A/N: Sorry for the delay… Thank you so much for your reviews, favs, and follows! This chapter's a little longer. Sorry again!
DISCLAIMER: I own nothing! I make no profit off of this. This is solely for my enjoyment and hopefully for the enjoyment of others! ;)
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Apologize : express regret for something that one has done wrong
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Sam switched off the burner and lifted the pan of scrambled eggs off the stove. He portioned out the eggs onto three plates alongside the buttered toast, sausage, and fruit that was already ready.
He sat the pan and spatula back down before ducking down to retrieve a tray out of Bobby's lower cabinet. The item in question was buried beneath a stack of baking sheets and ceramic bowls.
Sam huffed and began to slowly extract the dish, exercising extra caution not to make any noise.
The sun was just beginning to peek out above the horizon, bathing the salvage yard in an orange glow. Sam knew that the other men in the house would be up soon, all of them self-trained to be early risers.
Sam arranged the three plates of food on the tray before adding the three empty mugs he'd taken from the cupboard. He snagged the pot of aromatic coffee off its warming plate and filled each with the brew.
He added milk in one for Bobby, two small spoonfuls of sugar for his dad, and left Dean's untouched. The last items added to the loaded tray were silverware and napkins.
Sam double checked that he'd turned off the burner before lifting the heavy tray in his hands.
The sixteen year old bit his lip, eyes focused on the tray's wobbling contents, as he began his trek upstairs. Sam managed to make it up the staircase without too much trouble. He was so zeroed in on the tray in his hands that he didn't notice that another person had entered the hallway.
"Hey, Sammy, what–"
Sam gasped sharply, head whipping up as his hands lost their grip on the platter. Dean stood in front of him, bleary eyed and still clad in his pajamas.
The younger Winchester brother flinched violently as the tray flipped over and dumped its contents onto the ground. The china shattering was extraordinarily loud in the quiet morning.
Sam hardly dared to breathe as vicious tremors began to wrack through his body. Doors flung open with a bang as both John and Bobby emerged into the hallway, weapons raised and on full alert.
Nobody moved for a moment, everyone taking stock of the situation in their own way.
Then Dean sighed.
That was all it took.
Sam dropped to his knees and flipped the tray upright, hastily grabbing at the soggy toast and shards of porcelain. Hot tears were gathering in his eyes and blurring his vision as he haphazardly cleaned up the mess.
He hid his wince as the china slivers sliced into his palms, red quickly beginning to paint the floor as he continued to clean.
Sam ducked his head as a figure dropped down in a squat in front of him.
"Dude, stop."
He recognized Dean's voice but didn't, couldn't, stop his frenzied cleaning.
He was in so much trouble.
A hand suddenly invaded his line of vision, grasping for Sam's wrist. Sam pulled both of his hands to his chest quickly, scrambling to his feet and backing away. "Please, I– I didn't m-me-mean it," he stammered.
Through the tears in his eyes, he saw three figures approaching him slowly; two were holding weapons.
Sam felt like bands of iron were encircling his chest as it suddenly got very hard to breathe. "No," he moaned, wrapping his arms around his stomach as he continued to back away.
"Boy, ya got dinner ready yet?"
Sam switched off the burner and slid on the oven mitts. He grasped the handles of the giant pot of soup he'd made and heaved it off the stovetop. The teenager spun around slowly and headed towards the commotion in the adjoining room.
Ruben McCarthy or, as he made Sam call him, Daddy, had some friends over for dinner.
They'd all parked themselves at the dining room table as Sam had prepared the meal, occasionally bringing them new beer bottles when they'd drained their previous ones.
He'd listened to them making crude comments and jokes to each other all evening, each and every one of them spectacularly drunk. They'd taken turns calling out to Sam, demanding he hurry up making the food.
As Sam appeared in the doorway with the boiling pot of soup in his hands, cheers broke out around the room. A proud smile lit up Daddy's face as Sam rounded the table to put the food down in front of the man.
It was all going well until Sam's foot caught on a bump in the rug.
He stumbled a few feet, trying desperately to get his feet back under him. He'd almost managed it too when his foot caught another fold in the ancient rug.
All joy left the room as Sam pitched forward and all but threw the pot and its boiling contents at the man sitting at the head of the table.
The only thing Sam could hear as he hit the floor were Daddy's screams of pain as he was unexpectedly bathed in the scalding liquid. Sam quickly scrambled to his feet, bouncing off the back of another man as he suddenly rose from his seat, escaping the same treatment that his host had gotten.
Sam raced into the kitchen on wobbly legs and swiped all the towels he could find.
He hastened back into the dining room and began to frantically mop of what he could. A barrage of apologies spilled from his mouth as he tried to sponge the liquid out of Daddy's shirt and off his face.
A surprised scream mixed with pain erupted from his throat as a hand suddenly fisted in his hair and wrenched his neck back.
His hands flew up to grasp at the inflicting hand, terrified eyes meeting Daddy's anger filled ones.
"The hell kinda game you playin', son?" Daddy roared, grip tightening on his fistful of Sam's hair.
"I'm sorry!" Sam gasped. "Sorrysorrysorry!"
Daddy's lips pulled back in a gnarly smile. "Ya here that, boys?" He said loudly, addressing the room of five men. "He's 'sorry'."
