SIX MONTHS LATER
"Dad, hold on, I can't hear you—you want us to meet you where? Ohio? Where in—that town again? Come on, it's in the middle of nowhere! Fine, fine. See ya in a couple days."
Dean sighed and glanced at his little brother sleeping in the passenger seat. His head lolled towards Dean's shoulder; a little bit of drool visible on the corner of his mouth. It was adorable. He had half a mind to stick his finger in Sam's ear, but he didn't have the heart to wake him. Sam hadn't been sleeping well lately, tossing and turning in his sleep (when he could get it) and up until all hours of the morning.
He switched the radio to a soft rock station and smiled when Sam's head fell onto his shoulder.
XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx
He'd just pulled into the parking lot of a motel that seemed good enough to stay a couple days in, when Sam stirred and peered up at him with sleepy eyes. Dean had to take a moment to stamp down… something he should decidedly not be feeling.
"Where are we?" Sam murmured, rubbing at his eyes like he used to as a child. His hazel eyes took in the parking lot, but it could have been any parking lot of any hotel in America for all he knew.
A tall, muscled, sixteen year old boy should not look this cute.
"We're in Bumfuck, Ohio, man, waiting on Dad-"
Sam froze in the middle of reaching for the door handle, suddenly wide awake. "You—you don't mean that s-same town in O-Ohio from s-six months ago, r-right?"
"Um, yeah… Sam, what's wrong?" Sam was impossibly still. Dean didn't think he was even breathing. "Sam?"
Hazel eyes slowly focused on him, peering up at him with an anxious edge. Scared. "W-we were just here. Six months ago. Why are we here? W-why?'
Now Dean was starting to get scared too. He didn't like the way Sam's breaths were coming in short erratic gasps. "Hey, you need to calm down. Deep breaths. What's wrong?"
"Why are we here?" Sam repeated, voice shaking so bad he could hardly get the words out.
"We're meeting dad here in a day or two. He finished the hunt and needs more medical supplies-"
"I need to go to the rest room," Sam mumbled before taking off faster than Dean thought possible in his nervous state.
Six months ago, he would have followed Sammy without hesitation and demanded answers until he got them. And he would have. He knew exactly how to make his brother talk, and want to talk. Usually, all it took was concern, a little nudge, and a touch. Six months ago, he would have known, instinctively, what his brother was thinking or feeling.
But not now. Now, he has no fucking clue what's going through that geek brain of Sam's. And he doesn't like it one bit.
He remembers the date (March 16) because it was the last time Sam touched him. Really touched him. He remembers Sam cleaning his wounds with a gentle touch, and running his fingers feather-light through his hair when he thought Dean was asleep.
All that just… stopped, after that night. Sam all but refused to touch him, or anyone, any more than strictly necessary. These days he kept to himself and locked himself in whatever room or space was designated as his.
He would never admit it out loud, but he misses his little brother. His real little brother. His talkative, bright, pure, kind, cute, clingy little brother. Not this sullen, reserved, emo kid.
Jesus, am I really whining and moaning over the fact that my little brother isn't paying enough attention to me? Seriously?
The motel they were staying in turned out to be the same one he and Sam had stayed at the last time they were in town. He knew because he saw Sam's flinch as they entered the place. The only room available was even one with a king bed instead of two twins. Just to make the whole situation even more uncomfortable, obviously.
"Soooo…" Dean started, setting his duffle down on the floor of their room while Sam did the same, "since we have nothing to do but wait for once, did you want to look around the town at all? Maybe see if they have a used book store you can geek out over?"
"No thanks. I just want to stay here until Dad comes to get us."
"Um, okay," Dean muttered, running his hand through his hair in frustration. Since when had it become so hard to talk to Sam?
He found that the hotel had a selection of movies you could order on the television, and he picked Raider of the Lost Ark. Because, awesome. And he didn't want to leave Sam here alone to brood, or whatever.
Slowly but surely, the movie seemed to capture Sam's interest. He had been sitting in the lone chair in the room, but he tentatively made his way to the bed for a better view of the screen. Dean pretended not to notice the way he inched closer and closer every few minutes.
By the end of the movie Sam's head rested on Dean's chest, snoring softly as he slept.
Dean simply pulled the covers over them and pulled Sam even closer, relishing in the warmth he'd been missing for so long.
