A/N: I am… so sorry. I didn't mean to disappear….
DISCLAIMER: Not mine.
T/W: This chapter contains mentions of sexual assault
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War-weary : exhausted and dispirited by war or conflict
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Sam's grip on the edge of the chair intensified with each passing second, knuckles whitening under the pressure.
His eyes were screwed shut so tightly that his nose was starting to twitch. He repressed a flinch at the snikt of sharp shears working close to his left ear. "Almost done, Sammy," John Winchester's voice rumbled beside him.
Midway through breakfast that morning, Bobby had received a call from a group of hunters wanting to come by and make good use of his hoard of rare tomes and pick the elder hunter's brain. Claimed they were stumped on a hunt and needed better knowledge than the internet could offer.
When Bobby had relayed the conversation to the Winchesters, Dean had instantly objected, stating that he didn't think Sam was ready to be around other people just yet. Especially not hunters and especially not a group of hunters. Hunters weren't known for their mollycoddling and Dean wasn't going to put Sam through any ordeal he didn't have to.
John had, of course, rebutted, arguing that it might actually do his youngest some good not seeing the same three people every single day.
Bobby put in his two cents stressing that it'd only be a small group, which only added fuel to the fire. Harsh tones were adopted and angry words were hurled, which resulted in Sam disappearing beneath the table with his hands clamped tightly over his ears, begging any entity that would listen to let it be over.
In the end, Dean was overruled. The hunters would be allowed to come in with strict instructions not to touch, talk to, or even breathe in the direction of Sam.
Dean had tried to comfort Sam by saying that the two of them could just stay upstairs or hang out in the salvage yard. It was a nice day out, after all.
But John had, yet again, cut in and told them that they were expected to help out with this in any way they could. Winchesters don't hide. Which led to a discussion about appearances, which led to talking about Sam's appearance, which is how he ended up in the wooden kitchen chair with his father hacking away at the shaggy mess that had been the result of going almost three years without regular trims.
Dean had offered to do it and, to be honest, all three Winchesters knew that Sam would have been a lot more comfortable that way. But John was sticking to his guns: Sam was becoming dangerously codependent and he needed to put a stop to it or the boy would never be able to fully readjust to normal life.
So Dean had been sent off to pass time with Bobby in the garage while Sam fought hard to suppress the desperate need to bolt from the chair and straight to his brother's side.
"Breathe for me, kid," came John's voice again, one heavy hand falling onto Sam's shoulder. Sam gasped, both at the sudden touch and the realization that he'd been holding his breath without meaning to. He shied away from his dad's hand, still not the most comfortable with physicality from anyone other than his big brother.
He knew he'd upset John if the heavy sigh the older man released was anything to go by.
"Sorry!" Sam said quickly, forcing himself to sit upright even though every instinct in him was screaming at him to duck and cover.
John didn't say anything though. He just shook his head and squatted in front of Sam to gauge his handiwork. Sam barely dared to so much as blink as John squinted, scrutinizing the haircut. Sam felt his heart start to pump harder as a small smile appeared at the corner of John's mouth.
"I missed those eyes," he said, almost to himself. He shook his head minutely then stood back to his full height. "All done. You want to go get ready for our guests?"
No, Sam really didn't want to, but what choice did he have?
With half the amount of hair he had had before he sat in the chair half an hour ago, Sam rose and gingerly skirted around his father who was bent sweeping up the loose hair. The youngest Winchester made his way up the stairs, stepping lightly to avoid making any noise.
Upstairs, he changed out his sweats and into a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. He was just slipping his boots on when he heard a sudden cacophony of voices in the hallway below.
A familiar tingling burst from Sam's stomach and sent tendrils of unease all over his body, all the way to his fingertips. He felt slightly sick to his stomach and somehow the room was suddenly 20˚ warmer while his skin felt like he'd just stepped out of the antarctic ocean.
Whenever Daddy had had friends over, he had always expected Sam to be present, refilling drinks, fetching miscellaneous items, ready for whatever the group needed/wanted. It seemed John was no different.
What did he say at breakfast? "Winchesters don't hide."
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Sam popped the top off yet another beer bottle. He'd opened too many to count and it wasn't even dinnertime yet. Bobby's professed small group had turned out to be more like five men. They were exactly what you expected hunters to be: chiseled, grizzled, and unfiltered.
Sam had just been descending the stairs when Dean had reentered the house earlier, shooting a death glare at the house owner when he saw how many people showed up.
Bobby had the good sense to look a little penitent as he sized up the group himself.
Dean, Lord bless him, had done his best to stay close to Sam's side as much as he could, but John Winchester was nothing if not stubborn. He kept summoning Dean away for some menial question or task , keeping his older son occupied and hoping it would eventually start to reassure Sam that he didn't have to have his brother around to be comfortable.
