This chapter is the longest I have written to make up for the lack of updates. If you can't tell, I'm very disorganized and don't have a true schedule, and for that I'm sorry. But as soon as I finish and get my beta's to look it over, I post it immediately.
Now, the rating will REMAIN TEEN.
However, there are a few warnings for this chapter. Please take it seriously, and do not read if you are uncomfortable with the following subjects. If you would like to PM me, I can message you a condensed version of this chapter.
Warnings for: Molestation of a minor (17 y/o); Implications of non-con/rape elements, but only mentions; and suicide.
Read safe, y'all. Another A/N at the end.
When Dean awoke, everything was hazy. The whole room was a blur, and he felt a sudden onslaught of sickness overtake him. He lay on his stomach, and although he would have liked to look up and move his head around in order to see what was happening, it was useless.
His back was completely charred, the flamethrower marking its way across the previous knife cuts that had been sliced on his skin. Fire always seemed to loop back to their family, didn't it?
He took a few moments to catch his breath, and the ringing that had been holding residence in his ears for the past long while was slowly subduing. It was noisy in the basement, full of somebody screaming and this time Dean wasn't sure who it was. Pretty much all he had been hearing this day was screams, whether it be his own, John's, or his little brother's.
He felt guilty just thinking this, but he was probably growing accustomed to his family being tortured. Everytime he woke up, everytime he looked, something was happening and he was powerless to stop it. Hope is a tacky thing, and for a while he thinks he actually had some. But as time progresses, he's beginning to wonder...what is the point?
Mackel and his buddies had all of the advantages here. They had the guns, they had the weapons, and they had the leverage. All Dean and his family had was a paperclip. That's it.
However, something about this time on his travel back to consciousness was different; there was an underlying feeling of unsettledness resting in his stomach, and his gut told him that something bad was going to happen. Of course, bad things were always happening...but this was different. He didn't like it.
He blinked a few times, then tried again. His father lay sprawled across the floor, and Dean wonders when he managed to get out of his chair. He obviously had broken out of it, as the piece of wood still remained attached to his hand, but nonetheless it was quite a feat to do something as strong as such.
Dean had always admired his father, and tried to do everything that was asked of him. He was his father after all, and parents are there to help their children. Without John, Dean would be dead, as well as Sam. As much to Sam's displeasure, their dad had saved them more times than he could even count, and they owed him. He taught them to fight, and he taught them how to survive.
They've saved countless lives, and created even more. They had an important job to do, so Dean was going to do it. No matter what his brother thought, Dean would always believe that they were meant for this. And if Sam didn't like that? Then Dean didn't know what to do. He cared for his brother's dreams and desires more than his own, but if Sam went off and lived a normal life like he wants to? He wouldn't be safe, and that was the problem. Dean can't live with his brother in danger. Just knowing that he would be out there and vulnerable to this rural lifestyle was enough to make Dean sharply decline.
He shook himself out of his thoughts, and glanced up at the scene playing out before him. At first he didn't understand. Frozen like ice, he didn't even blink as he realized that monster was on top of his brother.
Sam sat rigidly still, in the same position as he was always in: sitting down with his legs stretched out, and back resting against the pipes. But Mackel was on top of him. He straddled Dean's little brother, a calloused hand coming up to meet Sam's collarbone. Sam shifted his gaze, and Dean could see the utter terror and fear in his hazel eyes.
What was even happening?
That was when the realization decided to strike. He tried to sit up too quickly, and bit back a cry of pain that almost escaped him when the pain flared throughout his back. His father on the floor. Another paper on the ground. Mackel on top of Sammy. No, no, no.
He debated screaming for a quick moment, before deciding against it and rather putting the effort to moving himself the most he could. He would not let this happen. Physical pain was one thing, but this was a completely different ball league. Hell, this was a completely different world. Absolutely nothing compared to this.
A fierce wave of possessiveness pooled over him, and it raged a storm inside his soul. Sam was his. He was not Eli's, or Dayne's, or Mackel's. Sam was his child. The one he had raised his whole life, not because he was forced to, but because it was the only thing he wanted to do. He would not trade his brother for anything.
"Sam, you need to eat," Dean said solemnly, a grim expression washing over his face. Sam looked up at him with harsh features, undoubtedly barely controlling himself.
"Seriously?" he responded, his fifteen-year old, beady eyes locking onto Dean's own. "You've got to be fucking kidding me right now."
Dean winced, the words striking him deep. He's not quite sure what he said wrong, but apparently something had ticked his little brother off. He moved to stand up from his position on the couch, but groaned when the claw-marks that consumed his abdomen protested in a fiery agony.