Unsympathetic chuckles broke out around the room as the men looked on as if Sam's torment was a tv show for their pleasure.
Sam yelped as a foot shoved at the back of his knees, forcing him to kneel. His eyes began to water as the hand remained fisted in his hair, the grip tightening with the distance.
He gasped as the pressure on his scalp suddenly disappeared. His relief was short lived however when a boot collided with the space right between his shoulder blades. Sam threw his arms out of stop himself from landing on his face.
Before he had a chance to scramble away, the boot stomped onto the small of his back, effectively pinning him. Sam lay still, breath coming in pants as he tried not to think about what was coming.
The boot disappeared as Daddy suddenly crouched down next to him. Hands flipped him over and fisted into his shirt, pulling him up until his face was inches away from Daddy's.
"You're sorry?" He said mockingly. "Sorry ain't gunna cut it, son. Not only have you wasted ma food, but you also embarrassed me in front of ma frien's. And now they don' have no dinner neither."
Sam opened his mouth to apologize again, but he got the feeling it wouldn't go over well.
"Boys!" Daddy suddenly roared. Sam flinched at the volume. God, he'd done it now.
Fine tremors ran through Sam's slender form as he heard the other men approaching.
"Won'tcha join me in teachin' ma son a lessin?" Daddy smiled that awful smile again, displaying his gruesome teeth.
There was no hesitation.
Hands and feet flew, hitting every part of Sam they could with reckless abandon.
Sam tried desperately to curl into a protective ball, but the sheer amount of hits raining down on him made it near impossible.
Sam didn't know how long it lasted. He'd blacked out eventually; one too many blows to the head.
When he'd awoken next, he was still on the floor of the dining room, blood in his mouth and muscles and bones in agony. He didn't have the strength to move and found himself passing out again. The next time he fought he was back to consciousness, he was able to drag himself to his feet and up the stairs.
The lack of sunlight creeping between the curtains clued him in that it was nighttime.
He made it all the way to Daddy's room, cautiously pushing open the door. The man was sound asleep, covers thrown over his head.
Sam drug his feet over the carpet and lowered himself onto the foot of the bed as softly as he could, not wanting to disturb the sleeping man. He painfully lowered himself onto his side and curled up at the very bottom of the bed, his designated sleeping spot ever since he'd been brought here.
Just before his eyes slipped shut, he sent up his nightly prayer.
'Please hurry, Dean.'
"Sorrysorrysorry," Sam said, hands raising with palms out to ward off the three advancing man.
"Sam," came a deep voice that Sam recognized as his dad's. "We're not angry. We're not going to hurt you," John said calmly.
Sam knew that. He knew that. But two and a half years of nothing but anger and beatings and mental torment was not something he could forget easily. He knew his family meant him nothing but good, but he could never seem to control the frantic apologies that spewed from his mouth or the flinches whenever someone got too close.
He watched as Bobby's eyes flicked down to the destroyed breakfast on the floor and it suddenly occurred to Sam that he'd just demolished some of Bobby's possessions. The panic flared again as Sam continued to backpedal.
"Oh god, I am so sorry," he whimpered, turning his eyes on the older man. "P-please don't be mad. I'll fix it! I'll fix it, I swear. Just don't– I'm sorry."
Bobby frowned as he watched Sam's eyes rapidly flick down towards the hunter's right hand. Glancing down, Bobby saw that he was still brandishing the knife he'd snatched up when he was startled awake a few minutes ago.
Holding up his left hand with his palm out, Bobby slowly crouched down and set the weapon on the floor, trying to lessen some of the boy's fear.
Catching movement out of the corner of his eye, he saw that John was following suit, placing his pistol on the ground.
"No one's going to hurt you, Sam," Dean said softly, still advancing towards his brother.
Sam let out an involuntary whimper as his back hit the wall, eyes flicking around desperately for an escape.
Dean saw it in his eyes a split second before it happened.
"Sammy, don't you dare– Dammit, Sam!" Dean yelled as Sam turned tail and bolted for the stairs to his left.
When the brother's had been growing up and John had been training them, Dean usually came out on top of during the physical exercises. He'd win in their sparring sessions, he could field strip a weapon faster, he was generally the better marksman.
But the one thing Sam continued to beat him at was track. Dean blamed it on Sam's unfair advantage of weighing next to nothing, but when the kid ran, it was like he was a friggin choo-choo train.
This apparently was one of those times.
Sam took off like a bullet from a gun, reaching the bottom stairs before Dean had even cleared the first few.
When Dean's feet hit the landing, he saw that the front door was thrown wide, the gentle wind of the early morning wafting down the hall.
Dean barreled through the door, eyes frantically searching for his brother's retreating form. Worry forced his eyebrows together as he found utterly no trace or indication of which way his brother had gone.
He was just… gone.
"Dammit," he panted, his hands running over his hair before clasping that at the back of his head. "Sam!" He yelled.
He jumped as a hand was suddenly laid on his shoulder. He looked up into his dad's pinched face.
"We'll find him," John said firmly, lightly squeezing his son's shoulder. "He can't have gotten far."
But they both knew that was a lie.
As John hurried back inside to get his coat and boots, Dean lingered on the porch, eyes still scanning the salvage lot.
"Dammit, Sam," he repeated in a whisper this time. "Where the hell did you go?"
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