Leaving Home - Part 1 - Prompt Fest #2 Prompt Fill
Nov. 18th, 2011 at 8:30 PM
Word count: 9,000+
Pairing/Character(s): Dean/Sam (Slightly AU/Way Off Canon), Sam/OMC, glimpses of Sam/Brock and Sam/Jess
Rating: NC-17 for explicit abuse and some language
Warnings: bottom!Sam, dub-con becoming serious non-con, abuse, some bondage, spanking (starts out as BDSM; ends as abuse), potentially triggering scenes of rape and abuse.
Disclaimer: I own nothing and no one. Sniffle.
A/N: I had the best editor known to man. She is brutal but the most fabulous I've ever had! Thank you so much jane_potter for turning a piece of crap into something that's at least readable! My last changes, though, are unedited. Any errors are mine.
Written for the abused_sammy Prompt Fest #2. My mind is maybe a little bit darker place than it really needed to be for the prompt. wolfish_willow, I hope this is even close to what you wanted. Prompt was:Stanford Era: Sam somehow finds himself in an abusive relationship while going to school. He doesn't fight back (at first b/c of his need to feel normal, or maybe he feels he deserves it for how he feels about Dean or whatever the author feels works). School and everything else is kind of taking a back seat to this. But then Dean comes to check up on him.
Summary: Sam loves Dean, of course, but not at all like he's supposed to. Ashamed of how he feels, Sam heads to Stanford to try and get over it. What he finds instead is that absence really does make the heart grow fonder and that true monsters don't always come from Hell.
Leaving Home
Sam remembers every detail of the ride to Stanford to this very day. Really, you tend not to forget the worst day of your life.
Dean had insisted on driving Sam all the way to his new doorstep. Sam sat quietly on the passenger side of the Impala and watched the scenery - and his life as he knew it - slip away. The silence was thick, heavy, and full of words neither man could bring himself to say.
Dean was bewildered in that way only a loving brother could be - wondering why his brother was so anxious to leave him so far behind, but so oblivious to the fact that that was really the last thing Sam ever wanted. In fact, it was what Sam wanted that was driving a wedge in his family and splintering them right down the middle. For him, it had only ever been Dean. His only real father, his only real brother, his only real love.
Sam had loved Dean his entire life. He'd been in love with him since he was 13. The day he realized he was in love with his brother was the same day he stopped looking too long in the mirror. And if he couldn't meet his own eyes, there was no way in hell he could look Dean in the eye.
Dean noticed after a while. Chalked it up to hormones and laughed it off. He hugged Sam hard and told him the emo crap would stop about the same time his voice stopped cracking. Sam died a little more every time Dean touched him.
He nearly took his favorite blade to his wrists the night Dean dropped him off in Palo Alto. Instead, Sam sat in the dark with a liquor bottle in one hand, Dean's gruff lingering goodbye flipping through his mind and his knife buried in the floor between his feet.
Flinging the empty liquor bottle in the general direction of the fireplace, Sam stared into nothing - desperate to hear Dean call him Sammy just one more time. When dawn came, Sam wiped his eyes, dried his palms on his jeans and then moved on.
Sam had been at Stanford for five months when he met Brock. Brock reminded him so much of Dean that Sam had to stop carrying his pocket knife because the pain slammed back so strongly. Sam fucked him up against a wall - Brock's legs wrapped around his waist and Sam's eyes locked on Brock's mouth. Sam called him Dean when he came. Sam punched the brick wall that he'd just fucked Brock against and broke two fingers on his right hand. Brock dropped him off at the hospital. He didn't wait with Sam. Sam never saw Brock again.
He hadn't heard from Dean in three months.
Two months later, Sam met Jess. She was the female version of Dean. Every time she opened her mouth, Sam missed his brother a little bit more. Sam was very careful to be as quiet as he could be when they fucked. They were together for six months.
Dean hadn't called in almost a year.
Four months after he and Jess split, Sam met Tom. Sam had no idea how his world was about to change. Tom told him he would see; that Sam would never be happier than he was with him. Sam believed him. Considering his life up to this point, it really wouldn't be all that hard for Tom to accomplish. And for awhile, Sam was happy. Tom was nothing like Sam's brother.
Dean never called.
The first time Sam and Tom fucked, Tom made it very clear he was not, nor would he ever be, a bottom. Sam was fine with that. God knows a little pain was nothing new to him. As long as he got off and remembered not to scream out Dean's name, he could care less who was getting fucked and who was doing the fucking. Looking back, he really should have been more careful - or hell, just more aware.
For the first few months, things went well. Tom was charming, attentive, and beautiful. He was refined, cultured, and still managed to be fun. Even with thoughts of Dean plaguing him every day, Sam found little isolated moments of happiness had started to fill his life. These moments of joy, no matter how brief, started poking holes in the darkness and sorrow of his days. Sam credited Tom with that.
Tom knew exactly what he wanted out of life. Sam on his knees was an integral part of that. At night, Tom's eyes would slide over Sam's naked body as it spread out under him on the bed. Tom could imagine what Sam would look like in a few years. He was already taller than Tom and his shoulders had broadened in the time he'd been at Stanford. Sam had taken to working out or running every day to get rid of some of his self loathing and suicidal rage. Where there used to be lithe, smooth muscle, there was starting to be serious brawn.
Nature had taken care of making Sam beautiful. Tom would make him obedient. Fate had brought Sam to Tom. Tom would put him right where he belonged - at Tom's feet.