But oh how wrong he was.
Dean had seen it coming from a mile away. What infuriated him was that the situation could have been prevented had the two elder men of the house listened to him during their argument at breakfast. When were they going to learn that Dean always knew what was best for Sam?
Bobby, John, and one of the other men had stepped out onto the back porch to get some better light for a map they were trying to read.
Another one of the hunters had Dean occupied in the kitchen, deep in discussion about a supernatural creature's hibernation habits.
Which left Sam to fend for himself.
He carried the freshly opened bottle into the study and quickly placed it in front of the red-headed man who had requested it. He was about to make an equally quick escape when the red-haired man addressed him.
"Your name's Sam, right?" The man said, folding his arms on top of the book he was browsing.
Before Sam could even muster up a reply, another voice spoke up, from the vicinity of the couch this time.
"Beck! Shut up. We're not s'posed to bother the kid, 'member?" This man was older and missing a good chunk of his nose.
"Oh hush," Beck retorted. "I wasn't even doing nothing. Heard you was taken by some run of the mill humie. That right?" He turned his attention back on Sam.
It was as if his tongue had turned to ash, choosing to stick to the roof of his mouth rather than function as designed.
He started to slowly retreat, completely unable to form a response to Beck's question.
"Damn son. Calm down," Beck chuckled, reclining in Bobby's chair as if he had brought up the weather and not just referenced the most traumatic experience of the sixteen year old's life.
Sam flinched at the sudden sound of a heavy book snapping shut as the other hunter tossed his reading aside. "Now look what you did," the man said, sighing heavily and starting to get up from the couch.
"Can it, Greer," Beck said lazily, lifting his fresh beer and taking a few sips.
Greer was now fully on his feet, pacifying hands stretched out to the room's youngest occupant. "You're okay, kid," he said softly.
But everything within Sam was screaming that the hunter was lying, that there was nothing okay about this situation, that he needed to turn and run.
He took another coltish step backwards then jumping about a foot in the air as he backed into something warm and solid. With a gasp of horror, he whirled around and encountered yet another hunter, this one taller than even Sam himself was.
The man was blinking owlishly, one hand holding a beer at chest height. A beer that had sloshed over the front of the man's shirt, thanks to Sam's blind retreat.
"Oh no…" Sam breathed. "Oh no no no…. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," he moaned, retreating back the way he'd come. He yelped as an unforeseen hand suddenly gripped his upper arm. It was Greer, attempting to be nice and steady the obviously freaking out kid.
Sam wrenched his arm away but put a little too much force into the motion, sending himself crashing to the ground unceremoniously. All three hunters lurched into action the second the saw the young Winchester going down.
Beck scooted around the desk while Greer and the other man both dived after Sam in an attempt to catch him or at least break his fall. By the time Sam looked up, all he saw were three imposing figures lunging at him from the high ground.
A strangled sound escaped his mouth as he scrambled back as fast as his limbs would carry him on the ground, absolute terror clouding his senses, throwing rationality out the window as he balled himself up against the wall.
He felt multiple pairs of hands grabbing at him, attempting to pull his arms away from his face, trying to pull him upright.
Sheer panic streaked through his body like lightning.
Instinctually, he screamed out the one wholly formed thought in his head.
"Dean!"
"Who's this, Rue?" A yellow toothed man with a poor combover leant in to inspect Sam's face up close.
"Tha's ma boy," Ruben McCarthy said offhandedly as he flipped through the stations on the tv.
Sam was stood just behind Daddy's armchair, right where the man always made him stand when it was television time.
It was open house Wednesday, the one day a week where Daddy had an open door policy. Anyone could come in at any time for a beer and a chat.
Sam hated open house Wednesdays. Daddy attracted the weirdest crowd of people and they almost always took an unhealthy interest in his new "son". Sam had never seen this man before. He couldn't have been older than 60, if his attire and hairstyle was anything to go off of.
"Cute," was all the man said before leaning away and plopping himself down on the sofa. In less than thirty seconds, Sam had dashed to the kitchen and grabbed the man a drink and placed it in his hand.
"Fast, too," the man cackled, raising the bottle to his lips.
Sam stifled a yelp as an unseen hand delivered a sharp swat to his backside.
"Fast and firm," a gruff voice spoke up behind Sam.
The fifteen year old fought against his internal instinct to run, knowing that the beating he'd get later for it wouldn't be worth it. He could endure another Wednesday. The man who had delivered the slap was a regular on Wednesdays. His name was Wayne and Sam liked nothing about the way that man looked at him.
