This chapter deals with sexual situations, but it's more suggestive than graphic. I re-read the ratings guide, and I think we're still within the 'T' boundaries.

Don't own them, would love to, but don't.

o0o

"No! I don't want to see this. I can't… he can't… I can't watch this… he didn't… Please…"

It took all of Chris' strength to remain dispassionate and appear unmoved by Sam's tortured pleas. 'Chris' now looked like suspiciously like Mulder from the X-files: the truth was out there. And Sammy would face it, damnnit.

They faded into the boys' bedroom, where young Sammy was sprawled out asleep on top of the covers, and young Dean, dressed in jeans and his favourite denim jacket, was crouched beside the bed, rummaging through a battered suitcase that Sam recognized instantly.

A new fear blossomed in Sam's heart.

"Oh God, tell me he didn't kill him. Tell me that Dean didn't kill that son-of-a-bitch. I mean I want that arrogant asshole to get what he deserves, but Dean shouldn't have had to kill anyone, ever, let alone at the age of twelve and alone."

Chris kept silent; Sam would only learn by watching. It was crucial that he finally see how his family worked. Please God let this work; Chris didn't know if either himself or Sam could take any more of these memories. And there were more hard choices Dean had had to face over the years, but this admittedly was one of the worst.

At Chris' non-answer, Sam was left with no recourse but to watch the memory develop. He shuddered in anticipated horror.

Dean had finished getting his Beretta 9mm out of the suitcase and had checked to make sure it was fully loaded. He locked the battered but sturdy suitcase and put the key back in his pocket. Sam was sure Dean was already wearing his knife, but the jacket concealed it beautifully. He was just putting the Beretta into a homemade but very secure ankle holster: Morse would expect Dean to still have his knife, but the semi-automatic would be an unpleasant surprise.

God, Sam didn't want to see this.

Dean stood for a moment, just watching his softly snoring sibling, his small smile at the sight of Sammy's typical sprawl hardening into a look of fierce determination.

"I'll keep you safe, Sammy," love and determination warring with each other in Dean's serious countenance. Dean took a deep breath, seemingly gathering his strength, straightened his shoulders and without looking back, left their apartment.

"No no no no no no no…" Sam was keeping up a muttered litany of denial, but he was not looking away. If his brother had had to face this, then so could he.

He just wished neither of them had ever had to.

Dean had stopped in front of Morse's door. Chris and Sam were privy to an amazing transformation as Dean employed one of their father's first lessons in survival: camouflage. Dean stood stock-still and let go of the angry warrior and became a nervous frightened child. He radiated fear and uncertainty. He started to tremble, whether in genuine or imagined fear the watchers couldn't tell. Sam had witnessed his brother's ability to be what people expected before, but it was still startling to see. Dean raised a now-trembling hand and knocked timidly on Mr. Morse's door.

Sam found his newly made resolution to watch this for his brother's sake crumbling as Morse opened the door, still as slick, smug and arrogant as ever.

"Do we have to see this? Can't we just skip ahead to the part where Morse is a castrated pile of hurt on the floor? I don't wan…"

And Sammy was frozen again: couldn't talk, couldn't move. Could only watch, dread filling his every fibre.

"I'm glad to see you came to your senses, Dean." Morse, dressed in a short black silk robe loosely belted at the waist to show his tanned smooth chest and matching silk pajama bottoms, practically oozed slime. Dean said nothing; only let his 'cowed child' persona tremble. Dean visibly startled when the apartment door snicked shut behind him. He stepped away from Morse who was crowding into his personal space, ushering him into his swank living room, replete with dark mahogany furniture, black leather sofas and a black leather and chrome chaise lounge… were those handcuffs dangling from the chrome supports?

Both Dean and the watching Sam gulped audibly.

True to Morse's arrogant, narcissistic nature, one wall was fully mirrored and the rooms lighting was all focused on the chaise: it looked like the setting for a cheap porn video. Sam could see Dean taking in the entire room, marking out the exits to the other rooms and likely noting anything that could be used as a weapon. But other than an antique mantle clock and a couple of chrome table lamps with corrugated white lampshades by his computer desk, there was little in the way of knickknacks or ornaments.

Morse had loosened the belt of his robe as he advanced on the still silent Dean. "Come now, Dean, I think it's time you lose some of those clothes and that knife you have tucked into your jeans." The young Dean reacted to both Morse's closeness and words by taking a step backwards, his hand automatically going to the knife at the back of his belt. "Now Dean, we both know that you can't afford to bring any attention to yourself and young Sammy, and that attacking me, would put both you and Sam at risk of being split up… permanently. You don't want that, do you?"

Morse's thinly veiled threat, poorly disguised as solicitous concern sickened Sam. And obviously didn't impress Dean, who never-the-less was slowly taking off his jean jacket and took his favourite hunting knife off of his belt and deliberately put both down on the low coffee table – obeying Morse's directions but unobtrusively leaving the knife within easy retrieval range.

Morse was obviously getting turned on by the power he had over Dean, was enjoying the defiance edged with fear that he saw on Dean's face.

"Do you have any other weapons I should know about, Dean? Any other hidden traps that I should be wary of? Perhaps I should frisk you… thoroughly, of course"

Sam stared in mute horror as Morse ran his hands over Dean's legs and torso, paying particular attention to his jeans' pockets. Both front and back. Fortunately Morse was more interested in frisky business and not the frisking itself as he missed Dean's ankle holster. Sam breathed a sigh of relief and tried to tune Morse's slimey pornographic monologue out as he began to describe in graphic, twisted detail what he wanted to do to Dean. But Chris' powers meant that wasn't nearly as successful as he'd liked it to be.