Tom was nothing if not observant. He had seen how broken Sam was the second he met him. Sam wore despair like other people wore clothes. Oh, Sam did well enough hiding it, Tom supposed. Sam smiled and made friends and partied and went to movies and out to eat.
And if you weren't looking for it, you'd never see that Sam's smiles never quite made it to his slanted, hazel eyes. And if you weren't looking for it, you wouldn't see that Sam's mouth was drawn tight at the corners - like sheer will was all that was holding his smile in place. And if you weren't looking for it, you'd never see the faint sheen of tears in Sam's beautiful eyes whenever someone mentioned family.
Luckily for Sam, Tom was looking for it.
It started pretty quickly after that. Sam was still too apathetic at first to really notice. He'd make jokes about Tom's penchant for bondage or rough sex - questioning Tom in an almost disinterested manner about Tom's likes and kinks. Tom would usually laugh harshly and kiss him or shove his cock in Sam's mouth to shut him up. Eventually, Sam stopped asking.
Soon after, Tom started taking Sam with barely any prep at all. He'd slick his cock up with lube and just press inside Sam. It must have hurt Sam like hell, but god it was so much tighter this way on Tom's cock. Sam jerked the first time Tom entered him like that and moved as if to pull away. Tom grabbed him by the hips and held on. Sam grunted unhappily but took it. Tom grinned. Sam was a fast learner.
Under the guise of a spanking fetish, Tom managed to get Sam used to being disciplined. Hell, Sam even begged him for it from time to time. He wanted the discipline like the good little slave he was. The spanking moved from hand on flesh to whips and paddles and flogs. Sam stopped begging for it pretty quickly. But he never did say no.
Tom could see Sam break a little each day. The anguish never left his eyes any more - it flared to a beautiful flame of pain whenever Tom buried himself in Sam's bruised, beaten raw ass. Tom had started fucking Sam on his back more times than not just so he could watch the pain in Sam's eyes. Tom was happy. Sam was quiet. All Tom had to do now was get him out of school and safe at home where he belonged.
The first time Tom fucked Sam without even lube, things didn't go quite as he planned.
"On your knees." Sam obeyed, as always, wincing as movement pulled the red, raw skin on his ass and the back of his thighs. Tom placed the riding crop he'd just finished using on him to the right of Sam's shoulder - deliberately in Sam's eyesight - as a little reminder that Sam must always behave. It was time for the next step in Tom's plan. The blankness in Sam's hazel eyes proved to Tom it was time to move things along. Sam was nearly completely broken. He was almost his.
Tom grimaced at what he was about to do - fuck Sam without even a drop of lube or a hint of spit. It would be uncomfortable for Tom at first, but it was critical to show Sam exactly what he was - Tom's to use however he wanted. He let his eyes travel over Sam's bent body. Sam was silent and steady. He knew by now not to fidget and to wait for Tom. He'd fuck Sam whenever he wanted to, not when Sam was ready for it.
Reaching under the pillow, Tom grabbed the bottle of lube he kept there. Flipping the cap open then immediately shut again, Tom smiled cruelly. This was what he loved. Make his little slave think all was well. Get him used to how things were. He'd become complacent, docile; secure in his place and how to behave. Make him think he's a good little boyfriend and that Tom needed him, wanted him, hell, even loved him.
Then, he showed him what he was really worth. Let him know his place was wherever Tom put him and that if Tom decided he should sleep on the floor of the porch in December, then that is what he would do, and he would not whimper, and he would not complain. Let him know that things like kindness and compassion no longer existed in his world. That they had been replaced with the words Master and Sir just as easily as the slave would be replaced whenever Tom felt like it.
Fucking Sam without lube would take care of several things at once. Sam would understand Tom could do whatever he pleased, Sam would learn his pain meant nothing to Tom, and Sam would learn to suffer quietly and please Tom regardless of how he felt. Tom hoped Sam would only need one lesson. Fucking without lube always chafed like a bitch.
Sam was definitely unprepared for Tom to enter him without any lube at all. He'd steeled himself for the pain of being fucked without stretching. The burn and knifelike pain was almost commonplace to Sam by now. As much as he hated it, Sam felt he deserved no better. Tom had been good to him, and if he liked things rougher than Sam did, that wasn't too much of a problem. Hell, Sam was a Winchester. Pain was their middle name, right?
If Tom ever knew how Sam felt about his own brother, he's quite sure there would be a hell of a lot more pain than the little bit he'd had to endure so far. Hell, any human contact, no matter how painful, was better than no contact at all, wasn't it? Dean wasn't here; Tom was. Might as well make someone happy.
Sam heard the snick of the lube bottle opening and closing and heard the rustle of Tom moving himself into position. The moment he felt the head of Tom's cock at his hole, he knew something wasn't right. There was no cool, wet slick. Tom's cock was hard and dry. Tensing, Sam started to twist around to look at Tom.
Immediately, Sam felt Tom drive into him. The pain was excruciating. Sam screamed and flattened himself against the bed trying to pull himself off Tom's cock. It was no use. Tom followed him down to the mattress, holding on to Sam's left arm with one hand and reaching for the riding crop with the other. Viciously, Tom brought the riding crop down where he could reach - Sam's leg and side.
"Shut the fuck up and lie still", he hissed. "If you keep trying to buck me off and you continue to struggle, I swear to God I'll kill you." Sam didn't still. If anything, he increased his efforts to free himself from Tom - Sam was bucking, twisting, and kicking, but he couldn't get enough traction on the slippery sheets. Tom simply wrapped his feet more tightly around Sam's legs and laid his weight fully over Sam's back.
