Hello again! I know, I know; I'm a failure on updating. >.

Also, I kind of forgot to do some warnings for this so..this entire story will include-
Molestation, Hinted at Rape, Vulgar Language, Shooting people.

Alright, back to the story.

Enjoy!

"Sammy?"

The kid thrashed again in the bed, his face glistening with sweat and eyes squeezed tightly shut. Now fully awake, Dean pushed lightly at Sam's bony shoulder. "Sammy, wake up." After no response, Dean pushed harder, almost considering just picking the kid up and tossing him back onto the bed.

Dean grit his teeth, realizing this to be Sam's second nightmare this week.

And Dean still couldn't heal him.

He had tried, had tried so hard to help his brother, but it was like Sam just didn't want to hear it. He'd pushed him away, told Dean he didn't need his help, that he could deal just fine on his own.

Like he didn't want to fucking "burden" him with his issues.

Sam's eyes shot open, his eyes glazed as they relived the nightmare. He breathed heavily through his mouth, looking around the room in fright, almost as though he were recognizing it to be something it's not, something horrendous and evil and disgusting. Sure, the room was disgusting, fungus filling just about every corner of the room, but that wasn't new to them.

Sam's eyes finally landed on Dean, and the recognition Dean had been expecting to alight in his brother's eyes was not there, not at all. Instead of Sam's usually bright green eyes, they were dulled with what looked like dreadful resignation.

Dean had no time to decipher what this meant as Sam got onto his knees and climbed on top of him, staying under the covers as he promptly pressed his body flush against Dean's, one hand moving to clutch at Dean's hair.

Dean's eyes widened maddeningly as Sam immediately lavished Dean's neck with plump lips, sucking robotically on the flesh as if he was taught how to do it so precisely that he could do it just as expertly on auto-pilot. He violently humped Dean's thigh, letting out a thrilled moan that didn't reach his eyes. "I can be good. I swear, I'm good." Sam's words seemed strained, like he didn't actually want this but he still had to play the part. It sickened Dean to think this was how Larry made Sam act. Sam's hands trailed down to Dean's nipples, squeezing them tightly.

Dean, at last awoken from his frozen state of comatose, squeaked and thrashed under Sam's smaller body, trying his best not to hurt him as he tried prying him off. His baby brother seemed to take that as a go-ahead, and in an instant their crotches were pressed together, Sam thrusting his groin against Dean's. "You like that. I know you like that. How do you want it? I'll give it to you, whatever you want." Sam's mouth attached to Dean's cheek like a leech, and Dean's eyes were wide with horror as he continued his attempt at pulling Sam off of him. "Tell me again, how well do I fuck? I wanna hear it." Dean tried his best to ignore Sam's words, their meaning only further proving the degradation Sam had been forced to endure during his time with Larry. Tears stung his eyes, and he finally succeeded in turning Sam around and crushing him to his chest, restraining both his arms and legs with his own limbs.

Sam went with it, pressing his ass into Dean's groin, moaning as Dean gasped. "You can have me. I don't want me. Please, take me. I'm yours," left Sam's mouth and tears sprayed Dean's eyes as he realized his plan hadn't fixed anything at all.

Dean released Sam's arms and put his hands against Sam's back, heaving as he pushed Sam to the edge of the bed.

"Sam. Sammy, stop—."

Sam flipped around to face his brother, moaning as he pressed his hand firmly against his own crotch and stroked it, looking lustfully into Dean's eyes the entire time. "Come on, I know you want this. Let's play." His eyes were lidded, the green in his eyes hidden as if he were only half-conscious, still consumed by the nightmare.

Dean kept his hands tight around his brother's forearms, his arms locked and strained. "It's me, your brother. Dean."

Sam's arms stopped reaching and groping, and for a moment Dean thought he would try again, try to touch him in a way he knew Sam didn't want in the first place. Sam continued lying motionless, and his eyes finally showed something other than false, artificial lust. The acknowledgment Dean had been waiting for was finally present.

