SHOUTOUTS\ANSWERS

Kokomocalifornia: New reviewer. Cool. Like your handle. Thanks.

Jayme (ch 1): Thanks.

JadeAlmasy: Thanks. What do you mean it's good that John's not in a lot of stories? You're not a John Winchester fan?

Blazingfire03: New reviewer. Cool. Awesome handle. Thanks. I will.

DancinThroughLife: New reviewer. Great handle. Thanks. I will. Thanks. 'SOS'. 'Save Our Sam'?

Dashboard-Kid: New reviewer. Yay. Cute handle. Thanks. Glad you think so.

Spuffyshipper: Thanks. Maybe some day. That particular story's finished, though I am planning another ep in the series. I just can't guarantee when. I will.

Jessie101: Haven't I seen you somewhere before? Thanks. I will. Here's more.

Windyfontaine: Thanks. That's the idea. Keep readin'. That'd be great, I'd love to see that. Thanks. I will.

Phx: Hey, I've read your stories. They're good. Have you ever reviewed before? Thanks. Sorry this isn't soon enough.

HendrickGr125: New reviewer. Cool. Great handle. Thanks. Here's more.

Supernaturalfan078: Hey, long time no see. Thanks. Sorry this isn't soon enough. Here's more. Keep readin'.

Mimifoxlove: Thanks. Me too, and I'm the one puttin' him through this. They will eventually. 'Cuz I didn't think of it, actually.

IheartPadalecki: Hey. Thanks. Here's more.

DISCLAIMER

Supernatural belongs to the WB, which will soon be the CW. Anything else belongs to me. And I can barely remember junior high math, so bear with me.

The next morning, Sam awoke to oldies playing on the radio. With a grumble, he shut off the alarm and climbed out of bed. As he got dressed, his eyes clouded in pain, recalling the nightmare that had haunted him. He shuddered, remembering the feel of her hands perusing his body.

"Yo, Sam! You up or what?" he heard his brother yell.

"Yeah, I'm up!" he responded. With that, the boy went downstairs.

"Good mornin', Sunshine," Dean smirked.

"Mornin'," Sam grunted. John merely raised his coffee cup as acknowledgment as he read the paper.

"You find anything?" Sam asked, carefully disguising his voice so that he didn't sound too hopeful. It was no secret that he hated hunting, so if he sounded like he wanted to go, his father and brother would get suspicious. John's only answer was a shake of his head. Sam's shoulders slumped. Dang it, he thought.

"You know, you've shown an awful interest in hunting lately," Dean noted. Sam froze and John looked over his paper.

"What do you mean?" the former queried.

"You hate hunting. Yet ever since we moved here, you've asked Dad every morning if he's found a job," Dean answered.

"Your brother's right, Sammy. What's going on?" John added.

"Nothin'," Sam responded, not bothering to correct their father about his name.

"Sam, are you sure?" John asked gently. Sam's throat muscles constricted. Maybe he should just tell them the truth. They'd know how to take care of it...what to do. But then, a memory hit him.

"You can keep this as our little secret can't ya, Sammy?" Miss Thompson queried, caressing a cheek. "After all, it's not like anyone would ever believe you," she continued, as her hand moved down his neck.

"Sam?" John prompted. Sam reacted the only way he was comfortable with.

"Yes, I'm sure! Why don't you believe me? I thought you'd be happy I was finally showin' interest in the family business!" he screamed.

"Sam, don't you dare talk to me that way!" John snapped angrily.

"Forget this! I'm outta here!" Sam shouted. He grabbed his backpack, slung it over his shoulder, and stomped out of the house, slamming the door.

"And Hurricane Sam shows his face once again," Dean quipped darkly. As he stomped down the road, Sam's stomach clenched. He just didn't know what to do. He had come so close in breaking their secret. He could only imagine the looks of disgust Dean and Dad would have if they knew. Just then, heard the honk of a car horn. He turned his head to see Chad Evans, a sixteen-year old from school.

"Hey, Sam! Walkin' again?" he questioned, slowing down.

"Yeah. Got in another fight with the old man," came the answer.

"Well, you can't walk the whole way. Get in," the boy invited. Sam did so. Minutes later, they arrived at their destination and went their separate ways. Sam's first class was math.

"If Cheryl painted one house in six hours and Bob painted a second house in eight hours, how long did it take for them to finish both houses?" the math teacher queried. Various students raised their hands. Sam was called and he gave the correct answer. Fifty minutes later, the class ended and the kids went to their next classes. Sam's third class was history, and needless to say, he hated it. The boy took his usual seat in the middle of the room, out of Miss Thompson's sight and took out his books. This was better. This way he could concentrate enough to take good notes so that he could pass the class, but wouldn't have to deal with her looking at him. The woman began her lecture and Sam copied the important parts of her speech into his notebook. Not soon enough for his tastes, the class was over. He stood up, gathered up his belongings, and headed for the door. If he was quick enough, he could get out of there and actually enjoy his break for a change.

"Sammy? Could you stay behind?" he heard her ask when he was almost at the door. He stopped.

"No," he whispered, slumping his shoulders. He had been so close!

"Please?" she asked. He felt one of her hands on his shoulder.

"No," he repeated. He started forward, but she reached around him, closed the door, and locked it.

"Please. Not again," Sam whispered. His plea went unheeded as he was dragged to the middle of the room. A few minutes later, soft, shaky, panting sobs were heard.