Tom began to thrust as hard as he could, making sure to bottom out as painfully as possible. Sam tried to head butt Tom as he felt himself tear and stretch, but it was useless. He couldn't connect like he needed to. As Tom pressed further and further into Sam, Sam felt his ass become slicker and wetter. He thought at first that Tom had come and was surely almost done with him. As Tom continued to pound into him, though, it became sickeningly clear that the slick was not Tom's come, but Sam's own blood.
"Take it, slave." Tom hissed. "Fucking lay still and take it! I swear to God if you keep trying to fight me that I will make sure this lasts for hours and then I will start in on all the other things I've been waiting on - worse things." Tom dropped his head and whispered close to Sam's ear, "I might even call your family, Sammy boy. What do you think about that? Hmmm?" Oh, fuck, Sam thought. Not that. "I think your family would just love to meet your boyfriend. What do you think, Sam, huh? Wanna bring me home to Daddy?"
Sam shivered. He could imagine what pain was in store for him, but anything would be preferable to Dean or their Dad finding out about how Sam had let Tom treat him. He couldn't believe he'd been so blind. God, he was so fucking stupid. For just a moment, Sam gave up. Stilling, Sam buried his face in the sheet between his balled up fists. That moment was all Tom needed.
Tom rutted into him hard and fast and Sam could feel himself tear a little more each time. After he quieted, Tom grunted his approval. "Good little slave boy. Take it like a man." He started pulling his cock completely out of Sam on each thrust to make sure he stretched and pulled at the spasming entrance of Sam's hole as much as possible. This made it even more painful for Sam as Tom's cock popped in and out of the abused ring of muscle.
As he lay there bleeding, Sam got a sudden vision of Dean. His cocky smirk danced on the back of Sam's tightly closed eyelids. "Gotta take it like a man, Sammy," Dean had said. Sam couldn't even remember what they'd been talking about, but the thought of Dean suddenly slammed against walls that Sam hadn't even known he had.
Dean had never wanted Sam like Sam had wanted him. God, it was probably a good thing. Jesus, just look at him. Cowered underneath a man with none of Sam's training and experience - experience fighting monsters, for God's sake. Sure, Tom was a whole new kind of monster for Sam, but fuck, why was Sam even here? Why hadn't he stopped Tom the very first time he'd caused Sam pain? Had Sam asked for it? Wanted it?
How fucked up was Sam to let this happen? From the sound of it, Sam was meant to be kept like a slave. Disgusted at what he'd allowed himself to become, Sam closed his eyes in resignation. He's never see Dean again. Even if he did, Sam would never be the same again.
Dean would never want him now. Not ever. Not even as a brother. Dean. Oh, God.
"Sammy!" A thousand miles away, Dean jerked awake. He didn't know what woke him or why he was yelling Sam's name. What he did know was that something was wrong. A chill began in his gut and curled its way up his throat. Shaking, Dean flipped open his cell and hit speed dial 1. Sam's phone rang and rang until his voicemail picked up. Dean slammed his phone shut and hit redial. He didn't care if it was 4 am, he was going to hear Sam's voice, and he was going to hear it right the fuck now.
As Sam's phone continued to ring to voicemail, Dean was up and getting dressed. He was checking his weapon bag when Sam finally answered. "Sammy!" Dean yelled. "What the hell, man? What took you so long to pick up?"
"Who the hell is this?" A strange voice answered. "Do you know what fucking time it is?"
"Yeah, I know what fucking time it is," Dean answered. "Where's my brother?"
"He's asleep."
"Put him on the phone."
"No. He needs his rest."
"Put. Him. On. The. Phone. Now." Dean's voice was low and measured and brooked no argument. Dean didn't know who this person was, but he had to understand that when he wanted to talk to Sam, Dean better get to talk to Sam.
"Look..." the man started.
Dean interrupted, "You and Sam are, what, friends or something, right? I assume, anyway, since you're answering his phone at ass o'clock in the morning and you're definitely not his roommate. I met him before, you know. Nice kid."
"What..." the man tried again.
"So," Dean talked right over him. "He's probably told you about his family, right? That we're all hunters? Good ones. I'm sure he mentioned that. Had to have." There was silence on the other end of the line. Dean continued, the nonchalance of his tone hiding his growing anger and fear. "Maybe you're a really good friend, huh? Maybe he even told you how much big brother - that's me, by the way - loves his weapons. Did he mention that? I've got the prettiest set of matching pistols you've ever seen. Beautiful. And my revolver and my shotgun...Oh, and the knives... Well, never mind that now. You can see them, if you want, friend. Right up close and personal when I come knocking in about 10 hours or so."
"You'd have to find me first." Sam's phone went dead.
"So, Sammy," Tom said softly. "It seems you forgot to tell me about your brother. Why did you forget that, Sam? Hmmm?" Tom's voice was careful and quiet. It was frightening. "He just called you, Sammy."
It had been hours since Tom had fucked Sam without lube, and instead of that being the end of his pain, Tom had continued to "play" with Sam. Every time Sam thought they were done, Tom would wait an hour or so, then come up with a new "game" he just couldn't wait to play. Sam was now crumpled in the floor barely able to move, and tried to scramble further into the corner as Tom crouched over him.
Dean. Oh, god. Dean.