"Dean, would you stay the fuck still?" Sam asked in a pleading tone, a small amount of the ferocity disappearing from his words. "The only thing you'll do by moving is aggravate your wound even more. We've just got the bleeding stopped. You need to rest."
Dean shook his head disapprovingly. "No, Sam, not until you eat. I know you didn't eat anything before the hunt, and that was over 24 hours ago. You need some food."
"For God's sake, would you shut up about me already?" Sam exploded. "You're the one with the 2-inch deep gashes in your side. I'm not doing anything until you've taken care of yourself. That's final."
Dean huffed in exasperation. Sam was beginning to sound more and more like him every day. It started with the sarcasm, followed by the actions, and is finishing with the selflessness. When Dean was in trouble, Sam would do nothing but worry about his safety, hovering over him like a mother-hen. That wasn't right though, because Dean was supposed to be the one doing that—not Sam. Sam shouldn't have to be concerned about his brother being alive.
But Dean knew that once his brother was dead set on something, then there was little to no chance in changing his mind. He had a focused precision, only thinking about the task at hand, even if that meant excluding his own well being from the equation.
"How much does it hurt?" Sam asked softly, prodding at the white bandages layering Dean's skin. Unlike his father's, Sam's touch was gentle and caring. It was different with their dad. John was raised in the army and trained to treat wounds merely so they would get you by. Horrific scars were often the result, and the stitching solid but messy.
On the other hand, Sam was ginger. He took his time and kept the injury tight and neat, yet also strong. Dean would say any day that he preferred his brother's touch over his father's, and he sometimes wondered if that was a good thing. He thought it was.
"I'm fine," Dean gritted through a halfway closed mouth, trying to make the pain reside slightly.
"So, it hurts," Sam concluded. He stood up and went somewhere into the kitchen, before returning with a white bottle of painkillers. Dean began to make a face, but Sam shot him a warning look before handing him three tablets and a glass of water. Dean glared daggers, but still downed them anyway.
The drowsiness started to take effect immediately, and he closed his eyes. But not quick enough. He managed to get a glimpse of his younger brother switching his position with a twitch, as well as the red that lined his jacket sleeve.
Dean shot up instantaneously, on alert in seconds. "Sammy!" he called, and Sam answered by turning around swiftly to scan for any danger. "What the hell is that?" Dean questioned, directing his eyes to the blood on Sam's clothes.
Sam sighed, and answered, "It's fine, is what it is. Now go to sleep, you need it."
Dean couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Not until you lift that up for me. Sam, are you hurt? Did that bastard catch you? I need you to talk to me, little brother." The nickname made Sam flinch in sadness, and he relented by pulling up the fabric.
Three, long marks lined his shoulder, and Dean nearly felt like grabbing his gun and shooting up a storm. Sam had been injured, and Dean didn't even notice because of his own useless problems. He felt like he was doing more and more things wrong everyday.
"Holy fuck, Sam! What the hell? Why would you hide this from me?"
Sam rolled his eyes in what seemed to be annoyance, yet his shoulders dropped a bit at Dean's reprimanding words. "Oh, excuse me," he said in an exaggerated tone, "it's not like you were bleeding out on the motel mattress or anything. I've had to watch you be within an inch of your life too many times than I would like to have, Dean. And I hate it. Every single time, it scares me shitless. So I apologise if I neglect a few, meager scratches on my arm that aren't even that bad."
Dean's anger slowly diminished, and the guilt started to take its place. Nowadays, it seemed like those were the only, true feelings that he felt anymore, and it rotated on a block schedule. Half the time he was furious, and the other half, rueful.
The only happiness he felt was when he was with Sam. He may be an adult now, but that didn't mean that him and his brother were any different. If anything, they were closer together now more than ever, and he was grateful for that.
Dean sighed.
"I'm sorry," he began. After a moment's hesitation, he continued, "If it's any consolation, it scares me shitless that you have to deal with that too."
Sam supplied a smile, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. The sadness still held a grip on him, and Dean thought that maybe it always would. But that didn't mean he wouldn't try his damn best to make his brother happy, even if it meant Sam going off on his own way. Dean knew that's what his brother wanted ever since they were younger, and he was going to support Sam's aspirations, even if it meant himself getting hurt emotionally in the process.
Sam was his world—his entire life. Somehow, his baby brother always managed to bounce back from everything thrown his way, whether it be the hunting monsters ordeal, a soul crushing fight with their father, or a literal gunshot wound in his shoulder.
But Dean didn't know if Sam could bounce back from this.