He woke up cold and alone. There was shuffling coming from the bathroom, so he didn't have to guess or panic about where his little brother was. Blinking open bleary eyes and moving at a pace a snail would call slow, he made his way to the bathroom. He needed to piss.
Dean rapped on the door. "Sam, open up, I need to piss."
"Gimme a minute."
"But Saaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaam," Dean whined.
"Hold on!"
Dean waited approximately ten more seconds before thinking 'fuck it' and opening the door.
"What the fuck Dean," Sam screeched, racing to pull his pants on. "GET OUT!" He was still dripping wet from his shower and Dean had to swallow heavily several times, mouth suddenly dry as fucking Death Valley at high noon.
"I have to take a piss," Dean said lamely. He tried to force his eyes away, to look at something else, anything else, but they seemed to be glued to the drops of water running down Sam's toned abs. Fuck.
"You couldn't wait one fucking minute?" Sam snapped. He picked up a towel to dry his hair with more force than necessary.
"Your concept of 'one minute' differs greatly from mine."
Sam rolled his eyes before stretching to grab another towel from the cabinet above the sink, his jeans falling lower on his hips. A darker, rougher patch of skin was revealed on Sam's left hip bone. It almost looked like a scar of some sort… but that couldn't be right. Sam had never been injured there. Dean remembered every cut, scrape, bruise, hang nail, and broken bone Sam had ever sustained, probably better than Sam did. He could recall every time he failed to protect his brother with startling clarity.
"What's that?" Dean asked, voice dropping low, pointing to Sam's hip.
Sam straightened and backed away like he'd been burned. "It's nothing," he hissed, and stalked out of the room like it was on fire.
They spent the rest of the day in complete silence.
The next afternoon Dean's cell phone rang, nearly making him fall off the bed in surprise. He scrambled to find the damn thing, sleep-addled from taking a nap.
"Hey, Dad," he flipped open the phone. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Sam look his way for the first time since the bathroom incident. It was something, at least.
"I'll be there around six o' clock tonight. Don't go anywhere. Oh, and the hunt was a cinch."
"Yes sir. Glad to hear it. See you—click—later."
"What did Dad say?" Sam asked quietly from the chair, avoiding looking Dean in the eyes (as had become his habit).
"He'll be here at six."
"Good. Hopefully we can get out of this fucking town for good."
True to his word, John arrived at the motel five minutes before the motel clock ticked six. "Hey boys," John greeted them with a smile. The hunt really must have gone well.
"Hey Dad," Dean smiled back, his father's smile contagious. He was just happy to see John happy for once.
"Hi Dad," Sam threw him a tight smile, then went back to staring at the parking lot outside the window. He ignored the puzzled look on John's face, who was used to being greeted with more enthusiasm from his youngest son when he returned from a hunt.
"Are we going to be staying here tonight or are we taking off now?" Dean asked for his brother. He knew Sam was anxious about staying in this town for some strange reason.
"We'll leave in the morning. My contact is meeting me here in a little bit to sell me some medical supplies."
XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx
Their father answered the door when three consecutive knocks filled the silent room.
"Morgan. Just let me grab my first aid kit and we can get this moving," John shook his hand before heading out into the parking lot.
Dean scowled when he saw the tall middle-aged man being led in. he hated that fucker more than just about anything—more than witches, more than a diner without beer or pie.
Dean? That you? What's a fourteen year old doing out here so late at night?" Dean looked up to see the guy he'd met that afternoon who sold his Dad medical supplies or something.
"What's a middle-aged man doing out here so late at night?" Dean retorted.
"Couldn't sleep," Morgan said with a small smile and went to stand next to Dean against the cool brick of the gas station. Close enough the lengths of their bodies touched. Dean didn't know why, but his skin crawled the moment they made contact. He took a subtle step away from Morgan.
"Same, I guess." Sam had wanted Dad to help him with his homework that night. Dean hadn't felt needed, and that pissed him off.
"Did you want to play at the arcade? Is that why you're out here?" Morgan asked, obviously noticing Dean staring at the arcade across the street.
Dean simply shrugged, not feeling the need to explain himself to one of his Dad's weird friends.
"Did you need some cash?" Morgan persisted.
Against his better judgement, Dean's ears perked up. "What are we talking?"
"One gig. One night. Hundreds of dollars. It'll hardly cost you anything at all."
Dean felt a warm, sweaty hand caress his thigh through rough denim, slowly making its way to palm the front of his jeans. In the next instant Morgan was shoved roughly against the wall, head making an audible crack as it bounced against the brick. The blade of a knife sharp biting against his throat.