"Tell me, Sammy," Tom continued. "Why did your brother choose to call you on this particular night? Hmmm?" Sam flinched as Tom ran his hands gently through Sam's tangled hair. His fingers caught on the dried patches of blood caked in Sam's hair and pulled painfully against Sam's already battered scalp.
"Can you answer me, Sammy?"
"I..." Sam had to stop and clear his throat. One of the "games" had included Tom fucking Sam while he jerked the belt he had wrapped tightly around Sam's neck. The sight of Sam's blood red face and his eyes rolling back in his head excited Tom so much he came faster than he planned. He broke a couple of Sam's ribs to make up for it.
The next game an hour or so later was to see how long Tom could keep Sam's throat closed off with his cock until Sam started to thrash and claw for air. Sam really needed to work on his lung capacity. Tom made a mental note to add that to Sam's upcoming training.
"I don't know," he forced through his ravaged throat. "He hasn't called me in more than a year."
Tom knew Sam's brother hadn't called any in the last few months unless he'd called when Sam was in class or around campus. Tom had gradually worked it so he spent nearly every moment Sam wasn't at Stanford with Sam. He'd started to separate Sam from his friends and discourage outside interests. It was unlikely Sam was lying to him. But still. Tom stood and kicked him in the side anyway. Tom was going to have to move Sam, and that was fucking annoying. Sam was going to pay for this.
Dean pushed the Impala as hard as he could, covering the 1000 miles between him and Sam in less than 11 hours. He stopped once the entire trip. After a quick detour for a piss, coffee and lots of energy boosters, Dean slammed back onto the highway. He didn't let off the gas until he skidded into the parking lot of Sam's last known address.
Dean had visited him here before. Sam never saw him, but he stopped by at least every other week when he first dropped Sam off. Eventually, his visits dropped to once a month. If that happened to coincide with the night he watched Sam fuck a man with suspiciously full lips and spiky dark blond hair in a filthy alley, that was nothing more than a coincidence. Once he saw Sam with the tall blonde woman more than three times, he knew Sam had settled down. His visits dropped to every other month, then not at all.
He reassured himself the squirming mass in his gut was anger because Sam chose Stanford over his family, and had nothing to do with watching Sam sling his arm over the woman's shoulder like it would be there for the rest of his life. After a while, he almost started to believe it.
Dean flew up the steps to Sam's apartment and pounded on the door as he pressed the doorbell. When no one answered in 30 seconds, he did it again. If no one came this time, he was opening that door himself. No one did. He had just lifted his foot to kick the door in when someone cleared their throat behind him. "Sammy..."
Mark had just gotten out of class and headed to his apartment for some much needed rest. Medical school was a bitch. He cursed the day he ever decided to be a surgeon.
As he climbed the last of the steps to his front door, he watched a man pound viciously on his door and hurried to reach him. Clearing his throat, Mark watched as the man swung around scowling. He could tell the man was speaking, but Mark couldn't seem to make sense of what he was hearing.
This man had Hell in the back of his eyes. They were a dark, grass green that pinned Mark to where he stood. The man was furious and fire was spitting from the cracks of his irises. For the first time in his life, Mark was so scared he didn't think he could even blink.
The man stepped toward him and shook him roughly. Mark knew he had to listen or this man was going to take him apart. Frowning, he forced himself to pay attention as the man's deep hoarse voice washed over him.
"...Sam. Tell me where he is. Now." Sam. This had to be Dean. This was Sam's brother - the man that Sam had spent the better part of a year crying over in the dark. Suddenly, Mark understood. Dean was here to bring Sam back.
"I swear to Go..."
"I don't know where he is," Mark blurted out. "I haven't seen him in weeks. His boyfriend. He- He was controlling, you know? Kept Sam on a tight leash. Worked him away from us - pulled him away so slowly we weren't sure if it was real or all our imagination. Then one day, Sam just wasn't here anymore."
Dean's face twisted as Mark spoke. Something dark and ugly and mean crawled over Dean's face like Hell itself was creeping out of his eyes. "You just let him...I am going to kill that mother fucker." Soft and slow and dark. It scared Mark more than any screaming ever would.
"I want to come." Mark said. "I can help. I can..." Mark stuttered to a stop as Dean gritted his teeth and stared at Mark.
"Obviously, you can't do anything," Dean said. Mark had no reply to that. Quickly, he gave Dean all the information he had on Sam's boyfriend Tom and how Sam hadn't moved out, he'd just stopped coming home for longer and longer periods of time.
Dean listened carefully and the anger faded from his face. What was left terrified Mark and he never thought he could get any more frightened than Dean had already made him. Dean's face was nothing but pale skin stretched tight over cold hard steel. There wasn't a millimeter of give anywhere to this man. Dean was focused and he was intent. When Mark was done speaking, Dean lifted his eyes and made Mark a promise. "I'll get him back. Pack up his things for when we come back."
Mark didn't doubt for a second that was true. He just hoped when Dean found him, that Sam was still alive. For all of their sakes.
Sam woke to a world of darkness and pain. Groaning, he tried to jerk upright, but hit his head almost immediately. Gingerly reaching out, he felt around him. He was bound. His hands and feet were loosely tied, but not so much to restrict his movement as to just attach him to something. It didn't take long to realize he was in a box of some kind. Oh, God. Tom had made him a coffin.