Mackel moved further up Sam's hips, sliding a hand under the smaller boy's blood-crusted, plain shirt. Dean could see Sam visibly shudder, the touch foreign and violating to him. A few seconds passed before Mackel removed his fingers, withdrawing them from Sam's clothing, and reaching into his own pocket and pulling out a pair of scissors.
The blade slid up through Sam's chest area, the fabric falling apart at the seams. This is when Sam began to struggle, attempting to bring a knee up and into Mackel's groin while Mackel was on top of him, but he only got halfway before the man punched Sam in the face.
Sam recoiled and spat blood onto the cement floor, while Mackel cut the rest of his shirt off. He tossed the ruined attire to the side with disdain, as though it was of offense to him. Sam, now topless, looked absolutely terrified, a look Dean had sworn would never paint his brother's face again.
Dean felt so helpless, just looking onto Mackel toying with Sam, his hands maneuvering their way along Sam's muscled body. Now that Dean really got a look at it, he realized that Sam looked a lot more strong than he had last seen him without a shirt on, which was a decent amount of time ago.
Mackel chuckled as he slid down to Sam's thighs, disappearing beyond his pants. Dean almost closed his eyes in fear of having to watch this, but Mackel spoke just then. "John, John, John. I swear. You never learn, do you? I didn't really want it to have to come to this. Honestly. But, as I was raised, when you did something wrong, you got punished. That's just how it was."
Dean spared a glance at his father, and only a face of true horror met him back.
A groan from his left side made everybody fall silent, and Dean suddenly realized that both Eli and Dayne were lying unconscious on the floor. Putting together the pieces, he realized what had happened.
The sound had come from Eli, his body slowly twitching into wakefulness, but Dayne remained silent.
Mackle muttered a low, "Dumbass," before returning to what he was doing. He made to grasp Sam's belt, but that's when everything changed. The metal shackles opened, and fell to Sam's side. As fast as lightning, Sam took the opening and landed a solid strike to Mackel's face.
Mackel, definitely caught off guard, landed harshly on the floor, his already bruised face smacking against it. Sam quickly sat up, moving fast to the man's pocket and throwing the taser across the room. It hit the wall with a loud clang, and the blessed sound reverberated amongst the room. Granted, the taser had already been used, but it was still more comfortable knowing that it was completely out of the equation.
A new fire sparked in Sam's eyes, and he used his foot to kick Eli, who was slowly waking up, directly in the head. Within this time, Mackle slowly regained his steadiness, and was in the process of getting to his feet. Sam let him, and for a brief moment Dean wondered why. Almost screamed at his brother to take advantage of the opportunity. But he knew better, because Sam was a smart person. Even when he was injured, and even when he was sick. Smarter than John, smarter than Dean himself. And Dean trusted Sam with his life. In fact, his life had been in Sam's hands too many times to count.
"Get up!" Sam said loudly in a raspy voice, the lack of water making itself clear. "No weapons, no silliness, just you and me," he said. "Just you and me."
Mackel smiled a bloodied grin, and it made Dean feel a second round of worry. Before he knew it, Mackel was up and charging, running toward Sam at a fast speed. Sam stood controlled though, waiting for the perfect moment. It came when the older man was about three feet in front of him, before he ducked to the side and used his frayed hands, already damaged from the cuffs, to swipe Mackel's feet out from under him.
Mackel cursed as he hit the ground, hard.
"That all you got?" Sam asked vehemently. "After all you've done. After all of this preparing, this smack-talking, this torturing, you can't take down an injured, seventeen year-old in which you had hurt yourself? Are you really that pathetic, to hide behind your guns and your weapons and your henchmen, thinking you're so high and mighty, when inside, you're really just a scared man, taking his fear, his guilt, and his anger out on children? On a family?"
"Shut up!" Mackel screamed. "John killed my wife! He killed her! She's gone, all because of him! You have no idea what that feels like to lose somebody you loved to somebody you trusted! None!"
Sam scoffed, a look of pure hatred encasing his features. "Everything you love eventually dies, especially in the hunting world."
Dean felt a punch to the gut on that one, but decided to let it go as now was most definitely not the time. Part of him thought that what Sam had just said was based on his own experience and knowledge, and that made Dean feel extremely contrite. Who was he kidding? Of course Sam had that inspired by his own life.
Either way, the words had the intended effect. Mackel growled, and sloppily made an attack. Sam easily dodged it, the fist swinging wildly to the left. Dean understood Sam's strategy.
"You're done, man," Sam said. "Just let it go."
Another misguided attempt.
Another dodge.
