Don't Pull This Thread - Part 6 of 8

Summary: A case has a devastating effect on Lexie. Zak shows up to cause some trouble. What will Lexie do to protect the Winchester's?

Warnings: non-con sexual assault (described), shameless ogling of Sam, injuries, LOTS of angst, canon type violence, fluff.

Lexie POV

Sam stirs and reaches out to smack the buttons on his phone until the incessant beep of his alarm ceases. His arm lands back on the mattress with a thud as he huffs angrily, probably still feeling the effects of the bottle of whisky we consumed last night.

My face is squished against my pillow; my voice muffled as I whine his name.

"Hm," he responds, not ready to form actual words.

"You're crushing me," I groan.

His eyes spring open, and he rolls onto his back, removing his big arm and leg that were draped over me. I turn over from my stomach to my back. "The deeper you sleep, the heavier you get," Isay with a laugh.

"Sorry," he chuckles, running his hands over his face attempting to wake himself up before forcing himself to sit up and swing his legs off the bed, stretching his arms over his head.

"You know it wouldn't hurt to miss one morning run? Sleep in."

"I like to run, clears my head for the day," He says, twisting to look at me. "You could always join me."

"I could also go next door and high-five Dean for his performance last night."

Sam full-on belly laughs, "but neither is going to happen."

"There's that college education shining through," I say, patting his back before he stands.

I pull myself up to a sitting position in the bed and turn on the news while I wait for Sam to use the bathroom. I'm awake now and won't be able to fall back asleep even though it's stupid o'clock because the youngest Winchester doesn't understand the concept of sleeping in.

Sam exits the bathroom wearing a pair of grey cotton sweatpants and nothing else. He crosses my field of vision, and my eyes stalk him as he passes the tv to sit at the table and put on his running sneakers.

I've seen him shirtless before but only fleetingly. He would still be pulling his shirt down as he left his room or when he exited the bathroom going into his room in my old apartment. He always slept with loose clothes on. I think it's a hunter thing to be ready to fight or leave at a moment's notice.

So now I have a full frontal view of Sam Winchester's amazing, chiseled from marble, tanned, toned, and breathtaking torso. My resolve for not talking about my feelings is wearing very, very thin.

It's not a sight I can turn away from, not a sight any red-blooded female, or some males I guess, could turn away from.

I study how the muscles of his arms and chest flex then relax as he ties his laces securely. I quickly shift my eyes forward as he stands up and starts pressing buttons on his iPod. Facing forward is useless. I can see his gloriously muscled torso and low-slung sweatpants hugging his hips reflected in the mirror hanging beside the television.

Sam's too focused on finding the right music for his run to notice my ogling. It's not like I'm not aware of what's under Sam's clothes. His arms quite often bulge out of his shirt. If his t-shirt is tight enough, it helplessly clings to his muscles, and I've been in his arms enough times to feel the hardened contours beneath my hands, but seeing his physique in the literal flesh is somewhat staggering.

Sam's eyes naturally filter up, catching mine in the mirror before I can dart them away to look at the weatherman.

He turns slowly to face me, his back now showing in the mirror. "Were you," Sam hesitates, unsure of his suspicion, "were you just checking me out?" He frowns questioningly, and a slight swell of pride flushes his cheeks.

My eyes involuntarily wash over his torso again, slowly roaming up each line of his six-pack. Sam snaps his fingers loudly. "My eyes are up here!" he jests, playfully pointing to his face with both hands.

I laugh from my stomach. "Sorry, it's just… Jess told me about you, but I just never…" my words trail off as I meet his eyes.

"Wait, Jess told you about me? How?"

A burst of laughter escapes me at Sam's almost innocent shock, "it may surprise you to know women discuss sex too, Sam."

"She told you about our sex life?!"

"Oh yeah!" I smile wide with admiration.

Sam scrambles for a comeback, trying to hide his awkwardness. "Shawn told me all about you too," he grins smugly, "he called you Whippy behind your back for two months!"

I gasp, smiling good-naturedly as I climb out of the bed. "hH did not tell you about that!"

"Please, it was his favorite story to tell."

