up within Sam once more as he recalled Dean pleading to be the one that was hurt instead of him, the way he'd later said he was fine, all while those damn plates shook in his hands.
Sam hadn't wanted to eat after that. He'd sat and stared at the plates for a good hour before boredom got the better of him and he started eating forkfuls of mushy risotto.
Halfway through the shoddy excuse for a meal, he realised his mum still hadn't touched her food. He'd scooted over with her plate and gotten her to lift her head and swallow a few mouthfuls when the bedsprings had started squeaking again. She'd pushed him away after that and refused to eat another bite until the sounds stopped again.
It was hard to keep track of time in the dimly lit basement. Days and nights merged into one and Sam slept whenever he felt tired. It had been about two days since he'd showered and the toilet bucket was badly in need of emptying, the stench having hung around for so long Sam no longer noticed it. He just knew it was there from the way Dean's nose wrinkled when he came in to give them food.
Sam still had to fight the urge to hurt Rex repeatedly over and over again for what he was doing. It was even stronger after what he'd just overhead.
The front door shuts and the shower turns on.
It's strange, despite all that's happened, Sam swears he can still here a few, quiet, off-tune notes from Highway to Hell floating down.
That's Dean all over. Even hours of rape couldn't keep him away from classic rock. He remembers how fond Dean is of the Walkman he got a few months ago, how he'll always listen to it after a nightmare.
The front door opens again and the shower stops.
"He's upstairs, it'll be thirty for a suck, fifty for a fuck. Anything more is negotiable." There's the sound of rustling wallets and clinking keys. "There's a condom on the windowsill."
Sam hears heavy footsteps make their way up the stairs and he wonders if Dean feels the same mix of revulsion and apprehension that he does when the rapists ascend.
The bedroom door opens and the nightmare begins. "Getting yourself clean for me, boy?"
"'Course." Dean's voice is tired, like he can't be bothered with the small talk anymore.
"Why don't you come over here and show me how clean the inside of your mouth is?" the man says, his voice heavy and dripping with some dark emotion Sam can't quite put his finger on.
Then, as always, there comes the thud of knees hitting the thin carpet followed by the sound of a zipper being lowered before that disgusting, wet sound that makes Sam shudder.
"So eager, aren't we?" The same condescending tone laced with dark desire. "Beg me and I might let you, you little minx."
"Please, oh please, let me put the first part of my alimentary canal around your reproductive organs," Sam swears he can hear Dean's cocky smirk. He doesn't know whether to laugh or cry at his brother's bravery.
The man with the weird voice doesn't find it funny. For what feels like the millionth time that day, Sam hears the distinct echo of skin hitting skin. "Beg me properly, whore, or I'll get your daddy up here."
There's a quiet murmur that Sam misses, and it seems the rapist did too. "What did you say?"
"I said 'He's not my dad.'" Dean's voice is a heady concoction of defiance and barely controlled anger. "My da-" the words are cut off, and from the sounds of the gagging and grunting that follow Sam can guess what with.
The gagging stops soon after and the man speaks again, the sugar-coated voiced is tinged with a definite hint of anger this time. "Beg for it nicely this time, princess, and I'll go gently and not give you an ouchie."
Sam swears he can feel Dean's stony glare from down here. If Sam's correct, that man is seconds away from losing the ability to reproduce. Part of him wants his badass big brother to tear the man a new one and beat him to a bloody pulp, but most of him just wants the stupid jerk to play it safe and not get hurt. Sam can't listen to Dean's hitched breaths and bitten back screams again.
But it seems his brother's too stubborn for his own good, because soon after, there comes a call down the stairs. "Rex! Your whore's playing up! This isn't what I paid for."
Once again, footsteps make their way upstairs and the familiar feeling of dread grows within Sam. The rapist explains the situation to Rex and Rex replies with, "I'll have a word with him. He'll behave, I promise."
The man grunts and goes back in. Sam hears his brother being dragged downstairs and dumped directly outside their door. Sam wants to run to the door and pound on it and tell Dean how proud he is of him for fighting back, how sorry he is that he's being used as leverage against him. But Rex's threat to blow a hole into Dean's skull if he even hears a peep out of Sam or his mum hangs heavy in the air.
"Hand." Rex barks.
There's a small shuffle, followed by a low pop and a cry of pain.
"What the fuck did you do that for?" asks Dean, the words sound like they're coming through gritted teeth.
"Will you go back upstairs and do what Reece tells you to?"
There's no answer from Dean and that horrifying pop filters through the door once again. Sam finds his palms are now buried in his eyes, anything to block out the images of Dean's pain-crumpled face and dislocated fingers.
"I'll pull out your arm next if you don't answer me, Dean Hall."
"My name's not Dean Hall." Dean says, still sounding in pain, but there's a gravitas in his voice that makes Sam look up and listen. "My name is Dean Winchester."
And that's when Sam gets it. He's been asking himself over and over why Dean would go through so much for him, why he'd let himself be debased in so many ways just to keep him safe. After all, it's not like he's anything special. Hell, he's a weirdo who likes maths and law and eating fruit and veg. What was worth saving in him?
But now he understands. It's the same way Sam could think of nothing but saving his brother when Dean had been captured by the djinn.
Sam feels something in his chest tighten at the thought of having a friend who'd give so much for him. He wants to tell Dean that he's so lucky to have him, that he loves him and wants to hurt everyone who's ever laid a finger on him. But all he can do is sit and listen through these paper thin walls.
"Grown quite a mouth, haven't you?" Rex's voice sounds dangerously calm. "Your little brother in there looks like he's got a pretty little mouth on him too. I'm sure he'll be more willing to beg."
And through the silence, Sam can hear Dean's defiance crumble. You could pull the teen apart limb from limb but it'll always be this that breaks him.
Sam hates Rex for knowing this.
Soon enough, there comes a quiet 'sorry' and the sound of lighter footsteps up the stairs. The bedroom door opens and shuts once again.
"Will you behave now?" The rapist's voice is tentative, but there's a triumphant ring to it.
"Yessir. Sorry sir." That's not Dean's voice. That's the sound of someone who's stopped putting up a fight, raw and hollow and oh-so-quiet. That's the sound of a living corpse.
Sam retches and stumbles to the toilet bucket to empty his stomach. He rests on his knees, vomiting until he's reduced to dry heaves and sobs.
The walls of this house are paper thin. And Sam finds he can hear everything.
When Rex came in with Dean in tow a couple of hours later, Sam tried to flash Dean a quick smile.
He wasn't looking their way. In fact, he seemed to be trying to look at anything but them. As he came closer with the plates and Sam started to take them from him, Dean said, "I'm sorry."
Sam looked at him, bewildered. "You mean for us being here? It's not your faul-"
"No, what I said earlier about my name. But I'm sorry for that too," Dean spoke quietly, staring at the floor.
Rex cleared his throat and Dean started to walk back. He'd only taken a couple of steps when their mum stood up for the first time in what must have been at least twelve hours. She walked over to her elder son, and wrapped her cold, weak arms around him.
"You're Dean Winchester. You always have been."