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 to everyone who reviewed the last chapter, I can't tell you how glad (and relieved) I am to hear that the majority of people are enjoying the story and feel that I'm handling the subject sensitively. I know I've taken the story in a darker direction than the first two stories, but I really do appreciate everyone who has given this story a chance :)

Chapter 15

For a few blissful seconds before Sam opened his eyes in the morning, he thought his life was pretty good. Bad stuff had happened to him, sure, but right now there was a patch of sunlight warming his cheek, the smell of frying bacon drifting up the stairs and the gentle brush of Dean's steady breaths at the back of his neck. It was good.

Dean shifted in his sleep, his fingers contracting on Sam's hip. Abruptly, he was thrown back into that alley, thick probing fingers leaving invisible stains on his body. Sam's breathing stuttered, his muscles locking into place. He couldn't move, couldn't get away, his mind whiting out in panic. He laid there, in Dean's arms, his body stiff as a board, and he hated himself.

Dean was safe, goddamnit! Dean was supposed to be the guy who protected him, held him, comforted him. His touch wasn't supposed to make Sam's skin crawl in horror.

"Sammy…" Dean mumbled, his arm slipping around Sam's waist, squeezing tighter.

Sam shoved it away, sitting up quickly. "I…I thought you were gonna sleep on the chair?"

It was easy to pinpoint the moment it all came back to Dean. His eyes went wide, and he was off the bed in a heartbeat, his hands held up in a sign of surrender. "I was sitting on the bed while you were…I must've fallen asleep. I'm sorry, Sam, I'm so sorry-" Sam felt as if someone had wrapped a band of iron around his rib cage, winching it tighter with every slow moment that passed. He couldn't bring himself to meet Dean's eyes for longer than a few seconds.

They were interrupted by Missouri knocking on the door. She stepped in without waiting for a response, and Sam felt absurdly grateful for her presence breaking the tension.

"Oh, you boys are up." She spared a glance for Dean and then ignored him, focusing all of her attention on Sam. "How are you feeling, honey?" She didn't attempt to touch him, but he could feel the sadness and sympathy in her gaze like a dead weight on his back.

"I'm okay. Really. I'll be fine."

"Sam, I'm so sorry. Is there anything I can do? Would you like anything?"

Sam fisted his hands in the bed sheets, pulling them up against his chest. "No. No, thanks. I-I just wanna…stay in my room for a while."

Missouri nodded, sitting herself down on the edge of the bed. "Of course, honey. Shall I bring you up some food? I'm making bacon and eggs."

The thought of food made that band around his chest contract. He shook his head. "I'm fine. Thanks."

He caught the tiny frown that appeared on her face before she could hide it. It was only when he was presented with her blank expression that he realised the lines around her mouth were still there. Had they been there before he arrived, or was it his presence, his problems that had aged her so quickly? He couldn't remember, and a sob rose in his throat like a hiccup. He swallowed it before he could escape, pulling on a smile that must have looked like a ridiculous parody of happiness.

"Sam, you should eat something. I'll make you some toast."

"He said he didn't want anything." Dean's voice was hard, but Sam heard the thread of desperation in it.

Missouri didn't even deign to look at the older man. She stood, smiling sadly at Sam. "I'll bring you up a tray. Try to eat, sweetie." And then she was gone, shutting the door quietly behind her. Leaving him alone with Dean.

The older man cleared his throat, scratching at the back of his neck. "Uh… How do you feel? I mean, is there anything…can I do anything?"

Sam shook his head mutely. A pile of worn clothes lay on the floor a few feet from his bed and he reached for them, keeping the bed sheets in place with one hand. He managed to snag a crumpled shirt, pulling it on over his tee shirt quickly. "I'm fine, Dean. Really."

"Fine." Dean sounded unconvinced. "Look, Sam," he took a step forward, "you're probably…scared, and confused, and freaked out. And I have no clue what to do, how to…make it better. So you gotta talk to me, man. You gotta tell me how I can help you."