Morse was getting down to business. His robe was off, Dean's button down shirtfront was open, and Morse was just reaching for the button on Dean's denims. "Feel free to make as much noise as you want, Dean, the walls are thick and there's only your brother to hear. Scream if you like. In fact, please do…"

But it was Morse who screamed in pain, as Dean finally acted.

Dean, who had dropped to one knee as Morse sank down on the chaise lounge, had brought his Beretta up, handle first, and had slammed it into Morse's groin with as much force as he could muster: which seeing as Dean had more weapons and combat training that any twelve-year old had a right to have, was considerable. Morse toppled off the chaise in a satisfying heap of agony.

Dean then calmly pried one of Morse's hands off himself and snapped his wrist into one of the cuffs on the chaise lounge. Then still with angry focused determination went back and quietly retrieved his jacket and knife, carefully resetting the knife in his belt and then putting his jacket back on.

All of this went unremarked by Morse who was still cradling himself and moaning on the floor. Dean slowly walked back to Morse and stood standing over him, looking at the pathetic scumbag on the floor and at the gun still in his hand. Dean slowly brought the gum to bear on Morse.

Sam, still frozen, still watching, was almost certain that Dean wouldn't shoot Morse. Almost. And he thought he saw, as he watched, Dean come to the same conclusion. But what… Dean, never relaxing his guard, crouched down a safe distance away from Morse, and for the first time spoke.

"You think you know anything about me and my family, asshole? You think that just cause we're on our own we're defenseless prey to sick perverts like you? You think just cause there's no adult around we're unprotected. Well you're wrong, bitch. You know nothing about me or my family. My Dad is out there protecting us right now, and before he left he made sure that I was as ready as I could be to handle any monsters that this fucked-up world may throw at us. And that includes sick twisted fucks who get their rocks off raping young boys."

Morse was still in too much pain to really focus on Dean, but he was gradually unfurling. Dean was watching him minutely the entire time.

"And if you think I'm afraid of you talking to the police or the social workers then I guess you're dumber than you look. Cause I'm going to take my own insurance with me."

Both Morse and the two silent spectators jumped in surprise as the Beretta fired.

But Morse wasn't missing any body parts, but the full-length one-way glass mirror shattered in a gratifying shower of shards as the tripod and video camera behind it were revealed.

Morse was now sitting up, struggling against the handcuff, grabbing his discarded robe, scrabbling for the pocket where the key… Dean stopped his frantic motions with a deceptively gentle admonishment as he leveled the semi-automatic in Morse's direction.

"Un-uh." And Dean leaned forward, and was viciously gratified to see Morse lean away from him, as Dean dangled the previously pocketed key that he had lifted from Morse when he was lost in his own power trip earlier. "I'll just keep this. And this." And Dean walked around to the revealed hidden room and ejected the cassette from the camcorder and picked up a VHS tape marked with 'Spenser' on it.

Spenser was the name of Milton's thirteen-year-old brother.

"no."

Chris wordlessly let his hold on Sammy go as Sam once again gave voice to his own pain of having to know this, of Dean having to know this, and for the vaguely remembered older brother of his young friend, Milton, who'd hadn't had as many options as Dean had had. Sam was, for the first time in a very long time, suddenly and intensely grateful that their Dad had taught them to protect themselves and that they could take care of themselves in almost any situation. Even at the ages of twelve and almost eight. Sam shuddered at the pain that had been inflicted on so many by such a twisted 'monster' and instinctively wrapped his arms around his himself, physically trying to seek some small solace in the face of such anguish. In the midst of the memory, Dean was preternaturally calm, his anger giving him an angry, deadly focus.

Dean brought his gun to bear on Morse again.

"You sick fuck. I should shoot you right now, and save the world a lot of grief." Dean's voice had gotten quietly icy. Dean's audience, both past and present, was chilled by the cold spark of hatred evident in the twelve-year-old's eyes. "You don't deserve to live, but dying would be too easy." Morse was quivering in terror, his previous excitement having been lost in the terrifying reversal of roles. Looking into Dean's harsh gaze he found only cold hard judgment. He knew he had somehow made a colossal mistake, had chosen the wrong child.

Dean echoed that sentiment a moment later in the silence that followed his second gun-shot. "You picked the wrong family to mess with."

Morse started silently sobbing great undignified gulps of air as Dean finally let himself out of the apartment.

Sam was… stunned, horrified and proud of his big brother all at once. His limbs were able to move but his brain was stuck: he couldn't process it all. Dean hadn't… he didn't just… He turned supplicating eyes to Chris, needing to know, but not able to ask.

And Chris, who hadn't enjoyed the memory any more than any of the participants, took pity on Sammy. "No Sam, he didn't. He carefully aimed between his legs, not hitting a damn thing, but literally scaring the crap out of Morse"

"What happened, how did Morse get out of it, what happened to Spenser? And what did Dean tell my Dad? And why didn't I know any of this?" Sam was finally regaining his equilibrium, and found that he now couldn't stop the questions he had been previously afraid to ask.

"Well I can answer most of your questions if we look at what happened when your Dad finally took care of the hell hounds and returned home. I think you'll find that justice was served."

And as the broken figure of Morse still cuffed to his expensive leather chair faded from their sight, Sam allowed himself to cling to Chris' last words as a drowning man clings to a life preserver.

"Justice was served."

It would be ok. It would all be ok.

It would never be the same again. But it would be ok.

He hoped.

o0o

TBC