Sam gulped. "Dean…" Instant shame fell over Sam in a suddenly overwhelming tide, and he scooted away, humiliated, tears glazing over his eyes. "Oh my god, I-I'm s-sorry, I'm so sorry, I didn't m-mean to…" He backed up until he was leaning precariously over the edge, both literally and metaphorically, as if afraid he would try that again if he wasn't careful.

Something in Dean's heart ached as he looked into Sam's petrified and utterly lost expression, and he shifted in his spot on the bed, absently wishing Sam's ministrations hadn't gotten him a damn boner. "Don't worry about it, Sammy," Dean said, trying to make Sam understand it wasn't his fault. He patted Sam's arm lightly, reassuringly, and Sam retracted, bringing his arm close to his chest.

Sam shut his eyes tighter, trapped in his thoughts. "God." He sighed, bringing a hand up to rub his temples. "I…I-I was never like that…with him. I d-don't know why I d-did that. I'm sorry."

"Hey," Dean said, scooting closer to Sam, ignoring the pangs of rejection. "You did nothing wrong, Sam."

Sam flipped back onto his side facing Dean, his eyes squinting as though he was in pain. "How can you say that? I just tried to have sex with you, my brother." He rubbed a hand over his face, choking back a sob. "Larry was right; I'm so disgusting."

Dean grabbed Sam's forearm, his voice obstinate and inflexible. "Hey, I don't want to hear that. Larry lied. He was a complete shit that took advantage of you. You didn't choose that life with him and there is nothing wrong with you. You were caught up in that nightmare and, when you woke up, the remnants were still stuck in your head." He wrapped his arms around his baby brother and Sam struggled against the warm arms. He didn't deserve his love. He pushed stubbornly against Dean's chest, trying to push him back but, after several failed attempts, he sagged into the touch, defeated.

"You didn't do anything wrong," Dean said again.

"You can't say that."

Dean sighed, one of his hands absently playing with strands of long hair. How can he make his brother understand?

Sam shifted, still uncomfortable, uncertain. "It…it wasn't with Larry."

Dean looked at Sam. "What?"

"My nightmare. I…I was…I was with…" He sighed heavily, and Dean was beginning to think his little brother just didn't care anymore. After another moment Sam spoke again, his voice muffled against Dean's chest. "When will this finally go away?"

Dean closed his eyes, pressing his cheek into Sam's hair. "I dunno, Sammy. I dunno."

"It's not fair."

"I know, but it'll go away soon."

Oh, how wrong he was.

XxXxXxXxXxXx

Dean got up early next morning to see Sam lying on his back, his torso long with arms stretched high over his head, hands resting on the headboard. Dean swallowed tautly. Whenever Dean woke up before Sam—which wasn't that often—he'd always see Sam in this position. Was this how Sammy always slept when he was with Larry?

He blinked in horror as his thoughts turned to why, and fought desperately to ignore the taunting words. Sam was clad in only boxers, and the pale, protruding scars were prominent on Sam's unblemished skin. He stared at the one that trailed deeply down his stomach, watching as it disappeared below the waistband of his boxers and reappeared to trail down his leg. He glanced again at Sam's covered body, and traced another scar lightly, his finger softly dipping into Sam's collarbone and onto his shoulder. He pondered how his brother could've gotten it.

Then stopped when he found a bite mark beside it.

Dean turned to get out of bed and away from his past. Sam's past.

"Hey," came a small voice.

Dean spun around at the softly spoken word to find Sam still laying there, eyes still closed, but the coherence of the greeting made Dean wonder exactly how long Sam had been sleeping. His face reddened at the thought.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean said just as softly, scooting back down to lay on his side beside his brother. He watched Sam's face for recognition, but no other emotion was written there.

The two brothers lay there for several moments of silence, of peace they weren't usually allowed the luxury of.

"Hey, Sammy?" Dean whispered, unsure if Sammy had fallen back asleep.

But he shouldn't have worried. Very rarely is Sam able to sleep and, when he does, he sure as hell won't be able to do it again for a long time.

Even before Larry Sam had had trouble sleeping.

Without outwardly reacting, Sam made a questioning hmm sound. Dean took that as good a confirmation as any.

"Why…" he started, then quickly changed tactics, licking his lips with apprehension and helpless curiosity. "If y-you don't mind m-me asking…why do you, uh, why do you sleep like that?" He nodded his head to Sam's outstretched arms, absently realizing Sam couldn't see him.