"Wait, did you ask Jess to try it?" I question, a memory coming to the forefront of my mind, "I seem to recall her asking me a lot of questions about it a few days after I told her." The pink tinge of Sam's cheeks answers my question. I wink at him. "Bet you regret that coin toss now, eh, Winchester." I joke, smiling cheekily at him.

Sam visibly swallows down his embarrassment. "Shut up," he groans, turning to leave, grabbing his shirt from the chair as he passes.

"Bye, Whippy," I call after him.

Sam stops partway through the door throwing a playful smile over his shoulder at me. I love our back and forth banter. Despite everything, we can still do this stupid, giddy, high school-kid type flirting.

"Lexie, wake up; you have to wake up."

"Sam?"

My body feels stiff and rigid. The haze of my mind lifts, and I realize that I'm sitting in a chair, hands in my lap, wrists tied together, feet bound, yet there's no rope. I can feel the rough, thick rope restraining me, but nothing is visible when I look down. My mind finally registers that it must be a spell. Sam is sitting on the floor a few feet away, arms wrapped around a thick pipe behind his back, secured with actual rope.

"Thank god," he sighs, relieved, seeing my eyes open.

"What the hell-"

I shake my head as the memories abruptly filter through my brain. Dean found the altar in the church and stole the crystal. Sam and I went to interview the pastor's wife at her home, under the pretense of being journalists to keep her occupied while Dean did the ritual to break the crystal and stop the witch's power.

We got as far as sitting on her couch, then there was an awful smell, and now, here we are tied up. Melissa Adams saunters in, looking like a regular soccer Mom in a matching khaki cardigan and pant set.

"Finally, you're awake," Melissa says in a sickly-sweet voice. "I thought I had overdone it with the sleep spell."

Melissa crouches to look into my eyes, to make sure I truly am awake and aware. "Now, where's the other one? There were three of you at the church yesterday."

She doesn't seem like she's in a rush. She must not know that Dean has the crystal and that he should have gotten the last ingredient needed to complete the ritual by now. I hope he's doing the ritual as she speaks.

"He's out trying to find you," I lie.

Melissa laughs; she doesn't believe me. The back of her hand connects with my cheek so hard I blink blackspots.

"Leave her alone!" Sam yells.

"Oh, don't worry, sweetie, I'm not going to kill her." She shoots a look at him over her shoulder before returning her gaze to me. "I don't need to. That scar on your wrist is practically glowing. It's quite beautiful, frankly, a perfect spell. I'm just going to have a little fun."

I follow her eyes down to look at the 'Z' scar on my wrist and see the glint of admiration in the witch's eyes. "What are you talking about?"

"It's a binding spell. You've been bound to someone, bound for life." Melissa's eyes sparkle with fierce honesty. "There's no breaking that. I can see the man you're bound to, and that's worse than anything I could ever do to you."

"What's a binding spell?"

Melissa's cackle is nothing short of a cliche, but she answers me with a lick of her lips. "If he dies, you die. Quite poetic, I must say. Let me guess, a scorned lover?"

Without warning, her eyes glow bright green, and her mouth opens in a scream, but no sound escapes as she collapses in a heap on the floor. My invisible binds fall away, but I don't move, lost in a labyrinth in my mind trying to make sense of her words.

Sam shouts my name somewhere amidst the chaos in my mind, and then Dean is there shaking my shoulders to bring me out of my head. Dean unties Sam while instructing me to go to the car and get the tarp from the trunk; we need to dispose of the witch's body.

I stagger out of the basement and march through the house to the front door. The Impala sits perpendicular across the driveway as if it'd been stolen and the thief had made a quick getaway. I walk to the trunk, running my hand over the cool metal, but I don't stop. I keep walking.

My feet ache as I march back to the motel in heels. I had walked till I found a bar where Sam found me three hours later, interrupting my buzz to tell me it was time to go home. He didn't argue when I told him I wanted to walk back. I needed the air and time alone to think. The walk back has sobered me up, the pity party is over, and now I'm angry.

I crash through the motel room door, stumbling as I peel off the peep-toe stilettos and hurl them across the room. The right shoe heel hits the wall at just the right angle and takes a chunk out of the red paint, revealing the white plaster beneath. The chip infuriates me further; I will have to pay for the damage.