Sam tried to scream, but couldn't. He scrambled frantically until he realized there was something over his face and in his mouth. Clawing desperately at his face, Sam felt leather instead of skin. Sam tried tearing the tough material until his questing fingers came upon a hidden zipper. Ripping the zipper up, he pulled the leather from his face and flung it on his chest. As he did, he could feel the gag in his mouth - one that was buckled behind his head and was so large it forced Sam's jaws so wide he could swear they were dislocated. Quickly unbuckling the gag, Sam gasped for air and started crying. Fuck, he hurt everywhere.
Opening his mouth to scream, Sam noticed he could barely see light seeping into the box through cracks in its construction. Oh, thank God. At least Tom hadn't buried him alive.
Not yet anyway.
PART 2
One of the first things Dean noticed when he entered Tom's house was the man sized packing crate sitting in Tom's living room. Walking quickly to the box, Dean shifted the crowbar he'd brought to pry open a window or door if he had to. Dean heard movement and labored, panting breathing inside the crate. Mother fuck. Sam was in there. Dean slammed his teeth together so hard he thought they were going to break.
This wasn't how it was supposed to happen. Sam wasn't supposed to be trapped in a fucking pine box in some sick fuck's living room. Sam was supposed to be learning shit he'd never use outside of college. Sam was supposed to be shacked up with that tall blonde Dean had seen him with and busy with his stupid friends.
This...This shit wouldn't stand. Dean would guarantee that. No matter what Dean saw when he pried open the lid on this box, one thing was for certain. Tom was going to suffer a million times more than however he'd hurt his brother. No one fucked with Sammy and came out alive on the other side.
Prying the top off the crate as gently as he could, Dean paused for a moment before lifting it completely free. He was terrified of what he would see. Huffing out a hard breath, Dean quickly threw the lid off the box.
Sam was there, his face was turned from the opening and he had thrown his arms up to protect his face as the lid was raised - fists balled up and knuckles cracked and bleeding. Dean quickly looked him over, cataloging every mark on his naked skin.
Rage slammed through Dean like a locomotive. There wasn't a spot on Sam that wasn't marked by bruises, cuts or blood. Dean turned away for a second, fingers clenched and straining, mouth open on a silent scream of hatred, fear, and regret.
Turning back and being careful not to touch, Dean spoke to Sam. "Sammy. It's me. It's Dean. I've come for you Sammy. I've come to take you home. Come on, Sam. Come back to me, Sammy. Look at me, Sam, please. It's Dean. It's Dean. Sam. It's Dean..."
Sam had heard Tom come home - had registered the silence of the room and the faint footsteps nearing Sam's makeshift coffin. Please God, Sam thought. Please let this be over soon. One way or another. Please.
Sam heard the sound of Tom prying the lid off his coffin. As soon as it was lifted, Sam threw his arms over his face, fists clenched, sure it would increase his punishment, but well past the point of caring. He was weak from pain, lack of food and blood loss, but he would do what he could. The status quo was changing tonight. The Sam he had been since he ran to Stanford to hide wasn't here right now - weeping and ashamed and pleading for punishment for the way he felt about his own flesh and blood. Sam Winchester was here now - weakened and probably ineffective, but determined and inherently strong nevertheless.
Hopefully there would only be one of them alive by the end of the night. At this point, Sam didn't really care who that was.
Strung tight with the need to at least try to fight Tom, Sam stopped breathing when he heard his brother's voice, then began to wail when it became clear it was real and not some hallucination. Dean was here. Sam's need to be strong fractured and fell apart.
Dean hadn't spoken to him in over a year and there was no way in hell Dean could have known there was something wrong, but still Dean had found him. Dean always found him - when he was six and lost at a haunted county fair; when he was 13 and a misguided ghost took him and thought he was hers; when he was 21 and held captive by his psychopath of a boyfriend. Dean never, ever failed.
Dean had fallen silent when Sam began to yell and struggled against the ropes that held him loosely in the crate. As Sam moved and twisted in the confines of the box, Dean saw the rest of Sam's injuries. The blood caked heavy on the back of Sam's thighs and between his ass cheeks shoved Dean's soothing words right back down his throat - choking him on anger, bitterness and despair.
The things Sam had been through were painted across his mottled skin and wound through his croaking, fractured voice. His pain lived in the words he forced through his split lips, and his hurt breathed through sobbing cries of heartbreak and loss. Sam's ordeal was mapped with scars and bruises and open wounds - painted in blood and piss and feces and sweat. Dean gritted his teeth and choked on the bile rising from his gut. This was all his fault. He had let this happen.
Dean leaned over the box and grabbed Sam as he struggled with his bonds. "Sam," he yelled. "Stop this shit! You are not going to get free that way! Look at me, Sammy! Now!"
Slowly, Sam raised his eyes to Dean's. He had stopped yelling and was now deathly quiet. Dean was afraid he had scared Sam, but Dean reached out and grasped his hand in his, and Sam's fingers desperately closed around Dean's. "I'll do it," he whispered. "I'll untie you."
"Sammy." He whispered as he struggled to cut through blood and sweat soaked rope. "I love you, Sammy. I do." Sam gasped and cried out - a short burst of joy and pain. "I never told you enough, Sam, but, fuck, I love you so much." Dean had finally removed all of Sam's restraints.
Sam's face collapsed into a grimace of pain as the ropes pulled out of his abraded flesh, but he ignored it and threw himself out of the box and into Dean. Dean braced himself for Sam's weight, closing his arms around Sam as Sam's momentum drove them to the floor. He turned them after they fell so Sam was cradled in his arms and safe halfway underneath him. Murmuring to him, he rubbed Sam's head pressing kisses to the cuts and scrapes and bruises on Sam's face as Sam cried.