"I don't want any part in your sick, twisted, disgusting games, you fucking pervert. Come near me, or God forbid, my brother, ever again and I will fucking kill you." Dean snarled, pressing the knife in deeper until a trickle of blood spilled onto the back of his hand.
"I don't know, that brother of yours… he'll be quite fuckable in a few years, I can tell." Morgan sneered.
Dean pulled his fist back and punched Morgan in the face fast as lightning, knocking out a few teeth. He didn't even feel bad about shoving his head into the wall again for good measure, knocking him out.
"Hey Dean, can you give me a hand?" John called from the parking lot.
"But Dad—" He looked at his brother, frozen by the window like a deer caught in the headlights.
"Now, Dean!"
Dean shot Morgan a threatening glare that promised blood before following his father. "What?"
"Help me find the first aid kit so I can see what supplies I'm low on."
He dug through the trunk of the Impala, careful not to let his father see him roll his eyes, as fast as physically possible, eager to get back to Sam. His eyes barely passed over the clutter in the trunk, moving on auto pilot. A weird, tight feeling in his gut was making itself very apparent and his heart raced for what should be no reason.
"Aha! Found it!" John held the white case up triumphantly. This time Dean couldn't help but roll his eyes. He practically ran back to the room in his haste to see his brother.
"Tell me, did you miss me, Sam?" Dean heard Morgan whisper as he leaned in close to Sam's ear. A hand caressed Sam's thigh while he licked a trail up Sam's neck. Sam trembled visibly, obviously too scared to even move an inch.
Morgan must be a witch. That was the only plausible explanation why Dean couldn't move, couldn't breathe. He could only stand there and watch, screaming inside his head because he couldn't lift a finger.
No.
NO.
NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO
"I found it, Morgan," John walked into the room, past Dean's frozen stiff form, breaking the spell.
Morgan took several quick steps back before he was in John's field of vision. He spared Sam one last lecherous glance before following John back out the door so they could conduct their business. Dean thought he saw him wink when the pervert passed by him.
He had a brief thought that he should warn his father about that man, that he was a goddamn witch that needed to be hunted, that the next hunt was right in front of their eyes. His stomach rebelled before he could think about it clearly, barely making it to the toilet in time.
The contents of his stomach came back up, violently. Tears fell from the corners of his eyes, body shaking with the force of it.
Sam—his Sammy had—with Morgan—purge
Morgan had—to his Sammy—done that to him—purge
Hurt him—purge
Oh God, Sammy—purge
No, no, no, not Sammy—purge
Why Sammy—purge
Dean was pretty sure he threw up everything he ate in the past fucking week. When he thought he was done (for the moment at least) his body slid to the floor, boneless. He couldn't think. Maybe his brain was somewhere in that toilet along with his stomach.
He just lay there. Not thinking. Even breathing made him nauseous.
A knock at the door made him reluctantly crack an eye open. "Dean?" Sam's tentative voice reached easily through the old wood. He tried to turn the knob when he got no response. "Dean. Why is the door locked? Dean! What's wrong? Answer me!"
He didn't have the energy.
"Dean! You've been in there for hours!"
Huh. When did that happen?
"I will pick the lock if you don't come out right the fuck now," Sam threatened. "I'm serious!"
Well, Sam was going to have to follow through on his threat, because his body wouldn't listen to him at the moment. Morgan's spell must have affected him more than he thought.
The soft clicks of a lock being picked.
"Dean?" Sam whispered, and when Dean opened his eyes Sam was kneeling in front of him. "What's going on? Talk to me." He spoke as if he was talking to a frightened animal. "Are you hurt?"
Something inside Dean snapped.
"Hurt? You're the one who…"
"Who what, Dean? What did I do this time?"
"He hurt you!" Dean roared, suddenly finding the strength to stand, even if his legs were still a little shaky. "Morgan hurt you, and you didn't say a damn word about it. Why didn't you say anything, Sammy? Why didn't you say anything? Why…why did you…"
"So you… saw that, huh?" Sam mumbled, looking down at the tiled floor like it held the secrets of the universe.
"Oh, I fucking saw it. I just couldn't make any kind of sense of it."
"Dean, you don't understand. I—I had to! I didn't have any choice!"
"Did that pervert force you, Sam? He did, didn't he?" Dean's voice dropped low, almost a growl.