I run the short distance and throw my fist into the indentation, making a small problem a larger one. My fist crumbles the plaster more, and the taut skin on my knuckles splits painfully. I turn away from my handy work and slam back into the damaged wall before sliding down it, pulling my knees to my chest and burying my head in my hands to cry.

My body shakes with ferocious sobs; I bury my mouth in the crook of my elbow and scream—primal, throat scratching, deep, frustrated screams.

I'm beyond furious. I can't remember a time when I've been angrier. I'm angry at the world and pissed off at the cards I've been dealt. Why me? My blood is beyond boiling; it's molten lava, scorching me from the inside threatening to erupt in the worst possible ways.

I want to kill Zak. I want to maim, slash, burn, shoot, stab, and butcher him. But I can't; he's taken that away from me as well.

I can hear the witch's words, like a song that gets stuck on a loop in your head. I know it's true; deep in my soul, I know my life is bound to Zak's. He didn't just brand me; the scar had been the final piece needed to bind our lives together. I cannot kill him without killing myself. It explained a lot— how Zak was always just out of reach, why he demanded that no one, human or supernatural, kill me, why he hadn't just killed me himself. He wasn't toying with me; it was for his own protection.

There's a knock on the door, and I ignore it, too deep in my despair to answer. Minutes tick by, and then the rattle of the lock being picked pricks my ears. I pick up the shoe that lies beside me and fling it as the door opens, a warning to the intruder I want to be alone.

Sam's reflexes serve him well, and he ducks the flying missile as it sails over his head. "Whoa, Whoa," he calls, pulling the door half-closed as protection. His voice filters through the crack, "Lexie, it's me, it's me."

Sam POV

"Lexie, it's me, it's me."

She sniffs back tears. "Leave me alone, Sam."

"Not going to happen," I promise from behind the door. "Can I come in? Without being impaled by a stiletto?" I cautiously poke my head around the door locating Lexie and any weapons she may have.

I survey the room and find my friend sitting on the floor. The threat of being stabbed by flying footwear has seemingly diminished, allowing me to enter. "Lex," I cautiously approach her as if she were a feral animal; she still has one weaponized shoe after all.

"Please don't," she sobs, letting me know she's not ready to hear my reassurances that it's all going to be okay, that I will help her figure it out.

"Okay, shutting up." I resolutely lower myself to the floor beside her. Noticing her injured hand, I lift it from her lap and study the steadily bleeding cuts. "That looks deep," I assess, tilting her hand left and right to try to see past the blood.

Lexie doesn't respond. Her lips are pursed, her stare blank, focusing on nothing, tears steadily streaming down her cheeks. She looks numb, physically and emotionally. If she weren't heaving angry breaths, I'd be worried that she'd died as her expression is so empty.

I can't help ease her mind right now, but I can fix her hand. I silently get up and exit the room, leaving the door open, returning only moments later carrying a bucket of ice. Lexie remains motionless as I place the bucket beside her and gently lower her hand into it, pushing it to the bottom, then scooping the ice around it to ensure the injury is fully covered.

Lexie's lack of response worries me; she didn't even wince when her hand hit the freezing water. I find the medical kit in her bag, collect a small towel from the bathroom, and put them on the table in the kitchen area along with a bowl of warm water. I shrug off my jacket and throw it on the bed before kneeling in front of her, breaking her unfocused gaze.

"Let me take a proper look, please?"

Lexie pulls her hand from the ice bucket and allows me to help her to her feet, then lead her to a chair at the table. I sit opposite her, pulling the chair closer to best be able to help her. I dip the towel in the warm water and gently clean the blood from her hand. She hisses as I wipe over the deepest cut on her middle knuckle but doesn't pull away.

"Flex your hand, if you can," I instruct. Lexie complies and stretches her fingers out before making a fist causing the knuckle to begin bleeding again. "I think it needs a couple of stitches."

She nods, watching the dark red liquid puddle on her hand. If it's not stitched, the cut will continue to split open every time she moves her hand.