Sam did open his eyes then; not out of vivid horror of having to relive a wretched, bloodcurdling memory that deserved to be long forgotten, but of dull remembrance.

"I'm sorry, does it bother you?" Sam asked quietly, beginning to bring his arms back by his side.

"No, no," Dean said hurriedly, bringing a hand up to both of Sam's, pushing them back above Sam's head. "I w-was just, I was just…" Dean huffed, wordless.

Sam seemed to get it, though, and didn't ask for clarification. "Larry," he said, his gaze on the ceiling. "For the majority of my time with him, I was chained to the headboard." He twisted a wrist, indicating the scars encircling it.

Dean swallowed hard, a bad taste beginning to develop in his mouth. He'd known it would be something like that, he'd known, so…why'd he have to ask? Why'd he just have to hurt Sam more by making him relive it?

What kind of a selfish brother was he?

He shifted in his spot beside his brother, fidgety. "I'm sorry, Sammy, I shouldn't…I shouldn't have asked. That was—."

"No." Sam brought his arms to his chest and turned on his side to face Dean, his gaze imploring and full of emotion. It took Dean's breath away.

"No, please don't apologize, please. I don't mind you asking me questions. It used to hurt, used to make me realize how sick it was and how sick I am. But now…" he paused, looking away. "Now it makes me feel less like the crazy, scarred guy at the circus and more like a well-cared for brother." A corner of his lip twitched into a smile. "You, you can ask me whatever you want if you'd like."

Tears built up in Dean's eyes, and the threat of completely breaking down in front of Sam was so likely it was embarrassing. How could his baby brother, his baby brother, be so strong? How could he look into the eye of the storm and feel unthreatened by its tremendous strength and capability to kill?

When had his brother changed from a small kid to this matured teenager far beyond his years?

Dean nodded, smiling as tears trailed down his cheeks. He was so damn proud of Sam, so proud of what he'd become despite his tragedies.

XxXxXxXxXxXx

When Dean trailed into the kitchen he noticed John had left a small note on the fridge, his scribbly, sloppy handwriting indicating a hunt a few towns over and that he'd be back in a few days. Dean hissed through his teeth, crumpling the paper tightly in his fist. Because really, what the hell? He just decided he was going to up and leave them, leave Sam?

"Dad's gone," Sam said, sitting at the chair in the corner of the small kitchen, saying things he knows Dean already knows.

"Yeah."

"You're angry," he said, more as a statement than a question.

Dean sighed, nodding. "Yeah."

"Why?"

Dean gulped, looking away from Sam. "I dunno, just don't think he needs to be hunting yet. We're still…you know..."

Sam shook his head, like he didn't know.

"…Recovering."

Sam was silent.

Dean heaved a sigh, pulling a chair out from the kitchen table and flipping it around. He sat, his and Sam's knees almost touching. "Listen, Sammy, I know this is hard. I know…" Unexpectedly, he felt himself get flustered, and he tried to bat his emotions away. "I know…I know it's been hard for you, but Dad and I are going to protect you. We're not going to let anything happen to you again. And what happened last night? Wasn't your fault. You'll get better."

Sam shifted in his seat, watching Dean's gaze intently as he searched for any notion of pretenses, that Dean was lying to him. When he found none, he looked away, his suspicions being replaced with the fragments of humiliation he had felt from the other night, still hanging heavy on him. He sighed, leaning his elbow on his knee and his forehead on his palm.

What would Dean think of him now? Would he look at him differently, every glimpse he gets of his brother a glimpse of him pressing his crotch against his? Maybe Dean will think Sam actually wanted it from him, was sick enough to think of Dean romantically like that. Maybe instead, Dean will think Sam liked that with Larry. That Sam was sick and disgusting for letting Larry fuck him because he enjoyed it.

The thought brought a dirty, acrid taste to Sam's mouth, and he swallowed, trying to wash it down. It didn't go away.

He was brought out of his thoughts when a gentle hand fell on his knee, and he looked up to see Dean watching him, concerned and sympathetic. Not empathetic, Dean couldn't have known what he'd gone through—and Sam was going to keep it that way—but nonetheless supportive of Sam's position.