Sam shrugged, keeping his head down. "Just…treat me like normal. I'll be okay, Dean. I've survived worse, remember. I just want everything to be like normal."

Dean let out a loud whooshing breath. "Okay. Okay, I can do that."

"Good." Sam risked a peek at the other man through his bangs.

"Alright, well, I'm gonna make some phone calls. You want me to step outside while you get dressed?"

"Phone calls to who?"

Dean's eyes darkened. "Some guys I know. They can track Gareth down for us."

"What?" Sam's head snapped up. "I thought you were gonna leave it alone!"

"When the fuck did I say that?" Dean's face stretched into an expression of incredulity. "He's gonna pay, Sam. I'm not just gonna let him getaway with what he did!"

"You can't, Dean! Please, just leave it. For me."

"Why?" A mix of anger and honest confusion coloured the words.

"Because…" Sam looked down at his hands, lying palm-up in his lap. "Just because."

The sound of Dean swallowing loudly was followed by the creak of the armchair in the corner of the room. When Sam looked over, he saw Dean sat hunched forward with his hands fisted in his hair. His grip was hard enough to turn his fingertips white. "He should die, Sam. He…he touched you. He needs to die for that."

Sam sighed. "Look, man, you're pissed, I get it-"

He was interrupted when Dean brought his hand down on the arm of tin a chair in a loud slap. The sudden noise made Sam jerk. "No, Sam, you don't get it! God, why are you not angry about this? The guy tried to rape you! What if I'd found you five minutes later?"

Sam ignored the shiver of horror that ran through his nerves at the blunt word – rape. He'd avoided naming it, thinking it. "But you didn't, Dean! You stopped him!"

"What if he tries it again, Sam? What if he decides he likes the look of some other kid, and the next time he tries it he gets away with it?

Sam squeezed his eyes closed, feeling phantom hands brushing his skin, his arms, the waistband of his jeans. "Don't you think I've thought of that? Don't you think I want him dead just as much as you do?" He must have looked like he was in pain, because suddenly Dean was on the floor beside the bed, hesitantly stroking a gentle hand over his cheek. The touch didn't repulse him, and a tiny spark of relief curled in Sam's gut. Maybe he wasn't broken forever after all. He opened his eyes, turning to the other man. "Dean, going after Gareth isn't the way. Killing him, you shouldn't…have to live with that for the rest of your life."

Sam could see the newly-formed lines around Dean's eyes, like he was squinting into the sun. "I can't let him get away with that. Not that. Not…hurting you."

"We have to. I hate it, I do, but…I can't let you do that. Not…"

"Not for you?" Dean said, his voice without infliction. Sam looked down, hearing Dean's pained sigh. "Christ, kid. I wish you'd…" He trailed off, his lips pressed tight together.

"Dean?" Sam said tentatively. When Dean didn't say anything, didn't even look up at him, Sam continued speaking softly. "Dean, please, listen to me. You can't do it. This guy, he deserves to die, but it's not up to us to kill him. It's not right, and you know it. I'm begging you, please, let it go. For me."

Dean was still for a long moment. Then he stood suddenly, slammed both fists against the top of the dresser.

"Dean!"

"That fucker! That fucking… Christ, I can't…" He looked almost tearful, and Sam frowned, uncomprehending. And then Dean's face crumpled completely, shattering into pieces. His hands clutched at his hair like he wanted to tear it out, to dig fingers into his own skull.

Sam pushed the covers and stood up, feeling exposed in only boxers. He grabbed Dean's hand, spinning the older man to face him, and before the fear could catch up with him, pressed a hard kiss to Dean's slack mouth.

It was like kissing a statue, which, oddly enough, made it easier. Less real. Dean let it happen for a second and then pulled away, blinking in shock. "Sam, what…"

"Please. Promise me you won't do this. Promise me you won't touch him."

Dean stared at him, his eyes wide like he was in agony. "Sam, don't make me…"

"Please, Dean."