"Want me to do it?"I ask with a small sympathetic smile.

She shakes her head slowly. "You can be Nurse Sam."

"Okay, but I'm not wearing a dress!" I grin, finally achieving a small smile from her.

"Shut up and bring me the essentials," she tells me, walking into the bathroom where the light is better.

I follow her, collecting the supplies she will need. She hoists herself onto the countertop beside the sink supporting herself with a leg on the top of the toilet. She takes a deep breath looking at the cut. Like me, she's probably had to stitch herself up numerous times, especially when receiving injuries from hunting that couldn't plausibly be explained; however, it's never an easy job.

I unscrew the lid of the whiskey bottle and hold it out to her.

Lexie holds her hand over the sink and looks at me with sad eyes. "I'm going to need you to do it."

The home method of sterilizing a wound is one of the worst parts of self-care. You don't ever get used to the sting of the alcohol on your nerve endings.

I shake my head with mock disbelief. "You know they say doctors make the worst patients." I take hold of her fingers so she can't back out. "Ready?"

She blows a puff of air out of her mouth. "Do it."

"On three. One, two," I pour the liquid over her knuckles.

"FUUUUUUUUCK!" She yells as the alcohol enters the wound, the sting making tears spring to her eyes. She takes short sharp breaths attempting to will the pain away before she plunges the needle into her skin, finding a new pain to replace the stinging sensation.

I cut the thread after Lexie completes the fifth and final stitch. She grabs the whiskey bottle from the counter and takes two big gulps of the multi-use liquid while I admire her almost perfect stitches. "Wow, you'd have made a great surgeon."

Lexie leans the side of her head against the wall, passing me the bottle. "In another lifetime, maybe," she sighs sadly.

I hold the whiskey up in a toast, "another lifetime," I agree, taking a pull on the bottle before passing it back.

We share a silence for a few minutes, thinking about our other lifetimes, the other paths we could have taken. Lexie lifts the bottle to her lips again, and I stop her. "That's not the answer." I guide the bottle out of her hand and put it beside me on the edge of the bathtub.

"Then what is," she asks, tears lining her eyes. "Please, if you know, tell me. Because I don't think I can do this anymore, Sam. I'm not strong enough."

"Yes, you are," I tell her confidently. "Lexie, you're the strongest person I've ever met. After Zak and even before all of that, you've always been the strongest one. You've always known your own mind, known what you wanted and how to get it. Nothing ever stood in your way; you never let anything stop you, regardless of how hard the path was. I mean, who loses their entire family and doesn't end up in a big white room with padded walls?"

Lexie chortled humorlessly, "someone unhinged?"

I shrug, a smile on my lips, "who isn't a little unhinged?"

Her barrier breaks, and her tears fall freely. I stand from my perch on the tub and put myself between her legs, yanking her into a rib-crushing hug. She wraps her arms around my neck and buries her head in the crook of my shoulder.

Time seems to still, and I don't know how many minutes pass before I become acutely aware of how close we are. The scent of her coconut shampoo and her flowery perfume fills my nose.

Lexie raises her head, and before my brain registers what she's doing, she caresses my throat with a soft kiss. My arms flex, tightening my embrace as she places a second kiss on my jawline. My hold loosens, and I ease away from her, placing my hands on her hips. I should stop her, "Lex-" she stifles my words as she claims my mouth.

My shock is evident, I inhale sharply, and my fingers dig into her hips tenses to the point it must be painful, but my body responds to her running her tongue against my bottom lip, allowing her entry.

I want this. I have craved this for so long. Since the day I met her. But I don't want it like this, not when she's hurting and confused, and she's trying to distract herself. I need to be more than a warm body to help Lexie forget the shit that's happening in her life.

But still, I don't stop her.

She runs her fingers through my hair. I dig my fingers into her waist and pull her closer to me, the fabric of her trousers allowing her to slide effortlessly on the shiny surface she is sat upon until she collides with my hips.

Her hands slide under the hem of my shirt, and I moan as she claws her way up my torso. I unfasten the top three buttons of her blouse before the roar of the Impala fills the room.