But Wayne never did anything more than slap or pinch or look. Oddly enough, it was the looking that bothered Sam the most. There was something animalistic, almost hungry, in his eyes and it didn't make Sam feel safe around him at all.
What worried Sam was that if Wayne ever did get the gumption to try anything, Sam was almost positive that Daddy would do nothing to stop it.
As it turned out, Sam was about to have both of his fears come to life.
Open house Wednesday was coming to a close. Sam had gathered the majority of the dishes and was making quick work of the pile. Daddy was still vegetated in front of the couch, eyes mindlessly tracking the characters of an old western.
Mind submersed in his task, Sam failed to notice that the kitchen had gained another occupant until it was too late.
Rough hands grabbed his around the waist and yanked him backwards, flush against another, taller body.
Sam's heart stuttered, mind instantly going blank as an arm wrapped around his stomach, pulling him in closer. Dread traced clammy lines along his skin as the man Sam immediately knew to be Wayne began to press sloppy kisses along Sam's neck.
The teenager was frozen in horror, unable to get his body to react, until Wayne's free hand began to slip under his shirt, fingers teasing Sam's waistband. Instantly, he reacted.
He stomped his foot down on Wayne's, causing the older man to grunt and lean forward slightly. Knowing Wayne' s head was now at the proper height, he threw his own head back and connect it smartly with Wayne's nose, resulting in a beautiful snapping sound.
Wayne's arms released Sam in favor of grasping as his now streaming nose. Sam raised the soapy dish that was still between his hands and brought it crashing down over the man's head. The weight of the porcelain and the force with which it had been wielded, brought Wayne to his knees.
Sam turned to escape, but Wayne was quicker. He snagged a hand around Sam's ankle and brought the teen crashing to the ground.
Sam yelped as he connected with the tile but didn't allow himself to be distracted. He quickly flipped onto his back just in time to see Wayne lunge at him and all but tackle the boy.
"Get off me!" Sam yelled as Wayne latched onto the boy's wrist, after crossing them over the teen's chest, bodily pinned him to the floor.
Where earlier there had been thinly veiled desire lurking in Wayne's eyes, now there was pure animalistic need blazing.
Sam struggled to no avail; Wayne had too much of an advantage. So he did the one thing he thought might bring relief.
"Daddy, help! Help!"
Wayne paused in his struggle and strained his ears for Ruben's response. When none came, a downright wolfish grin split his face.
"Nice try."
As the absolute swine of a man lowered his mouth back to Sam's neck, Sam cried out for the one person he wanted most.
"Dean!"
"––you do?!"
"Nothin'! We was just––"
"Why would––"
"––alm down, dude. We didn't––"
"––gotta breathe, Sammy. Hey! You––"
"Is he having some kinda––"
"Sam! Breathe!"
Sam gasped in a great lungful of air, black and blue spots dancing in his vision began to fade quickly as he took another frantic breath.
As his vision began to clear, he became very aware of the fact that four men were crouching/standing way too close for comfort. He tried to scurry back only to find that he was already pressed against the wall.
"Sam. Sammy. Hey! Look at me."
His brain instantly recognized that voice.
Dean was crouched in front of him, not crowding him but close enough that Sam could reach out and touch him if needed, which he did. Sam's fingers shot out of their own accord and latched onto Dean's wrist.
As he continued to heave great breaths, his eyes flickered back and forth across the other faces that were too close for comfort.
Dean saw the distress in his brother's eyes and turned around, almost jumping back at how close the hunters had gotten without him noticing. "Back off will you? Give him some space," he barked.
The three hunters immediately retreated, all three going as far to exit the room, which both Winchester boys were grateful for.
Dean turned his attention back on Sam. "Still breathing a little fast there for me, kiddo. Can you slow it down?"
Sam wanted to say no, that he didn't even want to try because it took too much effort. But he knew he couldn't do that to Dean. He had to at least attempt it.
Sam's fingers found the bare skin of Dean's wrist just below his sleeve and pressed shaking fingers against strong pulse. He used it as a metronome of sorts, timing his breathing to every couple of beats.
At some point his eyes had slid shut as he focused on counting and breathing. They flew open, however, when a warm calloused hand rested gently on the side of his face and swept away tears Sam didn't even know he'd shed.
"Aw, Sammy," Dean said, underlying defeat haunting his words.
With a choked sob, Sam shoved off from the wall and all but threw himself into his brother's arms.
Dean instantly caught him, holding him for everything he was worth.
"I'm sorry I wasn't there. You're okay. You're safe."
And Sam trusted him. He knew he was safe with Dean. So why did he still feel like something bad was coming for him?
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Thanks for reading! I appreciate your feedback! I'll be trying to work in you guys' ideas here soon! Thank you for giving life to the story and keeping it going!