Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.) If you haven't read Full Moon, Fast Cars and Cracks in the Glass yet, you'll probably want to read those first or this probably won't make sense… Betaed by the wonderful Phx :)

Thank you so much to everyone who took the time to review, I appreciate hearing all your thoughts on the story :)

WARNING – issues of non-consensual sex in this chapter, a few graphic images.

Chapter 13

Sam's head was spinning, the smell of sweat and grease stuck in his nose like he was inhaling an armpit. Dean's hand was around his wrist, dragging him through the crowd of people in the bar until a door opened and they hit cool fresh air. Someone laughed nearby. Sam stopped walking and Dean let go of his arm, walking away with his fists clenched tight at his sides. He didn't look back, and Sam just watched him walk for a moment, keeping his eyes on the rolling gait of the older man's bow-legs. Dean hopped the low wall keeping him from his car, reaching a hand out to stroke the paintwork tenderly.

Gareth pressed up behind Sam, gripping his shoulder with a vise-like hand. "Hey, did you hear that?"

"Huh?" Sam turned, or tried to turn, but his head felt heavy and too big for his neck to hold. Was this what drunk was like? Why the hell would anyone want to do this to themselves?

Gareth was gazing off to one side, the opposite direction to Dean. His craggy forehead was creased oddly and his fingers were dug hard into the skin of Sam's shoulder. "I heard something. Over there." He waved his free hand in a vague direction. "C'mon. We should check it out."

He started off, his hand still firmly gripping Sam's shoulder. Sam staggered a little, his feet unsteady under his body. "Shouldn't we tell Dean-"

"He'll follow. Let's go." The brusque order had him moving before he could stop to think, following in Gareth's wake like a trained dog.

The big man led him around the bar, into the shadows cast by the dull light of the moon above. Sam blinked, his vision moving sluggishly over the scenery; wall, sidewalk, parked car, curb, tree. He tried to look back, to catch Dean's eye and let him know where they were going, but somehow the bar had moved to block Dean from sight. He stumbled, almost falling to his knees before Gareth turned to catch him.

"Hey, careful there. You don't wanna hurt yourself, do you?"

He stared at the man, his ruined face close enough for Sam to smell the beer on his breath. The jagged scars looked smooth on top, waxy where the light caught them. Sam wanted to move back, but the hands holding him up were too tight, too firm.

Suddenly he was moving, Gareth's face still eerily intent on his own. The hands spun him in a sloppy pirouette, practically lifting his feet from the ground. He was manoeuvred backwards, steered into a tiny dark alley separating the bar from the building beside it. His back hit the high wall of the bar with a thud that made his teeth snap together, and Gareth moved in closer, closer than he had any right to be.

"Y'have no idea… So long, it's been so long..."

Sam frowned, trying to think. What the hell was going on here? Why wasn't Dean with them? He opened his mouth to yell, but before he could make a sound Gareth's big hand clapped over it, the palm dry and flaky.

"Gotta be quiet, sweetheart, gotta be good." The man muttered, almost to himself. His eyes were running over Sam's face, lingering on his cheeks, his lips. His expression was worshipful, like Sam was something incredible to see.

The hand moved down to Sam's throat, a warning squeeze stopping him from trying to call out again. Instead Sam gasped out a word, a tiny breath of voice. "Christo."

Gareth met his gaze at that, not a hint of black or demonic yellow in his eyes, instead smiling almost fondly. "Just me, darlin'. Just you an' me…the way it shoulda been years ago."

Before Sam had time to take it in – Gareth wasn't possessed, Gareth was doing this because he wanted to – a loud hum suddenly filled the night, too noisy to hear his own thoughts over, and Sam's head swung toward the source of the sound. An industrial fan built into the side of the wall filtering the stuffy air out of the bar, billows of it hitting the side of Sam's face. There was an overflowing dumpster at the end of the alley, rotting food spilling over the sidewalk and adding to the putrid smell.

"I wanted to do this proper, special-like…but seein' you like that, Jesus…" Gareth's body was pinning Sam to the wall, his voice breaking into panting breaths between words that were somehow more sickening against his skin than the sweaty stale air being blown in his face by the fan.