The sound tears us apart. Lexie yanks her hands from under my shirt, and I jump back like she has electrocuted me. I stand breathlessly gawking at her, my excitement evident through my jeans. She stares, panting for breath, holding my eyes.

Lexie POV

Dean pounds on the door, "are you guys in there?"

Sam runs his hands through his hair, his eyes wide, his brow set with confusion. "Yeah," he calls out. Clearing his throat, he calls louder, "yeah."

I jump to my feet and button my shirt, following Sam out of the bathroom. He stops with his hand on the door looking back to make sure I look presentable, that there is no telltale evidence of what had just occurred.

Dean is through the door and in my face with three long strides. "We've been looking everywhere for you!" He spits. "You can't just take off like that."

"Oh, give it a rest Dean," I groan, stepping away from him and getting a bottle of water from the fridge. "Don't you ever get tired of being a self-righteous asshole?"

"I'm the asshole? Me?" Dean retorts. "You're the one who just took off, didn't answer your phone, and was too busy letting some drunk feel you up in a bar!"

Does he hear himself? He's a hypocrite. Like he hasn't done the same thing more than once when he couldn't deal with something or wanted to find someone to screw to take his mind off a case. I shake my head with pure disbelief; he stares me down, goading me to retaliate.

"Just taking a page out of the Dean Winchester guide of how to avoid dealing with anything real!"

The inevitable argument ensues, and Sam stands back, watching us scream insults at one another. It seems to be a weekly occurrence now; we pick and pick and pick at each other until it explodes into a verbal pissing match. I used to fight with my older brother, Tyler, like this. We were too alike, and it caused friction and arguments over petty things.

"I swear dealing with you two is worse than dealing with Zak!" I shriek.

There it is, out in the open, the words that can never be taken back. The words that have some truth to them. I know exactly where I stand with Zak; he's in love with me, in his own utterly delusional way, he's infatuated with me.

Dean is just being an asshole to me because he has some misguided sense of duty toward me. He feels responsible for me like he feels responsible for Sam.

Sam is my best friend, but we just kissed. Okay, I initiated it. However, Sam didn't stop me, and if Dean hadn't returned, I'm pretty sure we would be in bed right now with our limbs tangled, not knowing where one of us starts and the other ends. So what am I supposed to make of that? We just broke the unspoken rule to not act on the feelings we both know we feel. The Winchesters are confusing.

Dean's anger rises a level; he isn't going to take that comment lightly. He takes a moment before replying with that self-righteous smirk I hate. "That says more about your taste in men than it does us, don't you think, sweetheart?"

I stifle a scream in my throat. Dean's use of the word sweetheart pisses me off. He would say it with a wink and make me blush, or he would say it in that smug shit-eating grin infuriating me, making me want to throttle him. This time it was the latter.

"Dean," Sam warns. I glare at Dean, watching Sam tug on his brother's shoulder, telling him it's time for them to leave. "It's been a long day. We all just need to get some rest," Sam suggests, following Dean out of the room.

I change out of the pants suit I'm wearing and into my black cotton shorts and the loose-fitting t-shirt I like to wear to bed. I know I won't be able to sleep, so I sit on the bed against the headboard in the silent room.

The thin walls of the motel allowed me to hear Sam and Dean's muffled voices after they left my room, but I couldn't make out the words. They stopped talking a half-hour ago, and it's been quiet since, so I guess they've both gone to bed.

I've found the labyrinth in my mind again. Every corridor leads to another question I don't have the answer to; What are the implications of the binding spell? Can I break the spell? What am I going to do about kissing Sam? Dean's comment about my taste in men; is he on to something? If Zak finds out I know about the binding spell, what will he do? Will Sam want to talk about our kiss? Where did Zak even find a witch to cast the spell?

Around and around I go.

There's a long, low roll of thunder in the distance, and then the rain starts. I climb off the bed and go outside. We're in a deer hunting town; the motel's style is based on log cabins, so my room shares a covered porch with the boys' room next door. I lean against the wooden frame and watch the rain, listening as the storm gets closer.

I love thunderstorms, the unrelenting rain, the unapologetic crash of thunder, the beauty of the lightning when it illuminates the sky.