He liked that, thinking his brother cared about him. It made him feel special, like he was actually important enough for someone like Dean to give a damn about him.

Sam lightly pushed Dean's reassuring hand away, instead standing and walking over to the coffee machine, getting out the ingredients. "Coffee?"

Dean seemed to stagger in his response, surprised with Sam's rejection. "Yeah, sure, sure."

Sam seemed content to be left alone, probably still mortified from the last night, and Dean was okay with that. He was going to help his brother heal, and if he had to leave the kid alone to do it, then that's what he'd do.

Obliging to his brother's unspoken words, Dean went to the living room and plopped onto the worn couch, kicking his feet up on the rickety table and grabbing the remote control.

Something swished from the corner of his eye, just the smallest flicker of movement, but it was enough for Dean to look in the direction of the front door, his mind initially thinking, Dad's here already?

Dean already had a tight grip on the gun hidden under the sofa cushion, because Dad couldn't be back, not when he said he'd be gone for a few days.

But instead of anyone bursting unannounced through the door, a small envelope was pushed in from beneath the door, now lying still and ominous on the carpet.

Dean was immediately on his feet, scooping down to retrieve the letter. In small print was the word "Sammy" and that was more than enough to send Dean into action as he threw the door open, his keen eyes searching for the culprit. After several long moments, with no person in sight, he shut and locked the door, checking that the salt was still in place. He looked at the envelope, his eyes tightening as he sat back on the couch, tearing it open ruthlessly.

Dean didn't know why he had automatically assumed it was something menacing and evil, something that would make his skin crawl. In any other circumstances he probably would've just handed it to Sam and not given much thought to it. But he knew better now; he'd dealt with enough in his short yet terribly long life to be able to differentiate between the two without being given much in the ways of clues. Sam didn't go to school, Sam didn't have any friends. There was no reason for him to get mail.

The handwriting was legible and printed tidily onto the paper. He gulped, reading every word.

Hello again, Winchesters. I hope you all haven't missed me too much. Because I know I've missed you.

I have recently decided to do you a temporary, yet nonetheless pleasant courtesy by taking the time to notify you of something you may deem as rather important.

I'm so so sorry to inform you that, if the appropriate precautions are not taken, your Samuel will soon be kidnapped and endlessly raped. Again.

But damn, don't you just love bluntness? Makes things so much quicker.

Do you remember Joe? The decreed innocent man that tried to buy little Sammy for sex? Yeah, THAT Joe. He's a crazy son of a bitch, too. He has been forced to wait so long to enjoy little Sammy, and I'd hate to see his dominant hand fall off from overuse.

We hope to have only one victim, but if anyone gets in the way we will have lots of fun removing any unwanted obstacles. And Joe so enjoys removing obstacles, particularly ones constructed of human flesh.

Ta-ta for now.

Sincerely,

Your Super Secret Admirer. XOXO"

The letter fell from Dean's hands and for a second he thought he was another character out of his nightmares, a place constructed in his mind where someone was out to hurt Sam and he couldn't stop it, he couldn't save Sam in time. His entire body was stiff as he stared into the space the letter had originally been held, his eyes locked and muscles tight. Then all of a sudden he was full of life, shouting for his brother and jolting off the couch and running around the room and frantically searching for his phone.

Sam rushed into the room, and Dean bumped into him roughly, his little brother precariously holding two full cups of coffee. "Wha—."

"Sam, where is my phone?" And he just looks at his brother, because he can't let Larry get his hands on him again. Joe. It's Joe. He can't let that happen to his baby brother, not again. Not after everything that's happened to him, everything he's been through.

Sam's standing there wide-eyed, spilled coffee dribbling off his fingers. "Uh—."

Dean shoved his shoulders, harder than he had intended, and more coffee spilled from the cups and onto Sam's hands. "Come on, Sammy. Fuck." And Dean was already moving, ignoring Sam's gaze and throwing stray apparel across the room and cushions off their mats and drawers from the surrounding wood of the Sam's taken he may never be the same again, he may lose the very essence that made Sam Sam, and damn if he wasn't so close to losing it the first time. Dean wasn't going to let anything happen to his brother. He wasn't there for him when Larry was around, but he was here for him now with this fucking Joe.