He tried to prise the man off, to free himself, but his hands felt too heavy to lift and his legs prickled with pins-and-needles. Instead he wriggled, using his head to butt at the big man's face. A split-second later there was a loud crack. He was blinking away stars dancing across his vision before he realised the sound was his head connecting with the brickwork. A metallic taste filled his mouth, sharp and sour like curdled milk. The tip of his tongue throbbed, and he hoped he hadn't bitten clean through it.

"Don't do that again." A growl, nothing like the perverse endearments before it. This voice sounded hard as rock, put him instantly in mind of Jim Miller. His head felt muddled and dizzy, his muscles automatically relaxing on order.

"Sam! Sammy!"

Dean spun wildly, looking up and down the deserted street, as if Sam and Gareth might have wandered off somewhere. But apart from the bikers, the place was still. His heart pounding, he jumped the wall again, running back to the bar. Maybe they'd stepped back inside, decided to have one more drink and he'd find them at the bar, beers in hand and exchanging more stories about life on the road, and they'd all have a big laugh about Dean's momentary freak-out…

He shoved the door open to a mass of writhing people. Someone had turned on the music in the few minutes they'd been outside, and all the naked girl-flesh was lit up in strobe, jigging alarmingly with each flicker of neon light. The bass thudded under his feet, running up his legs and pounding in time with his heart. He couldn't even tell what song was playing. He wrenched his way inside, pushing away gropes and ignoring the dirty looks he got in return.

"Sam!" He could barely hear himself over the music. He scrubbed a hand through his short hair, biting hard on his lip.

No Sam. No Gareth either, and he didn't think his heart could take much more without bursting through his ribcage.

Sam had just told him to be careful. Hell, Missouri had told him to make sure they stuck together, and Christ why hadn't he paid more attention? He was a hunter, goddamnit, this was his job.

If the demon was here…

He would have heard something. He had his back turned for a second, if the demon had shown up Sam or Gareth or those bikers would have noticed, would have yelled, would have made some kind of noise.

Why the fuck had he been so worried about his car, of all things? The car was special, sure, but it was a piece of metal and paint at the end of the day. Easily replaced.

Sam could never, not in a million years, ever be replaced.

He turned and made his way back to the door, freeing himself from the claustrophobic crowd with a gasp. The door swung shut behind him, muffling the music to a single rhythmic beat, echoing his footfalls as he stumbled towards the bikers.

"Hey! Hey, did you-did you see a kid a minute ago? He came out with me and another guy, big guy with a scarred face?"

The tallest biker turned to look him up and down, the beginning of a sneer growing on his lip. "You talkin' to me?"

"Yes!" Dean yelled, his hands fisting at his sides. He barely restrained the urge to wrap them around the guy's thick bull neck, instead settling for digging nails into his palms.

"Well, that ain't askin' nicely. We don't deal with people who ain't polite here."

Dean had him up against the wall in a split-second, hands gripping the leather of his jacket. His lips were pulled back in a snarl, so wide he thought they might split at the corners. "Did you see them?"

A sudden stillness passed over the group, all amusement sucked from the air. It felt like he'd stepped right into a den of tigers, but he didn't give a shit about his personal safety right then. He could hear the guy's friends coming up behind him, the clink of something metal being pulled from a pocket, the heavy footstep of thick-soled boots.

He didn't care. "Tell me if you saw them!" To punctuate, he pulled the guy forward an inch, thrust him back into the wall.

The punch caught him on the side of his head, making his ears ring, but he didn't let go, didn't even turn. One of the other bikers, a big guy with a shaven head and a spiderweb tattooed below his ear, gripped his shirt and tried to pull him into another punch.

He stuck his hand down the back of his jeans, pulling free the gun he kept there.

The guy let go, holding both hands up in a sign of surrender. "Hey, hey, no need for that."

"Just tell me if you saw them, and we'll forget this shit happened."

"They went around the side of the building!"

Dean took off in the direction the guy pointed, not bothering to look back.

The back of Sam's head felt sore and bruised.

Something cold had passed over him, pulling him a step back from his body. He vaguely recognised it from injuries so bad they'd made him shiver in eighty-degree heat, his blood pooling on the ground around him; shock. He was going into shock, a place where everything happened in snapshots and his body felt like it didn't belong to him. He had some good memories of shock – it made things not hurt, it made situations less scary, and it meant that the man currently running icy hands over his skin like that was something everyone was allowed to do was just a distant suggestion, something he could reduce to just that – a pair of hands. Maybe even his hands; he couldn'tfeel his fingers either way, so it was possible that his own hands were roaming his body. It would be good if they were his hands, because he'd only ever touched himself in some of the places they were. His hands touching him meant this wasn't a bad thing.