When I lived on the farm, Tyler and I would always watch a storm together. If we were sleeping, we would meet in the kitchen, then go on to the porch and sit together while it passed over. When I went to Stanford, he called me once in the middle of the night and woke me because a storm was happening back home. I sat on the phone with him, listening to the crash of thunder and the pounding of the rain.

The sky lights up with a double flash of lightning, and from the low rumble of thunder, I guess it's about five miles east.

I look over my shoulder when I hear the door to the boys' room open and see a shirtless Sam rubbing sleep from his eyes. "Thought you'd be out here," he says, coming out and closing the door.

During our summer road trip, a storm started while we were on some backroad highway. I made Sam chase it as far as we could while telling him stories about Tyler and me.

He leans on the other side of the porch frame and watches the onslaught of rain. We remain silent as the storm gets closer, the lightning more frequent, the rain heavier like it will break through the roof of the Impala.

I see Sam out of the corner of my eye when he changes his focus from the rain to me. He waits for me to look at him, but I don't because I know he's going to ask about the kiss. I don't think I have it in me to talk about it right now.

I cross my arms over my chest; looking down at my feet, I readjust my shoulder against the wooden post and then look back up at the rain. He knows me well enough to know it's my defensive stance.

He constructs it like a question, but it's more of a statement; he knows my avoidance of looking at him is my answer. "So we're not going to talk about it?"

I exhale slowly and shake my head. "Other than to say I'm sorry, no."

"Do I need to be sorry too?" He keeps his focus on me. "Because I'm not sure that I am. Did I break my promise?"

I huff out a small laugh, but I still don't look at him. "No, you don't have to be sorry. I kissed you; your promise is still intact."

My lack of eye contact proves too much, so he walks to stand in front of me. I unfold my arms and stand up straight, not wanting him so close that he can stop me from walking away if that's what I decide to do.

He uses my chin to raise my head, forcing me to look him dead in the eye, "I didn't exactly stop you."

I take in his words, the affection behind his eyes, and want nothing more than to kiss him again. But I stop myself. I try to make light of the situation to show him I don't want to take this conversation where it's going. "Yeah, what was up with that, dork?" I smile playfully.

Sam shrugs, the smile on his lips matches mine, but his tone is serious, "I didn't want to stop you."

I squirm my chin out of his grasp, putting my back to him, leaning into the frame again. I focus on the rain-soaked parking lot. "Don't pull this thread, Sam, please, not now."

I don't have the mental capacity for it, not now, maybe not ever.

"Okay," he agrees, wrapping his arms around my neck and pulling me against him. "I'll drop it." He places a firm kiss on the top of my head, "for now."

I lean into him, closing my eyes, listening to and feeling the storm. It's directly overhead now. I can feel the thunder in my chest as it rocks the night; the lightning is rapid and flashes brightly against my closed eyes.

Sam sighs into me, resting his head against mine, and my mind quiets. No more maze of questions, no more what if's. I'm in the moment. I'm here with Sam, and right now, that's all I need.

The rain relents as the heavier clouds continue their journey away, and the night falls silent. I inhale the earthy aroma the storm has created. Then my world crumbles at the sound of the voice that comes from behind us.

"Oh Lexie, how I've missed you."

Sam and I turn together to find Zak and three of his friends flanking him. The storm has masked their arrival. I shudder to think how long they could have been standing there.

I've met his pack members before; I know their names are Elliott, Ben, and Warren. They all look like they could play for the NFL; Zak has bought out the big guns, so this isn't going to be a social visit.

They fill the exit off the porch, blocking the door to my room and any hope to escape. We could jump over the railing, but they will be faster than us. Sam takes my hand. He's quick enough to get one step and open the door to his room before Ben gets a handful of his hair and yanks him back. Sam twists, punching at the same time, and connects with Ben's jaw. In the same movement, Elliott kicks his leg into the back of Sam's, and he falls to his knees.

I let go of his hand and instinctively bend to try and help him up. Zak grabs the back of my neck and drags me away. He twists me and switches his grip to my throat while forcing me backward until I slam painfully into the small wall between the bedroom doors.

