Hey! I have returned, haha.
For those of you who have requested a prompt, I am working on it! But I run a very tight and strict soccer and school schedule, which limits a majority of my time. I only get about 2 hours of free time per day. In fact, tomorrow I am going to be on a bus for 8 hours while I travel out of state for two games. Should give me time to write, though I'm done making empty promises to y'all, so I won't promise anything lmao.
Sorry if this seems sort of like a filler, but I need a transition from the basement, y'know? Don't worry, the rest of this story will not be completely comfort. Other things will pop up, but I'm only estimating another 5-7 chapters with this. Depends on where I take it.
Thank you for ALL of the reviews! I sit there at night reading them and they make me so freakin' happy. :D
Warnings: References to Rape/Non-Con; Molestation of a Minor
Enjoy!
Down in the basement, Dean didn't really have anything to ground himself to what time of day it was. He could only keep track of the intervals, and that was his only way. The intervals being, of course, when Mackel was down there, and when he wasn't. Minus the time he was unconscious, too. Honestly, he didn't know how long they were there.
It was early morning when they were taken from the motel, but it was late afternoon when they stepped outside. The sun was scorchingly hot, and the brightness was off the charts. Dean guesses that was both from the concussion and the fact that they hadn't seen light in a while, instead being trapped like animals down in a musty, cement-walled room.
His back was on fire, and Dean internally chuckled at his choice of words. However, he really was in a great amount of pain. Whenever he moved a specific way, it would rocket throughout and amongst his burnt skin, and he would feel like he was about to pass out. But he couldn't, at least not right now. Sam needed him, so Dean would have to stay strong.
Sam was a wreck. Blood kept his hair matted against his scalp, the once red liquid that pumped through his veins now crusted and dried on his head. The bat that Mackel had taken a liking to was one of the most brutal things that they had encountered throughout the 24 hours, and probably one that did the most damage. Unlike the torch, head injuries were life threatening, and Dean would be lying if he said he wasn't scared. He was terrified.
Sam had been both drowned and used as a baseball (and god, if that didn't make Dean angry enough), both of which could have some everlasting effects. Both times Sam had went under, and both times his breathing had stumbled. After he had been shoved under the water, he had been shivering for about 30 straight minutes—even in his sleep. But soon, it had died down, and that put Dean on an intense red alert. Sam would've been freezing; there was nothing to even remotely provide warmth, so when he settled, Dean thought he was dead.
But the steady, if not a little strained, rise and fall of his chest kept him from succumbing to those horrid thoughts, and was the only thing keeping him going. He was completely mortified when he realized he had fallen asleep, and Sam had woken up without him.
Now though, the three of them were out. They had escaped. No more torture. No more humiliation. No more pain.
Sam came to a stop when Dean did, still with both arms wrapped around each other. John came last, a little woozy, but overall in good shape. Well, correction, better shape than his sons were in. Dean looked warily at the other two members of his family, turning to his dad.
They had grabbed Dayne's phone off of his lax body, and now John held it. Just...held it. He didn't move to call anybody, and he didn't even move to turn it on. It was as though it was a strange, new device, and he had no idea what to even do with it. Dean could see his eyes cloud over with grief, and quietly, yet quickly, walked over to his father.
No words were spoken, but Dean held his hand out, and John caught on. The phone was tremblingly placed into his palm, and Dean let out a stuttered breath. He hesitated for a few seconds, before moving his fingers and dialing 9-1-1.
The dispatcher picked up on the third ring.
"9-1-1, what is your emergency?"
For some reason, Dean couldn't make himself speak. The words were there and he knew what to say, but he just didn't know how to say it. This was it. They could finally leave.
"Hello? What is your name and the address of the emergency? Is somebody there?"
Dean swiftly recovered and cleared his throat, before saying feebly, "Y-Yeah, uhm... I've got three people here, two are unconscious and one who...w-who committed suicide with a gun. I, uh, it looks like they were keeping s-some people down in the basement," he said in a near-whisper, emotion crawling up his throat and into his words. "I d-don't know, it's pretty bad here...ma'am. The other two are out cold." He quickly glanced to the mailbox and the street. "0502 Fairlake Drive."