But the voice, that he couldn't pretend was his.

"…that's it sweetheart, sweet thing, you just breathe for me now, you're gonna love it, I promise…" The voice was breathy, high like a girl's. Sam wanted to laugh, except this wasn't funny for some reason, not funny at all.

One of the hands snaked around his hip, fingers creeping up under his shirt. They brushed skin, leaving prickles of goosebumps in their wake, and Sam wanted to push them away, but nothing worked like it was supposed to.

They slipped below, fingering the cut of his hipbones, grazing pubic hair, and now Sam really wanted them to stop. But they didn't do what he told them to either. Instead long fingers were unzipping his fly, popping the button of his jeans and tugging them down. His head lolled on his shoulders, heavy and thick. Maybe he was dreaming. Maybe he was really asleep next to Dean, except why would he be dreaming about this? He couldn't work up a panic though; all the fight and energy had seeped out of him, left behind in a puddle like the piss on the ground next to the dumpster, nothing to do with him.

A mouth was working its way along his jaw, licking trails like slugs crawling under his skin. The hands left his skin for a second, and the sound of a second zipper seemed louder somehow than the fan bellowing in his ear. Sam closed his eyes and tried to disconnect. He could do that, knew how to do that. It was only his body, and the best thing for him to do right now would be to shut down for a while, let it happen.

The mouth had teeth though, and they bit him on the neck like a vampire, shattering his concentration. Sam gritted his own teeth and thought desperately of the last time he and Dean had taken a break, months ago now. It had only been a day; a storm too violent for Dean to want to risk driving on the freeway. It had been like heaven, or the closest thing Sam could imagine to heaven – the two of them snuggled up warm on a single bed while rain beat a snappy tattoo against the motel windows. Lightning streaked the sky in sharp knife-slashes, but he'd felt so safe and loved, his head tucked neat under Dean's chin while Dean's fingers drew tingling patterns between his shoulder blades.

And then his eyes were open again because everything jerked from under him, wildly topsy-turvy and his stomach gave a rolling lurch.

He was pressed face-first against the wall when everything reoriented itself, the hard brick biting into the side of his face. His cheek burned, like the first time he'd tried shaving, using one of his dad's old disposable razors speckled with rust and tiny grey hairs from Jim Miller's jaw. He closed his eyes, remembering the thousands of tiny stings, the slap he'd gotten when his dad had walked in and caught him trying to put the shaving foam canister back in the duffle bag.

"…yeah, gonna give it to you, gonna take it all, gonna be screaming while I do you…" The voice crackled, in and out like the radio in the Impala as they drove across state lines.

His concentration was shot to hell, that voice keeping him in the here and now.

Where was Dean? Why wouldn't he come? Sam remembered him being happy to be out of Missouri's house, happy to talk to his friend who wasn't Sam. Happy that he could do something for himself for once, instead of being stuck in one place because Sam's head was screwed up. He was sorry, goddamnit! He was sorry his messed-up presence made everything hard for Dean, and if only he would come, Sam would say all the sorries in the world, if only…

Fingers, crawling and insidious, sneaking up under his shirt to pinch at his nipples unkindly.

The crash of a door brought Sam back to his senses momentarily, or threw him even further away, he couldn't tell. Crashing doors and alcohol, they reminded him of his dad, but even his dad wouldn't do this.

Once, there'd been a man. He remembered it vaguely; him only six and his dad a silent stoic mass sucking air out of the space Sam lived in. But one time there'd been a big grey man, and he'd tried…

And Sam's daddy had caught him, caught him pulling Sam's pj's down around his ankles, and he'd roared, so loud it'd made Sam cry. But the big grey man roared louder when daddy kicked him and hit him and made him bleed, until he didn't move anymore. They had to leave then, leave the man lying face-down on the carpet. Sam's daddy had picked him up and carried him to the car, cuddled up warm in a nest of blankets. He thought he remembered daddy kissing his hair, crying softly. But the next morning daddy's eyes were empty again, so maybe he imagined it.

Another jerk, only this time it made the man holding him up disappear, and without those sickening touches, those hands, Sam found himself a scrambled mess on the floor. He blinked, trying to put things in order, but his mind wouldn't work in a straight line, and was his daddy here to take care of the big grey man again? Did Dean come to find him?