He half-stifled a sob, broken in the middle. Sam sucked his cheeks in tight, keeping his own emotions reined in. He held Dean's gaze, not giving the other man a chance to break away. Finally, Dean dropped his head.

"Okay." He spoke in a whisper, dry like an old man. "I promise you. I won't touch him."

Missouri's entrance interrupted them. She backed into the room, the tray in her arms carrying a plate of scrambled eggs and toast. "I know you said you didn't want any breakfast, but I thought I'd bring you some eggs with your toast. You should try and eat, honey, you need to keep your strength up."

Sam managed a weak smile in her direction. "Thanks, Missouri." He saw Dean take a step back from him, and the relief he felt at the extra space made his stomach turn. He'd been okay, he'd touched Dean and been touched, he'd even kissed him. But there was no denying the instinctive tense of his muscles when he'd turned away from Dean, like maybe the other man would become someone else when he wasn't looking.

"Don't thank me, sweetie, just eat it." She softened her words with a smile. "I'll sit with you, if Dean wants to step out and change clothes."

Dean's lip curled and he took a step towards her. Sam could see him building up for a fight, just to be contrary. He interrupted before Dean could start. "Thanks, I'd like that. Just while Dean's changing."

"Are you sure, Sam?" Dean asked, his face drawn tight.

"It's fine. You can change, take a shower. I'll be okay." He smiled weakly. "Seriously, man. You should change. Your clothes kinda stink."

Dean looked down at himself, as if he'd only just realised he was still wearing the same clothes he'd been wearing last night. "Okay." He backed toward the door reluctantly. "You'll call if you need me?"

"Of course. Go. Change."

He waited until Dean was gone to draw a shaky breath, sinking down to the bed behind him.

"It's going to be okay, you know." Missouri said softly. "Maybe it doesn't feel like it, but you have people who care about you. I know Dean isn't…dealing with it too well…" She trailed off, and Sam looked up.

"What do you mean, Dean isn't dealing with it well? Is there…have you read something from him?"

She pressed her lips together, taking a moment before replying. "Well, it was traumatic for the both of you. It's not surprising that he's…so angry."

Sam looked down at his hands. "Oh."

"Eat your breakfast, honey. I'll be here." She smiled at him, like a mother would.

Dean peeked around the bedroom door, watching Sam sitting with his back against the headboard of the bed, a shapeless shirt hanging off his shoulders. It was one of Dean's, worn thin and soft. Sam wore the sleeves rolled up to mid-elbow. The tray of food was in the vee of Sam's crossed legs, and as Dean watched he poked at it with his fork, a tiny frown of concentration creasing his forehead. Sunlight filtered through the window, stroking his hair and the skin of Sam's forearms like a lover, lighting him up and making him glow. Missouri sat serenely in the armchair, her hands folded neatly in her lap.

Sam ducked his head as he took a tiny sip of juice, and Dean stared with an ache in his heart. Sam hadn't gotten a haircut for a while – no time, not with the demon on their trail – and the back was getting shaggy, curling around the vulnerable nape of his neck. Dean's resolved wavered; he'd made Sam a promise, and breaking it would hurt him.

There was a dark patch on the side of Sam's neck, no bigger than a quarter. Dean squinted, trying to see without letting Sam know he was there. His eyes widened when he realised.

A bruise. A bite-mark. That fucking bastard had left a bite- mark on Sam's neck.

Dean stepped away from the door, heading downstairs and into the kitchen as quietly as he could. He shut the door behind him, leaning his body against it as he lifted his cell phone to his ear and hit dial without hesitation. Tim Rook picked up after two rings, a gravely voice in his ear. The guy was ex-marine, a friend of his dad's. Dean hadn't talked to him in twelve years, since his dad worked a job involving a coven of witches in St Louis. John never talked about that case, but Dean had been able to read the grey in his eyes.

"Dean Winchester." Tim spoke in his ear, sounding not a bit surprised.