"Let it go."
Mackel, panting, looked Sam in the eyes, green meeting hazel. Dean couldn't see, but he could definitely sense his torturer's body tense up, the muscles becoming tight and his breathing labored. He knew what was going to happen, but before he could tell Sam to look away, Mackel was running to Dayne's limp body, and snatching the gun out of his pants.
"No!" Sam screeched, and despite everything he had endured, took off at a full sprint. It was way too late though, it had been too late since Dean had seen Mackel make his decision.
"Just wait," Mackel said, his voice wavering. "Wait until you lose the person you love most, and then see how you feel. Because it will happen. It will." If the words weren't enough, the shot was more than. The gun fell from Mackel's hands, clattering to the floor loudly. The body came after, and the thump came last.
"No!" Sam shouted again, and he fell to his knees. "Nonono!"
Mackel's green eyes remained open, and Dean felt nauseous at the sight. They were exactly like his own.
The blood coated the back wall in a disturbing crimson, and the odor of copper wafted throughout the small enclosure.
It was completely silent, aside from Sam's desperate sobs.
They were louder than the gunshot itself.
"Sam."
The name was completely alien to him, and he could barely hear it through the ringing in his ears.
"Sammy!"
Sam didn't deserve that name anymore. How could he? He had murdered somebody. Pushed them to the limit and killed a person. Monsters were different. They hurt people, and they weren't a real person. But this wasn't some monster. Mackel was a human.
"SAMMY!"
Sam, dazed through the sound of the gunshot and the tears welling in his eyes, was snapped out of his stupor by his father's commanding voice. He looked up to his dad, silently pleading for him to fix this.
A little more soft, John asked, "Sam? Do you think you could grab the paperclip and help get us out of these chains?"
Sam stared for a moment, before shaking his head and realizing he was an idiot. He needed to get his family out of here. He stumbled over to where the paperclip lay discarded on the ground and began unlocking the one manacle that was still on his father's wrist, before moving to Dean and repeating the same thing.
Sam was completely surprised to see Dean stand up immediately as the burn marks on his back were extremely severe, but despite his back being slightly hunched forward, his brother didn't show any signs of pain. Sam knew it was for his protection, but even though it was supposed to, it didn't ease the ache in his heart.
"C'mon, Sammy," Dean whispered, and wrapped an arm around Sam's shoulders. Dean guided him to the stairs, and told him to sit. Sam complied, shivering. "Don't look," Dean told him. "You hear me?"
All Sam could manage was a nod. How could his family even look at him right now? He was a murderer. One of the filthy things that they hunt.
He could slightly hear a conversation going on, but he was too numb to understand it all.
"You think you could walk?" he heard Dean ask.
There were a few grunts and spells of profanity, but Sam's father finally responded, "Yeah. Tasers don't keep you immobilized for long. That bastard."
There was a moment of quiet, before he barely heard his dad ask ever so low, "He okay?"
He assumes Dean shook his head, because he was right. Sam wasn't okay. He was a murderer. That's what he was, and that's all he was. He didn't deserve his family's concern.
Dean walked onto the first step where Sam sat, and gently said, "Let's get out of here."
The three of them helped each other up the stairs together, leaving the words X-Acto, drowning, bludgeon, fire, and rape crumpled in the dust.
I hope this was okay. I was actually kind of disturbed whilst writing this, so I'm unsure if this writing is up to my usual standards, however I truly hope it is!
Thank you to everybody who has reviewed! I read all of them, but I may not reply to every single one. Either way, comments mean the world to me, and they're the only thing keeping me writing.
Now, a little backstory behind the ending paragraphs, and what was going through my mind when I was brainstorming. Some of you may wonder, why the hell would Sam feel like a murderer, when A) Mackel killed himself, and B) he deserved to die. My reasoning is as follows. Sam has a very extreme guilt complex, and his belief, at least when he was younger, was that everybody deserves a chance to make things right. Take Amy for example. Even she was a monster, yet Sam refused to kill her.
For the longest time, all Sam has wanted to be is normal. So pushing somebody to the limits of suicide, despite it not being his intentions, will have a major, major effect on him.
I am keeping the comfort part of this in the same book, so expect more chapters. We're all going to have some hurt boys, yet Sam will be more of the main focus, with Dean trying to help him through this—with Sam's belief that he killed somebody. Dean and John, of course, don't feel the same way about Mackel since they have been hardened hunters they're whole lives pretty much.
So here's my explanation, and I hope it makes sense. Again, message me if you wanna talk about anything regarding my story respectfully.
Have a great day,
Lizzie.