Someone was yelling something. The sound of skin hitting skin, the sound of bones being broken, and then there was quiet.

Dean rounded the side of the bar, his heart in his throat. Gareth would have put up a fight, he told himself. If the demon had come and tried to hurt Sam, tried to take him, Gareth would have fought to keep him save. He hoped.

The music wasn't so loud out here, overpowered by the hum of some kind of air conditioning built into the bar.

It wasn't loud enough to cover the sound of someone grunting. A grunt like they were in pain. Dean's head snapped towards it, towards the tiny gap between the buildings that he hadn't even noticed was there. He stepped into it, gun pointed ahead of him, and Gareth's red sweaty face met him on the other side, his mouth hanging open and his eyes stretched wide and wild.

His jeans were bunched around his ankles and for a second Dean thought he'd had it all wrong, Gareth had just come around here to take a piss or something, and he started to apologise for catching the guy in mid-flight. But there was someone else in the alleyway, up against the wall, someone…

Sam, his face pressed into the wall, turned away from Dean so all he could see was the back of the kid's head, his jeans shoved down to his knees and the elastic of his boxers stretched around the meaty part of his thighs. His Sam, oh god, he'd caught his Sammy in the middle of going at it with Gareth, and he stumbled backward, one arm raised in front of him like that way he could deny it. But the picture wasn't changing and it wasn't going away. This must have been what it felt like to be flayed, only that would have been kinder, that would have been a fucking mercy compared to seeing this, and Dean knew he'd upset Sam by staying at the bar, but not this much, never like this…

Never. The word stuck in Dean's head. Never, nevernevernever. Never would Sam do this, not the Sam Dean knew and loved, not Sam.

His fist connected with Gareth's face before he had time to take a proper breath. He caught the guy by his shirt, dragging him away from Sam, Dean's Sam.

"Hey, hey!" Gareth was holding his hands out, snatching at Sam like he thought he had any right to touch him. "This is nothin' to do with you, man, so just back off!" Dean didn't stop to listen. Because Sam would never do that, not ever, Dean knew it like he knew his own heartbeat and he felt sick and dirty for thinking it, even for an instant. He punched the guy in the face again, feeling his nose crush under his knuckles. Blood spurted, making a copper mess on Gareth's white shirt.

"You fucking piece of shit, you don't touch him, you don't ever touch him!" Dean heard himself saying as his fists pummelled the guy's face, something cold and metal in his left hand dragging bleeding lines through Gareth's skin.

"He's mine, goddamnit, I've waited too long-" Gareth's sick words were cut off as Dean punched him in the throat, leaving him choking on his own blood. Dean felt a grin stretch his lips like a death rictus, so tight he thought they might split with the force of it.

He threw the guy, watching with hot pleasure as Gareth stumbled backward, his legs bound by the jeans caught around his ankles, and hit the dumpster at the end of the alley. His head flew backward like a ragdoll's and smashed into the lid with a crack. The guy flopped uselessly to the floor, grunting and moaning. His now-limp dick flopped against his leg, and his face was a raw mess, misshapen and broken like the scars Sam's father had put there years before had swollen and burst.

It occurred to Dean that the object in his left hand was a gun. A loaded gun. He raised it, taking careful aim.

"…Dean, don't…"

A voice, barely a whisper, made him pause for a second. He shook it off, finger tightening around the trigger.

"Dean…" Something tugged pathetically at the cuff of his jeans, making him think of Charlie, tugging Margaret's pant-leg when he wanted her attention. He looked down, seeing Sam splayed out on the concrete, one hand attempting to pull his boxers up and the other holding onto Dean's jeans like the contact was the only thing keeping him there.

The ball of emotion Dean had been trying desperately to hold off hit him with the force of a freight train collision. He gasped wordlessly, his jaw working against nothing as his knees gave out.

A hand touched his cheek, so softly he thought he was imagining it until he opened his eyes. Sam was watching him with enormous terrified eyes, staring like he didn't know what to do with himself. The full moon hanging in the air behind Dean reflected in those blown black pupils, a white circlet of untouchable purity. Then Sam leaned in close, his hand clumsily patting over Dean's face, and the reflection was gone. Sam was whispering something, his voice ragged, and Dean pressed his forehead to Sam's to hear it.

"Don't cry, Dean. Please don't cry."