"That's my baby, Sammy. That's my Sam. Come on, now. Stop that, now. It's over." Dean whispered to Sam of loving him and missing him and when he came to visit and why he stopped. He wiped snot and blood and the past off Sam's face and neck, and swore to him that they would never be apart again - piecing Sam back together where he had split apart; healing cuts and loss and separation. As Sam started to quiet, Dean talked to him about Mark and about packing all his things. He told him they had to hurry so they could get out of there before Tom came home. Sam was finally silent - a few hiccupping breaths the only indication he was still conscious. Dean lifted his head and peered into Sam's eyes. He could tell Sam was going into shock. He had to hurry.
Dean slowly loosened Sam's hold and scrambled to his feet. Sam lay, still and unmoving, his eyes locked on Dean's face. "Come on, Sammy. I've got to get you to the car, okay?" Sam nodded - a movement so small, Dean almost thought he'd imagined it. Dean stooped to lift Sam into his arms, not sure if he would be able to carry his giant brother, but determined to get Sam as far away from here as he could. Sam had lost so much weight since he'd left Dean that Dean could lift him with barely any problem. Clenching his jaw, Dean filed that fact away with all the other horrors he'd found tonight.
Quickly carrying Sam to the Impala he'd hidden at the back of the house, Dean placed Sam on the blanket he already had spread over the back seat. He hadn't been sure if he would be burying Sam in it, or protecting him with it, but Dean had known he'd need it no matter what. Thankfully, Sam was here with him - breathing harshly in Dean's back seat. Pulling two more blankets over Sam, Dean crooned to him until it appeared that Sam had fallen asleep.
Dean ran back into the house and grabbed his crowbar and put the lid back on the packing crate. If that fucker came home early, Dean didn't want him to know right away that Sam was missing. He quickly cleaned up the vomit and blood from the floor as well as he could and shifted the coffee table to hide what he couldn't quite get up. One last look, and he sprinted back to the Impala.
"I'm taking you to the hospital, Sammy, alright?" Stirring, Sam barely nodded. "I'm going to be apart from you, Sam, for just a little while. I need to come back here and finish up so no one knows, okay?" Sam opened his eyes and they were full of fear. "I'm going to leave while you're being examined, Sammy, okay? I know it's shitty as hell to do to you, but I've got to finish this. Can I, Sam? Can I come back while the doctors are taking care of you?"
Sam studied him for a moment, then croaked, "Swear to me you're coming back and you can go."
"Sammy, I swear to you that I am coming back. Once this is finished, we are stuck together forever. You'll be so sick of me, you'll probably murder me in my sleep just to get away from me." Sam smiled at Dean - just the smallest twitch at the corners of his mouth, but enough to send Dean whooping and hollering as he slammed the back door of the Impala and slid into the driver's seat. "That's my Sammy," Dean crowed. "That's my baby bro. We're going to the hospital, and then I'm going to make this all go away." Becoming more serious, Dean turned and looked over his shoulder at Sam. "There won't be one bit left, Sammy, by the time I'm through. Not one bit left."
Sam smiled again and closed his eyes. Dean would make it right. Dean always made it right.
Dean carried Sam through the emergency room doors screaming for a doctor. He spouted his made up story about Sam being attacked and raped and how Dean had found him on the side of the road like this. He screamed at them to take care of him and to hurry. He told him that Sam was barely conscious and couldn't seem to remember either Dean or what had happened. He rambled and he cried and he threatened and he set the stage for what he was about to do.
When the nurse came to tell Dean that Sam was in surgery to repair various damage, Dean glanced down at his blood soaked hands, then started to cry and yell about having to get his brother's blood off his hands. He asked haltingly how long it would take in surgery. The nurse ran her hand over his hair, and looked at him with such compassion Dean thought she was going to offer to bathe him herself.
"He's hurt pretty badly," she almost whispered. "It could take hours."
"I've got to g-go," Dean stuttered out. "I've got to get this off me, and get Sam some decent clothes for when he wakes up. I'll be back before the surgery is over." When the nurse started to tell Dean he really shouldn't go, Dean let all the sorrow and pain he had show in his eyes. In a cracked, crawling voice, he whispered, "I can't wear his blood a second more. If I have to see it ever again, I think I'll die."
As Dean turned and walked away, the nurse pressed her fist against her mouth. Even with all the death and pain she saw every day, this sorrow was just too much. Biting her lip, she went to check on Sam's progress.
Dean stepped out into the crisp night air, and shuttered his eyes and his heart. He had things to do. His job wasn't quite done.
Tom left work, whistling and jaunty. His special crate should have been delivered a few hours ago, and Tom had closed the biggest deal of his life just this morning. He decided a nice meal out and a good long session with his waiting slave later on would round out his day perfectly.
Tom's grin turned feral and dark when he thought of Sam bound and waiting in his box. It had been a stroke of genius. Not only was it the perfect way to move Sam without anyone knowing, but it was the perfect place to keep him long term. Soon enough, Sam would grow to love that box almost as much as he feared Tom. He would understand that was his only safe place - when Tom chose to let him have it.