"Tim. Didn't know if you'd remember me or not."

"Never forget a face." Tim didn't ask why he was calling, didn't waste time on niceties. Dean appreciated it.

"Listen Tim, I need something done for me."

"Figured."

"There's a guy, name of Gareth. He's a hunter, big guy, face all scarred up. Drives a black truck. I need him tracked down."

"Not much to go on."

"You can do it. I know you've done this shit before."

Tim didn't pause. "Want him dead?"

"Not dead. I just need to know where he is." Dean said, forcing the words out through a stiff jaw. "I'll take care of the rest."

"Cost you."

"Anything."

"If I said I wanted that car of yours?"

"Done." Dean didn't even have to think.

Tim laughed in his ear, whiskey-burned throat a rasp dry as a desert. "Don't need a car. Need a pint of human blood though. Fresh."

Dean closed his eyes, his mind flickering through all the rituals that required human blood. None of them led to anything good. "Okay."

"Okay." Tim echoed, laconic like he didn't care either way. "Be in Pittsburg, three days time. I'll have your guy by then." He hung up, leaving Dean listening to empty air.

Dean was downing his second mug of hot coffee when a tap on the kitchen door startled him out of his thoughts. The door was opened before he could call out.

"But momma, I wanna go to the park!"

"We're visiting Missouri today, sweetheart. Maybe another day." Margaret appeared, her voice hoarse and her hair untidy. She was holding Kiera's small hand tightly in one of hers, guiding Charlie inside with the other.

Kiera opened her mouth to start a new protest when she caught sight of Dean by the counter. Her face immediately brightened and she ran toward him, arms outstretched. "Dean!"

He pulled on a smile for the little girl. She was wearing a pink ballerina costume today, satin slippers on her feet and a frizzy tutu sticking out around her waist. "Hey, honey."

She grabbed him around the waist, squeezing him in a hug.

Margaret smiled at him. "Hi, Dean. Is Missouri around?"

"Uh," Dean glanced at the closed kitchen door. Spilling the news of Sam's attack to a woman he'd known a week was at the bottom of his list of things to do, but he got the feeling Missouri would tell Margaret anyway. And if she didn't, the sight of Sam covered in cuts and bruises and goddamned bite-marks would definitely tell Margaret that something had happened. "Look, there's…something you should probably know."

Margaret obviously read something in his expression, because a second later she was shooing the children into the living room to play.

Dean watched Kiera complaining, Charlie's quiet acquiescence, Margaret's tired frown as she argued with her children. He wondered what it would be like to be normal, his thoughts wandering back to those vague dreams he'd held so close only ten years ago. In Elmstead he'd come to the realisation that normal was mostly monotony and hard work, but he saw the love in Margaret's eyes as she gently stroked Kiera's curls and straightened the strap of Charlie's blue dungarees. Maybe normal would be better, better than fighting and watching people get hurt. Maybe he and Sam could have the same kind of normal that Margaret had with her kids, someday.

"What is it? What's happened, Dean?" Margaret appeared in front of him suddenly.

"Uh…" He blinked, the words stuck in his throat. "Would you like a coffee?"

"Okay." She nodded slowly, worry in her eyes.

He turned and busied himself making another cup, pouring out milk and sugar, finding a clean spoon. Anything to put off saying it.

"Dean, what's wrong? Is it…is it Missouri?"

He shook his head, placing the mug in front of her and sitting at the table. He gestured to the empty chair beside him and she sat too, hesitant like she was waiting for him to lash out at something.

"Last night," he began, staring into his half-empty mug, "last night, Sam was… Sam was attacked. At a bar. A guy…assaulted him."

"Oh my god." Margaret said softly. He looked up; she had a hand to her mouth, her eyes wide. "Is he alright? What happened?"

"We went for a drink with this guy I know, and…while my back was turned, the guy…" Tears pricked at his eyes, the words forming a lump in his throat. "It was my fault. It was my fault, goddamnit! I took him to the fucking bar, I let that guy get close to him!"