Dean threw all the sheets off the bed, and under one of them was his small silver phone, and he almost threw himself on it, flipping it open and speed-dialing his father within moments.

As Dean was waiting for the person on the other line to pick up, Sam noticed a stray letter lying on the floor. Curious, he placed the coffee on the leaning table in front of the couch and picked it up.

Dean tapped his foot impatiently onto the moldy carpet and, several rings later, the female, monotone voice relayed Dean to voicemail. Dean cursed and waited for the goddamn beep. "Dad, it's Dean. You have to get back here now. Someone's after Sam. Hurry the fuck up." He snapped the phone shut and turned around to see Sam sitting on the couch with his head in his hand, the other hand limp with the letter in it. He looked like he was going to be sick.

Dean wanted to hit himself, wanted to cry until he died, because he didn't want his baby brother, the best brother in the fucking world, to have to read that. He walked swiftly to Sam and sat beside him, taking the note from his loose fingers. "Sammy, Sammy it's gonna be okay. We're gonna get out of this. Don't worry."

He looked so old, Dean realized, but so young at the same time. Sam was curled up in himself, trying to make himself as small and unnoticed as possible, like a kid in the presence of adults. But there were lines on his face, bruises under his eyes that didn't belong there on his youthful skin. Sam has been through so much more than other kids his age—anyone's age. It wasn't fair.

Dean grabbed his brother's thin wrist and pulled him closer to him, as if someone could take him away if he wasn't in sight every moment. He made a decision in that moment, Sam's warm skin under his own, and Dean realized that, what happened to Sam? Wasn't happening again. Fuck the world, because nobody's going to touch Sam except him and Dad. And Dean couldn't do this alone.

"Do you know where Dad is?"

Dean looked back to his baby brother, one of the only people in his life he'd die for. He swallowed because, really, he had no idea where their father was. "I, I don't…" Then he was redialing John's number, putting the phone to his ear as he waited. He slid his hand down Sam's wrist until it reached the kid's hand, and he clasped it tightly, comfortingly. Sam sat silent beside Dean, emotionless and unaffected by Dean's unusual affection.

"Hello?" came a gruff voice.

Dean started, and relief flooded through him as he immediately clambered for a response. "Dad, did you get my message? You have to come—."

"Son, son," John said, distracted, and Dean just stared at the phone, his brow creased in shock and hurt. "I'm…I'm doing something important here, Dean."

Dean stood abruptly, voice roaring. "No, Dad, whatever you're doing doesn't matter right now. Sam's in trouble and you have to come home now. You remember that guy, Joe? He's back."

He heard John abruptly inhale, and then there was utter silence, like he was forced to make a decision he didn't want to make. Before Dean said more, there was a loud thud in the background then cloth being thrown into a duffel. "Is Sam with you now?"

Dean's grip tightened around Sam's wrist. "Yes sir, he's with me." He's safe.

Dean could almost hear John nodding in approval as he listened to guns and weapons being hurriedly gathered up. "Okay, I'll be there in two hours. Don't leave the motel room." A moment later Dean heard a door being shut and the Impala being revved up.

"Yes sir," Dean replied before hanging up, worry flooding through him. Two hours? What if Joe came before then?

Dean turned and plucked the gun from between the cushions, vaguely aware that he had been dragging Sam along with him. He looked over to his brother. He was so pale, the skin under his eyes dark, too dark. The kid's eyes were dilated and wide, finally turning to look at Dean. They looked haunted, terrified, and Dean gently tugged Sam to sit on the worn sofa. He put an arm around Sam, whispering words of reassurance. "It's gonna be okay, Sammy. Dad's on his way and nothing's gonna happen to you. I'll make sure of it," he said, his grip tightening on the gun. He'd be damned before he let some pervert bastard take his baby brother from him again.

XxXxXxXxXxX

And there we are. If this story took a turn you all aren't approving of then I really apologize. Hopefully I'll be able to redeem myself after all this blows over? Mmmm...

Until next time!