"GET AWAY FROM HER!" Sam snarls, trying to climb to his feet. Ben and Elliott keep him down by punching him in the face and stomach a few times.

I cry out his name, yelling at him to stop fighting, and in the same breath, I'm splattered by the blood of Elliott as Dean slices his head off.

Dean stands prised to swing the machete again. "Come on!" he challenges Warren, who stands crouched, arms raised, ready to pounce on him. They have a stand-off for a few seconds.

I scream, "Dean, don't," while Zak yells for Warren to stop.

Everyone stills. I don't want Dean to kill anyone else. Ben has Sam on his knees and will kill him if Dean hurts another one of them. We can't kill Zak either, not without killing me.

Zak explains his reason for stopping his followers. "I don't want them dead yet." He waits for everyone to take a breath then turns to look at me. "God, you're beautiful," he sighs, his eyes traveling up and down my body.

"What do you want?" I ask, biting down on my lip. I hate the way he's looking at me. The way his eyes hungrily roam the contours of my body.

"I came to remind you; you're mine. I thought the soldier would be enough but obviously not," Zak tells me, looking at Sam.

Sam struggles against Ben's hold, but it's pointless.

"First things first," Zak moves inhumanely fast, and before I register that his grip has left my throat, Sam howls in pain. Zak looms over him, hand gripping the handle of the blade that sticks out of Sam's shoulder. "Stay away from my girl," he threatens, and in the same breath, returns his grip to my throat. "You saw what I did to Wyatt!"

I look down at Sam on his knees. The pain etched on his brow, the anger making him pant, the hint of fear in his eyes.

"Damn, I've missed your smell," Zak admits leaning in to smell my neck, running his nose up and into my hair. "And this fine body of yours," he runs a hand up my bare thigh.

I wince and grab his roaming hand before it gets too high, pushing myself back further into the wall to try and put some distance between us to no avail. He responds by pressing his body flush against me and pinning my hand to the wall with his knee. His knee grinds into the back of my hand, and it hurts, but I refuse to cry out and give him any kind of satisfaction to know he's causing me pain.

"LEAVE HER ALONE!" Sam yells.

"Or else what, pretty boy?" Zak asks, grinning as he watches Sam struggle against Ben, who has his arms pinned behind his back. Zak keeps his eyes locked on Sam's as he runs his hand from my leg up to my stomach.

I wriggle as much as I can to try and get his hands off me, but I can feel his excitement against my leg; he's enjoying my squirming. His fingers brush the bottom of my breasts, and I grab his hand with my free hand.

He stares me square in the eye as he presses his thumb into my fresh stitches. I bite down the cry of pain, and he demands I stop fighting through gritted teeth. "Or I'll change my mind about killing him," he threatens.

I stare him down but let go of his wrist and relax my body as much as I can. "That's better," he sighs, returning his hand to my stomach.

"Get your hands off of her," Sam demands. He doesn't give up his struggle; he wants Zak's hand away from me; he wants Zak away from me.

Zak laughs giddily, "nothing I haven't done before," he taunts, slowly running his hand over my breasts and stomach. "I was her first; she used to love it when I did this," he runs his fingers on the inside of my groin. I let out a small whimper as he grinds his palm into my pubic bone, curling his fingers to cup my vagina.

I tiptoe and try to crawl up the wall to get away, but Zak's body pins me, and I feel sick when his erection rubs against my leg. I turn my head away from everyone so no one can see the disgust or the sob I'm choking down.

"Stop it!" Dean hollers.

"Stop what?" Zak asks, gripping my throat a little tighter. He takes my breath away, but I don't move. He pushes his hand into me again, and a whimper I don't want him to hear bolts from my mouth. "This?"

I see Zak's slight nod from the corner of my eye before I hear the punch, and I turn in time to see Sam's head fall to his chest from Warren's blow.

"Zak, please," I cry out, seeing the blood trickle down Sam's lips. "Leave him alone, please. This is between me and you, do whatever you want to me, but please leave him alone." I turn my attention to Zak, his face so close to mine we're sharing oxygen, "I'm the one who went with Wyatt. I'm the one who needs to be taught a lesson."