Sam was still on his knees on the floor, looking at anything but his brother. His silence told Dean all he needed to know.
Dean stomped out of the room. Sam followed on his heels. He grabbed Dean's sleeve and spun him around, tears falling freely.
"He paid me, okay? Is that what you wanted to hear? That your little brother whores himself out when he needs fast cash?"
And then it clicked. He'd been injured pretty bad six months ago; Sam left to care for him, alone. He didn't remember seeing their fake insurance card or fake prescriptions for the heavy-duty antibiotics that he'd needed after his wound had gotten infected (or so Sam had told him; it was all pretty hazy). There had even been a shiny new IV bag to administer them. They didn't have that kind of crap in their duffels. How had Sam managed to snag all that stuff? His saint of a little brother would never stoop to stealing it, certainly.
So of course Sam would sell himself. That was the only logical explanation. Right. He couldn't let his big brother die, even though Dean's life wasn't fucking worth it. He wasn't worth it, and now Sam was paying the price because he was stupid enough to get injured on a hunt—
"It's my fault," Dean breathed.
"No. No, you're not going to do this," Sam shook his head. "You're not going to put this on yourself. I made the choice because I had to save you, and I don't regret it one bit. I'd do it again—where are you going? Dean! NO! NO!"
Sam tried to pull Dean back but his brother just shook him off like it was nothing.
The Impala rumbled briefly before taking off into the night.
He knew where Morgan would be staying. A pompous asshole like that, he would want nothing better than the best of the best. The closest four-star hotel was an hour away so he drove the Impala as fast as she could go in that direction.
With a little distraction, he was able to sneak behind the front desk and search their computer for Morgan's room number. He found the room, 419, easily enough, and picked the lock in no time at all. The front room was empty when he walked in. A cloud of steam emitted from the open bathroom door, shower running noisily.
Dean silently strode into the bathroom without a second thought. He moved with the efficiency of a hunter stalking its prey.
The hunter pulled back the shower curtain and dragged its prey out kicking and screaming. Screaming perfectly, until he put his hands around Morgan's throat. Just before it got to the point where Morgan was about to die, he let go. Gave him a second to breathe. Then punched him. Again. Again. And again. Feeling bones crack and shatter against his fist gave him a rush.
"Remember what I told you, Morgan? I fucking warned you not—punch—to—punch—go—punch—near—punch-my—punch-brother. I told you that I'd kill you."
Morgan was begging. Pleading. Crying.
It was all music to Dean's ears.
He brought out the knife strapped to his belt and grinned at the terrified expression on Morgan's face.
"Tell me, Morgan, was Sam scared too when you did that to him?"
"Dean? Where were you? You know you're supposed to be keeping an eye on your brother when I'm not around." John eyed his son suspiciously when he returned to the motel at two in the morning. He didn't appear drunk at least, so he hadn't been at a bar.
Dean strode towards his father leaning against the door to their room, whistling a familiar Led Zeppelin song. "Just taking care of business."
"Holy shit, is that… blood? Dean, are you hurt?" John frantically checked Dean over for injures after seeing a streak of red on his jacket.
"It's not mine, Dad. I'm fine."
John paused, weighing Dean's words and eyes that seemed a little too bright. "What did you do?"
"I hunted a monster. It's what we do, right?"
"Answer me. Now."
And Dean told him.
His father didn't say anything. Just patted Dean on the shoulder in the same way he always did after a hunt well done.
"Dean? Where'd you go? Where's Dad? What happened? Are you okay—is that blood? Oh my god, you're hurt—"
Dean put a finger to Sam's lips, shushing him. "Sam, slow down. I can barely keep up with you when you talk that fast. Dad got another room for himself. No, I'm not hurt. It's not my blood. I just took care of some business, okay?" He palmed his little brother's cheek when he noticed how worried he was.
Sam leaned into the touch. "I'm sorry about the things I said before. Can we just forget about it? Please?"
"Yeah, okay. But only because he is never going to bother you again. Ever. Trust me." Dean let his body move on its own, because if he thought about it he knew he wouldn't have the courage to lean in those few inches and kiss his little brother.
"Call it."
Nurse Jenna nodded. "Time of death, 3:07 a.m."
A sheet was pulled over John's Doe's battered, bruised, lacerated body.
Thanks for reading. I'd love to hear what you thought of it! Reviews are love! I love love! There will be a short epilogue after this :)