"Alright, sir, a team is on their way. What is your name?"
With that, Dean dropped the phone and ended the call. He looked at his father, who nodded both with approval and apology. Dean dismissed it—he didn't need his dad to be saying sorry right now. He had done nothing wrong. None of them had done anything wrong. Shit just happens. But they couldn't afford going to the hospital at this point.
Going to seek medical care would bring about a lot of unwanted attention, as well as law enforcement and CPS (not for Dean, but rather Sam, as Dean was a grown adult) which was something they most definitely did not need right now. Especially with everything that had just happened, taking Sam away from his family would do nothing but destroy him; Dean knew that this was going to be a long road of recovery.
They all just kind of stood there, dumbfounded and confused, before John seemed to break free from his trance. It was soft, and still there, but something that neither of the sons had ever heard before: "L-Let's go, boys." The true heartbreak in his words were clearly audible, and very, very hard to miss. You'd have to be a deaf man not to hear the struggle. It was an odd thing. Their whole lives, both of the young Winchesters had never heard such decrepitude in their father's words, most certainly due to the fact he had the tone and mentality of a soldier in the Marines.
They walked to the only car sitting in the driveway, and it made Dean realize that he genuinely missed the Impala. Their sanctuary, their home, and their only sense of comfort. He missed the normality of the heat rattling on the winter days where they spent countless hours on the highways, he missed Sam complaining about the extenscious amount of homework that he had due to the numerous amount of transfers, and he longed for the days where, with the absence of hunts, they would go to the movie theatres and watch old crack flicks on the large screens.
All three of them knew that there would be no more normal. Not in the aftermath of the basement.
Hotwiring the rusted mustang, in which Dean felt disgusted in doing, was decently simple. John made a move to get behind the wheel, before Dean halted him.
"Do you really think that's a good idea?" he questioned.
His father blinked, the glaze in his eyes slightly disappearing, but not completely. Dean arched an eyebrow, as though daring for a fight, before John shook his head and moved for shotgun; Sam made his way to the back, collapsing on the leather and closing his eyes. He was still shirtless, and his arms subconsciously wrapped around his waist in a fruitless attempt to warm himself. The blood of Mackel coated his bare chest and face in a dotted splatter, and Dean made himself look away.
Every time he glanced at his brother, the memories of the precedent events stormed his mind, and was a vibrant reminder as to how much he had screwed up within the past few days. He could have done so many other things different. Been a better hunter in the motel, taken all of the letters. Had he done anything differently, Sam wouldn't be laying beaten and bloody in the backseat of a strange car.
He started the engine after a few stalls, and a smile tugged at the corner of his lips for the first time in a while. He took off at a slow pace throughout the homely and seemingly typical neighborhood, sadness etching its way across his face as he thought about the families that lived here. Dean may not know, nor understand the ways of the normal, apple-pie life that lingered just out of his reach, but knowing that you had a murderer living a few doors down from you would be heartbreaking. Somebody that you saw everyday, likely even waved and talked to, is in reality nothing like you envisioned them the person to be.
As he regained his composure bit by bit, he sped up slightly. Trees flew by in flashes of green and brown, the sun's rays shining bright throughout the barrier of leaves and foliage. He felt the slight warmth on his face, and quickly closed his eyes for the briefest of moments, as not to lose control of the vehicle. When he opened them, he inhaled deeply, and began looking for signs as to where they were.
The highway was in a decently desolate local, but even so, as soon as he rolled the windows down to get a feel for the atmosphere, he instantly knew they were somewhere along the east cost. The air was muggy and humid, hot as hell, and very distinct. He wouldn't've been surprised if they were in Florida, and the sign that he just passed under confirmed his suspicions when it told him he was heading north on the I-4 to Orlando. Their motel, where the Impala was located at, was in Alabama.
Sam groaned in the backseat, and Dean spared a look at him in the mirror. "You feelin' alright, Sammy?"
His little brother opened his eyes that had been scrunched in pain, the hazel orbs looking around for a sense of security. He found it by locating Dean. "Head," was all he managed to mumble, and even then it was weak.