"Dean…" Margaret laid a gentle hand on his fist, clenched white on the tabletop.

"I should've protected him! I should've…"

"Dean, I'm sure you did everything you could."

"I should have done more!"

Margaret shook her head, her own eyes bright with unshed tears. "I know you did all you could. I've seen the way you take care of Sam. You wouldn't have done anything less than your best."

"But it still happened!" He banged his other fist on the table, enough for it to hurt. "I should have been there to stop it. Instead I was worrying about my fucking car, and when I found him…"

"When you found him…what?"

Dean met her eyes, and the kindness he saw there hollowed out all his anger, leaving him empty. He didn't deserve kindness. "The guy was about to…"

"But…he didn't?" She asked tentatively, her hand squeezing his.

Dean shook his head. "I interrupted before he could." He said bitterly.

"Then you saved Sam." She nodded, firm. "You saved him before something terrible could happen, and I'm sure he knows that. You just need to…talk to him. Reassure him, and reassure yourself, that you're both gonna be okay."

Dean closed his eyes, his head stuffed up and aching.

A gentle tap on the kitchen doorframe made him turn, swallowing the emotion. Missouri stood in the doorway, Sam's picked-at breakfast tray balanced on one arm. He took a breath, pushing the chair back to stand.

"It's okay, Dean." Missouri said before he could get up. "Charlie's with Sam. I think he was hoping Sam would play cars again."

Sam sat on the bed, his eyes half-closed. Missouri had finally given up on waiting for him to eat the congealed mess he'd made of his breakfast, taking the tray back downstairs. He was kind of glad to be left alone. To not have to smile and hide, pretend to be bearing up under the weight of everything. He was out of practise pretending.

A quiet sniffle from the doorway made him start, his head snapping up and the beginnings of panic burning through his veins.

Charlie stood in the hall, a toy car gripped tightly in one hand. He was looking up at Sam with wide eyes.

Sam pushed the panic away, pulling on that tired smile. "Hey, Charlie."

"Hi." Charlie said, chewing on his thumb.

"What's up?"

The little boy held out the car in one hand. "Play cars?"

The smile on Sam's face became more genuine. "Yeah, sure. C'mon in, kiddo."

Charlie didn't need to be asked twice, running across the carpet and throwing himself bodily onto the bed. Sam narrowly avoided kicking him in the face as he tried to move his legs out of the way. A slightly gooey toy car was dropped in Sam's lap, another three appearing from various pockets in Charlie's dungarees.

"You're the red one."

"Cool." Sam nodded, discreetly wiping the sticky stuff off on the sheets. "So, what're we playing?"

"The cars are goin' up the mountain."

Sam frowned. "What mountain?"

Charlie didn't look up, crawling around the bed on his hands and knees, industriously piling the blankets onto Sam's legs. Once they'd been arranged to his specifications, he prodded Sam in the thigh. "Up."

"Huh?"

Charlie waved both arms in the air. "Up!"

Sam hesitantly bent his knees so his feet were flat on the mattress. "Like that?"

"Yep." Charlie nodded, a solemn look on his face. "It's a mountain."

"Okay."

They pushed the cars around for a while, tracing crease-paths up the 'mountain', Charlie poking Sam whenever he moved his legs, breaking and reforming the paths. The feel of tiny wheels tickled his legs. It took him a moment to realise that the touch wasn't freaking him out.

It wasn't much, but it eased a little of his fear. If he could handle one unthreatening touch, he could get used to others, right?

"Dean's sad." Charlie said suddenly, his eyes still focused on the car scaling the vertical cliff face of Sam's calf.

Sam blinked. "Huh?"

"Dean's sad." Charlie repeated. "And cross, 'cause he thinks the bad man was his fault. Mama said it wasn't."

"What?" Sam's fingers clenched on the car, tiny wheels digging into his palm. "Where…where did you hear that?"

"Dean said."