I hate the sound of my voice. I'm begging him. I'm pleading with him to hurt me instead of Sam.

"You know," Zak sighs, nodding his agreement, "you're right. Maybe you need to learn as well."

He stands up straight, removing his body from mine, but I know better than to move. I stay flush against the wall and shake the feeling back into my hand that he had pinned with his knee.

Zak pulls the knife from Sam's shoulder, and the night fills with his cry of pain. My tears spill over at hearing Sam's grunts of agony.

Zak stands close to me again, looking from my face to the blade, slick with Sam's blood. He's thinking about where to stab me. Zak pushes the weapon into my thigh; the skin breaks as he slowly, agonizingly applies more pressure, and the tip enters my flesh. I bite down the discomfort; it's not painful yet. It's not deep enough.

"Who do you belong to?" He asks, watching my face pushing the knife deeper.

I take a deep breath, clenching my teeth. "You." He stops when he's about two centimeters in and then pulls it out rapidly. I automatically throw my hand on the cut to stem the bleeding.

"Don't you forget it."

"Lesson learned. Now let him go."

"What's it worth?"

"Anything, I'll do whatever you want, just let him go."

"Anything?" Zak questions raising his eyebrows suggestively, his eyes lighting up at the possibilities.

I want to vomit at the conviction in my voice when I tell him that yes, I will do anything if he lets Sam go because I mean it. Whatever Zak wants me to do, I will do it without a fight to make sure Sam is safe.

"Let him back in the room," I instruct, "call off your boys, then I'll do whatever you want."

Zak flicks his chin toward his minions. Ben and Warren escort a bleeding Sam into the room, practically throwing him at Dean, and then they stand guard, blocking Sam and Dean from leaving.

Sam and Dean are safe, so I ask Zak to name his price. "I'll pay whatever price you want if you promise to leave us alone."

"Lexie, no!" Sam shouts, trying to clamber over the would-be football players, "DON'T DO THIS!" He somehow manages to push his way a foot out of the door before Warren manages to grab hold of him.

"Wait," Zak says, and Warren stops trying to shove Sam back into the room. "He can watch if he wants to." He pushes himself against me again, grinning wickedly as he stares at Sam. "I just want a simple sweet kiss."

Sam pleads with me not to do it. Though I don't know what choice he thinks I have. I lean in and kiss Zak firmly and let him run his hands greedily wherever he likes. I hear Sam struggle, and Dean tells him to stop.

Zak breaks away from my mouth and moves toward my neck. I make the mistake of looking at Sam, and I swear I must turn green because my stomach churns at the disgust and hurt covering his face. Zak sucks the flesh where my neck meets my collarbone, marking his property. I can't take it anymore.

"Enough," I put my hands on Zak's shoulders and use all the strength I have to try to push him away, but he doesn't even sway. I raise my knee and connect with his erection, and he falls to the floor.

Ben and Warren forget the Winchesters and run to help their fallen boss. I jump over Zak's crumpled body and run into the room. Dean and Sam slam the door closed and brace themselves against it.

I stand in the middle of the room, holding my breath, waiting for the door to be battered down, but it doesn't happen. Dean asks Sam if he's got the door, and when Sam nods his answer Dean rushes to the window. "They're gone," he tells us.

Sam stops being a human barricade and strides toward me; before he reaches me, I run to the bathroom and just make it in time before I spill my guts in the toilet bowl.

Sam's fingers brush my cheeks as he holds my hair out of the way, and when I'm sure there's nothing left in me to bring up, I shakily get to my feet. Dean hands me a glass of water, and both of them step out of the small bathroom to give me some space while I swirl the water in my mouth and spit into the sink.

They hover by the door, neither of them asks me if I'm okay because it's obvious I'm not. I feel their eyes on me while I wash my face. I turn to look at them when I feel a bit more human, and they both avert their eyes like they weren't just burning holes in my skull.

"I'm stitching you up, and then we're getting out here," I tell them, pointing toward Sam's shoulder.

Dean glances at me quickly, his mouth set in a sad smile. He talks over his shoulder, "I'll go pack your stuff."

Part 7 - Monday 30th August 2021.