He had only had one day to play with his new slave, but damn it had been a good day. He couldn't wait to get started on what he had planned for tonight. Careful, he thought to himself, don't forget to be at least a little careful. After all, he didn't want to kill his slave the very first day of his official training. That would be no fun at all. He had a lot of time invested in Sam. No need to waste it. Tom chuckled. He'd been much harder on Sam than was usual, hurting him much more than he normally would, but it was important at the beginning to drive home how powerless Sam was and that Tom had all the control. That he could do anything he wanted with Sam. Anything, and it was useless for Sam to struggle. Sam was much stronger than Tom's usual picks, and Tom had to break him carefully and completely.
Grinning, Tom started his car and headed for his favorite restaurant.
Two hours later, Tom strolled through his front door sated and full. He had eaten his favorite meal and fucked his favorite waiter hard and fast in the bathroom. It was just enough to take the edge off a little - make it so he could take his time with Sam tonight.
Slamming the door, Tom gave a cursory glance at his mail, dropped his suit jacket on a chair, and stepped into his living room. "Oh, Sammy." Tom called. "Are you here, Sam?" Sure enough, Sam's crate was resting on the floor in the middle of the living room. "Well, there you are honey," Tom sneered. "Hubby's home. What's for dinner?"
Laughing, Tom stepped toward the crate, but was stopped abruptly. For some reason he couldn't breathe. Raising his hands to his throat, Tom was baffled to feel two strands of thin wire cutting into the flesh of his neck. He was too confused at first to struggle much, then too weak from lack of air to put up much of a fight. Still frowning, Tom passed out.
When Tom came to, the first thing he saw was the face of his attacker. Tom moved gingerly and determined he must be bound to a chair with a gag shoved in his mouth. Taking a look around him, he saw the dark concrete walls of his basement. The first tendrils of fear snaked their way into Tom's mind. He knew without a doubt that this man was his executioner. And he'd never really gotten to break Sam in. Son of a bitch.
Gritting his teeth, Tom waited, looking over the man in front of him. There were lines etched across the pale skin of this man's beautiful face, and Tom had no doubt he'd put them there. Even with death staring him in the face, Tom couldn't help but notice just how gorgeous his murderer was. Tom was under no illusion that he didn't deserve what was coming, but he had a moment of perverse pleasure that his reaper looked like a fucking Greek god. The best for the best, he thought. I may be going to Hell, but I'm going there in style.
He stifled a chuckle, though, as the man began to speak - gravel crunching in his throat.
"You know who I am, so I won't waste your time with pleasantries. Wondering how I found you? Let's chalk it up to one of life's little mysteries and leave it at that.
"I had quite a lot of time this afternoon to take a good long look around your house. Found a lot of things that make you a very naughty boy." Dean spit out. "You and I are going to have one hell of a time, Tom. Let's get started."
Tom closed his eyes against the snarling anger of the man's face. He was in for a world of hurt. Tom knew that for sure.
By the time Dean stepped out of the basement, he was covered from head to toe in blood and skin. His hand was broken - cracked against Tom's face and ribs so many times the bone had no choice but to shatter. He had slipped off his boots before he headed down so there would be no prints to leave on the pristine carpet. Reaching for them now, Dean slid them on and stepped the rest of the way into the room.
Dean dragged the crate to just outside the basement door. He quickly cleaned up any evidence he and Sam might have left throughout the house. He had been very careful to wear gloves in the house until Tom came home. Once he had him tied, he very deliberately removed those gloves. He would feel his pain flesh on flesh and bone on bone. Once he was done, he was very careful not to touch anything he didn't have to.
The upstairs done, Dean went downstairs to the basement. Tom was tied just where he left him. Dean could see the barest movement of one eye as Tom followed Dean's movements. Grimly, Dean dragged Tom by one arm out the door of the basement, clucking as it jumped out of socket as Dean tried to pull him over the raised door jamb. "Oops, sorry about that. I'll try to be more careful from now on." Dean continued dragging Tom until he came to the crate. Once there, Dean dropped Tom's arm and crouched over him.
"I had a lot of time this afternoon," Dean said, "while I waited for you to come home. A lot of time to plan and to think. A lot of time to dig." As he spoke, Dean reached to the side and dragged aside a tarp that had been laying on the ground, revealing a deep hole roughly the size of the crate.
Dean stood, dragged Tom into the crate, then picked up the hammer and nails he'd brought from the Impala. As he slid the lid into place, Dean watched as stark terror and that inevitable moment when all hope was gone filled Tom eyes. Dean's face twitched into a snarl of such satisfaction he wasn't even remotely comfortable with himself any more.
Dean had always known the lines. They were black and white - he killed monsters, demons and ghosts and he saved humans. Period. There were no other rules. Until Tom. And even as every instinct Dean had was screaming at him to stop - Tom was human; don't kill humans - Dean slid the lid into place over Tom.
Nailing the lid on the crate and ignoring the weak struggling inside, Dean finished and lowered the box into the ground and covered it with the dirt he'd removed earlier in the day. He carefully moved the extra dirt to the surrounding flower bed and replaced the sod he had so carefully removed earlier in the day. If you weren't looking, you would never know the ground had been disturbed. Dean gathered his crowbar and his hammer and put it back in the Impala.
He walked back to the basement and set fire to the rags and gasoline he'd left there earlier. There were spots of rags and accelerant in every room of his house. As the fire spread, it would increase as it burned through the house. In a couple of hours, the house would be unrecognizable. Locking the door and wiping both sides of the door handle, Dean shut the door and headed for the Impala and Tom's other home.
Pretty soon, it was also ablaze. "Not one bit left, Sammy. I promise."