"Don't worry, kiddo. We'll get you patched up before you know it. Just hang on."
The only response he received was a bleak, "M'kay."
Directing his eyes to John, Dean waited a moment before he said, "How's your wrist, Dad?"
The older man didn't react to the question, his gaze distant and glossed. Dean knew that though his body was there, his mind was not. When Mary died, it was scarily similar. John would just black out, trapped in a memory so far back that he lost his sense of where he was, what was happening, and what was reality. Dean had tried everything that he could to figure out what it was, but nothing turned up. And, even if something did, then there was no useful remedy out there to solve the issue.
It had gotten better as he had gotten older, as well as Sam, and although on the second day of November the agenda was filled to the brim with drink and rum, the spatial blanks were progressively less and less common. To see something like this resurface after so many years of it being absent was worrying, and Dean swallowed back the lump in his throat.
He rolled his shoulders to relieve some of the stress and tension, and focused his eyes back on the road. The same eyes that he was having trouble keeping dry. In all honesty, he probably deserved a breakdown. He doubted that either of his family members would remember it, and actually, it didn't seem like a half-bad idea. But, he shoved the thoughts back down into his brain, and rebuilt the wall in his mind with better defenses. He couldn't break down now.
He had a father to take care of, he had a brother to take care of, and he had himself to take care of. Dean didn't know where to start. Though, he did know where not to start, that being the latter.
So he drove for the next two hours in dead silence, not even turning the radio on. The rumble of the engine was enough to keep him satisfied, and besides, his brother had fallen asleep a little over 30 minutes ago. It was the first time in which Sam had been somewhat relaxed since they were in the basement...until now.
He had just recently passed Orlando and was well on his way to Jacksonville, when out of the blue a sharp, brief yelp had shattered the thin quietness. Dean jerked reactively at the sudden noise, the tail end of the car swerving, before he managed to straighten it out and pull over.
Looking into the backseat, he discovered Sam thrashing wildly, and had opened the door to run out. John had done the same, blinking his way back into the real world as he realized one of his sons was requiring him. The night terror that gripped Sam was a bad one, and Dean didn't necessarily know how to wake him up. He tried shaking his little brother, screaming his name, but nothing helped.
"Get the fuck off of me, you bitch!" Sam had practically yelled, and Dean maneuvered his hands to Sam's shoulders to keep him still and not injure his already-harmed head. But he knew he was making matters worse. Sam was back in the basement, and Dean's hands keeping him pinned was only fanning the fire.
"Please!" Sam begged. "Please, please, please. No! I don't want it!"
Dean stilled, and stood wide-eyed and frozen at the words. He couldn't move, he couldn't move. Dean knew what Sam was dreaming of. Of the hands that wandered his body carefully and passionately, by a man nearly 20 years older than him. Of the way his belt loosened out of its buckle. Of the hot, disgusting breath on his neck, making his skin prickle at the non-consensual feeling that he didn't want.
Before he knew it, Dean was shoved to the side, and lost his footing. He fell to the ground with a curse, and looked up to find his father now where he used to be standing over Sam. Sam seemed to struggle even more harder, if that was even a thing that could happen, and Dean could only look on. The cars continued to drive on the highway, the drivers oblivious and uncaring.
John had apparently grabbed a bottle of water and had poured it all over his Sam's face, because now Sam was upright, sputtering, and very, very much awake. "What the fuck," Sam breathed, and although John frowned, the look of relief was astoundingly visible.
He used a hand to wipe the water from his brows, and got up out of his seat. He peered around, confused, before softly saying, "We're not there anymore?"
Dean brought a hand to Sam's back, and pulled him into an embrace. Breathing in the scent of his...his kid, he shook his head. He could smell the faint scent of Old Spice, however now it was overrun by the metallic of blood. He closed his eyes. "No, Sammy. No. We're not there anymore."
The commiseration was clearly audible in Sam's released breath of gratefulness.
Sorry if the ending seemed rushed.
Writing in school is a bitch, and I only have so much time on my PC lmfao. I just wanted to get this up. More whump to come.
Reviews = Candy/Love/Rainbows/Hearts/Pretty much any happy thing you can think of. :3