Sam swallowed hard. He felt ashamed suddenly, hearing the words coming out of Charlie's mouth, an innocent child talking about things he'd probably overheard but should know nothing about.

"Wasn't Dean's fault." Charlie said again, shuffling over to drive the car back down the side of Sam's leg. "Was the bad man's fault."

"Yeah." Sam nodded dazedly. "The…bad man."

Charlie suddenly looked up, meeting Sam's eyes. "Dean's gonna try an' hurt the bad man. But he shouldn't. He shouldn't go away."

Sam was still reeling five minutes later when Dean appeared to tell Charlie his mom wanted to go.

"Hey, Sammy." Dean stood in the doorway, scratching at the back of his neck and looking like he didn't know whether to come in or leave Sam alone. Sam tried a welcoming smile from his position sat cross-legged on the bed. "You doin' okay, kiddo?"

"Yep." Sam nodded. And he was. He'd asked to be alone for a while, and while Dean had been anything but happy about it, he'd acquiesced. For the most part, anyway; Sam had heard him listening outside the door every few minutes, trying to be quiet and give him the space he'd asked for.

"So…can I get you anything? Food, something to drink?"

"I'm good."

"Good." Dean echoed. It was awkward, more awkward than the night before and the morning had been.

"Um. Do you want to sit?"

"Yeah." Dean nodded, eager. And then paused, his eyes darting between the foot of the bed and the armchair. "Uh, where…"

"The chair." Dean's face dropped a little, but he sat, leaning his elbows on his knees. Sam smiled again, trying to convey how grateful he was to the older man.

Dean sucked in a loud breath, his eyes trailing around the room, looking everywhere that Sam wasn't. Finally he cleared his throat, meeting Sam's eyes. "So… Margaret told me I should talk to you. If…if you wanna talk, that is? You don't have to…"

Sam swallowed hard. "I…I don't think… I'm not sure I'm ready. To talk about it."

"Oh. Okay." Dean's head dropped.

"Not yet. It's… Uh, maybe we could talk about something else?" He felt like shit; Dean had done so much for him already, and he couldn't give him the one thing he asked for. But he couldn't, couldn't talk about it yet. "Uh, how's Margaret?"

Dean pasted on a plastic smile. "She's good. Fine. Good."

"That's…good."

"Yep." Dean nodded slowly. He opened his mouth, shut it again as whatever topic he was going to bring up was dismissed. Opened his mouth again, shut it again.

"Dean, you don't have to…"

"Have to what?" The older man sat back in the chair, worry passing over his face. "Don't have to what?"

"Try so hard. C'mon, we can talk. We've done it before, remember?" The pale attempt at humour fell flat. Sam was suddenly scared. What if that connection he'd always had with Dean was gone? What if it'd been destroyed by what had happened the night before, and they could never get it back?

Panicking, Sam jumped to his feet, crossing the floor to the chair and Dean.

"Sam?"

Sam didn't reply. Instead he pressed the older man back against the seat, arms on either side of his head, pinning him in place. Dean opened his mouth to speak but before he could, Sam was licking into the space between his lips, hard and messy. Dean let out a little grunt in protest, his hands trying half-heartedly to lever Sam away.

The older man turned his head, Sam's lips smearing over his cheek, and gasped out; "Sam, Sammy…You don't need to do this. It's okay, you don't need to do it."

A shudder ran up Sam's spine. He dropped to his knees in front of Dean, pressing one palm to the other man's leg.

"Sammy, it's okay." Dean was whispering, a tentative hand hovering above his head. "It's okay, it's gonna be okay. I'm here. It's gonna be okay."

He looked up, meeting Dean's eyes. Feeling the tears forming in his own. "You promise?"

Dean took a visible breath, and then brushed his fingertips over Sam's forehead, the lightest possible touch. It felt like a whisper, a secret. Unthreatening. His eyes fluttered closed and he breathed for what felt like the first time since it had happened. Dean's words drifted over him. "I promise, Sam. I'll make it okay."