Dean rang Mark's doorbell, anxious for a shower and Sam's things. He carried a change of clothes and a couple more weapons hidden on him than normal. A girl Dean had never seen opened the door. Dean, unsure who she was, opened his mouth to start some story about a car wreck, but stopped abruptly when she screamed, "No! Sam!"
Mark came rushing for the door. His mouth fell open as he saw Dean for the first time. Pushing the door open, Dean stepped into Mark's living room. Five other people - some that Dean recognized from his visits - stared at him in shock. Someone cried out and someone's glass fell to the ground and shattered.
Mark gasped, "Sam?"
Dean glared at him and then each of the other people in the room then turned back to Mark. "Sam's in the hospital in surgery. This isn't Sam's blood," Dean snarled. It only took a second for his words to sink in. Mark closed his eyes for a moment, then met Dean's again.
"I've got his things ready. We want to see him."
Dean looked at everyone again. His first instinct was to scoff. No one in Palo Alto was ever coming near Sam again for any reason. Not one. These were the people that didn't even help Sam when he needed it. If they had just paid more attention... Closing his eyes, Dean struggled for the right words for a moment.
"I'll let you know what he says." He looked each person in the eye one more time. "If it were up to me, you people wouldn't get within a thousand miles of him ever again." They understood. This man stood, calm and implacable even for being covered in blood and bits of bone and flesh. He had not only saved his brother - a brother he hadn't seen in over a year - when his brother's friends who saw him every day couldn't, but he had taken the person who dared to touch Sam and reduced him to stain and stink and bad dreams. No one would defy him.
Turning to Mark, Dean asked, "Mind if I use your shower?"
Mark showed him where it was, then came back to his and Sam's friends. "You know he killed Tom," Mark whispered. Everyone nodded. "Anyone upset by that?" Mark asked. Not one person moved. The girl that answered the door glanced at the bathroom door and said, "I wish I had a brother like that. I wish I had anyone like that." This time, everyone agreed.
Dean came out of the shower dressed and carrying his old clothes in a plastic grocery bag. Everyone stood silently as he left. Dean hid his bloody clothes in the trunk, loaded Sam's things into the Impala and headed out.
It was another hour until Sam was out of surgery, and it would take him at least another hour to wake up from the anesthesia. Dean gave his story to the police that came to file a report, then settled in to wait. Once Sam was in a room and recovering, the nurse said he could go sit with him.
An hour and a half later, Sam woke up. His eyes found Dean asleep in the chair at this side, and he started crying. Dean had come back.
Sam agreed to see his friends, but only if they didn't mention his injuries or what had happened. As long as they pretended nothing had happened, they were welcome. Dean grudgingly told them, and they showed up the next day at Sam's room. Ignoring the rules, all of them went in together. They gasped when they saw their friend's battered face, but they didn't mention a word about what had happened.
They hugged and kissed Sam as carefully as they could, and told him how much they missed him. They all pretended that nothing had happened and that all of Sam's possessions weren't squirreled away in the back seat and trunk of the Impala. They all ignored the fact that this may be the last time they ever saw Sam again. Soon enough, they were laughing - stilted and forced at first, real and loving after a time. When Sam yawned for the fourth time in a row, Dean made them leave, nodding curtly and firmly closing Sam's door behind them.
Smiling, Sam drifted off to sleep.
Three weeks later, Dean wheeled Sam out of the hospital and into the Impala. Sam happily settled into the passenger seat - right where he belonged. He had seen his friends at different times almost every day since he'd been in the hospital, and had told them all how much he loved them and would miss them when he and his brother left.
It was lies, of course, and platitudes. Enough false jocularity to assure his friends that they weren't the horrible people they were afraid they were.
He and Dean picked up as if nothing had ever happened. Thinly veiled conversations about football, TV, and the news layered over regret, bitterness and despair. When they'd seen news stories about both of Tom's properties being destroyed by arson, they didn't speak at all, merely listened to the newscasters speculate about the perpetrators and Tom's mysterious disappearance.
The police stopped by shortly before Sam was released, apologizing for not being able to catch Sam's attacker, but swearing to keep searching. Sam thanked them for their persistence and watched as they left the room - secure in the knowledge they would catch the man if they could just get one lucky break. Dean reached over and gently squeezed Sam's hand. Sam never asked what happened to Tom, and Dean never offered to explain. Sam didn't need to know.
It had been the hardest three weeks of Sam's life so far. He was nowhere close to healed - physically or mentally - and Dean had shadows in his eyes that Sam couldn't erase - shadows that may never go away. But Sam was with Dean. It was all he needed and everything he ever wanted. Anything else would work out when it was time.
As Dean popped into the driver's seat, he twisted around to look at Sam. "Ready to head out, Sammy?" Dean asked. He reached out, ghosting his fingertips over the hand Sam had resting on the seat between them. Sam had been looking out the window, and barely felt the touch it was so light. "I'm thinking we need to see the Grand Canyon right about now. What do you think, Sam?"
Sam merely smiled. "I'll take that as a yes, Sammy boy. Here we go!" Dean started the Impala and put it in gear. "Let's get the hell away from here."
Sam sat quietly on the passenger side of the Impala and watched the scenery slip away. The silence was thick, heavy, and full of words neither man could bring himself to say. Words like forever and love and brother dropped between them as surely as if they'd been spoken, slithering around them and binding them together.
As the miles passed, Sam sank deeper into his thoughts, remembering something Dean had said to him in the hospital just a couple weeks before.
I'll say it again, Sammy. Demons I get. People are crazy.
Sam couldn't agree more.