Warning: Mention of abuse.

Chapter Nine

The next morning, Dean woke up to find the opposite bed empty.

It nearly sent him into a spiral of panic as his veins spasmed with cold fear and his heart jolted violently in his chest, his mind flooding with unhelpful explanatory thoughts for his absence. Sam ran away. Something had taken Sam. Rick had escaped out of jail and taken-

The door clicked, and there entered the reason for his panic with breakfast and coffee in his hands.

"What the hell, Sam?!" Dean exclaimed, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he was aware that he was reacting too much for a kid he had only known for days, and he was unsure of why he was so worried, which was translated into anger and irritation, about him. Maybe it was the fact that Bobby wouldn't be too happy if he lost the kid in only a night considering he was under his responsibility for now. Not to mention, the kid was still beaten to hell and shouldn't be unnecessarily moving around so much.

Although, Dean should have realized that yelling wasn't the wisest action towards someone who had just been out of an abusive relationship, and he hated himself as the volume and tone of his voice caused Sam to jerk violently and drop the steaming beverage he was holding all over himself, coffee-stains soaking through his shirt and burning the wounds on his skin.

"Shit," Dean whispered, wide-eyed as he watched the kid gasp and fall to the floor on his knees, catching a brief glint of tears in his pained eyes.

Dean untangled himself out of the blankets still around him and stumbled over to Sam, who was hunched over and clutching at his bruised, stained torso, dropping next to him and grabbing his shoulder. Sam flinched away with a sob until he was on his elbow, the other arm still around him protectively.

"M'sorry. M's-so sorry 'bout the coff-coffee... I-I'll get you another one an-and I'll clean this up, I just..." He swallowed, face twisted in fear and tears, as he looked around for something to wipe away the mess with.

"No," Dean said, grabbing a nearby towel hung on the chair, where he threw it last night after his shower. "It's okay. I'll do it. "

He scrubbed out whatever he could from Sam's shirt, and then told him to go change. But when he looked up at his face, it was bowed down, ashamed and afraid and unsure. Dean felt the urge to fix it all for him, right this instant, but he didn't know how. How could he fix an entire lifetime of wounds?

He reached up his hand slowly, carefully, so that Sam could see what was coming. The boy caught sight of it and his gaze followed, his eyes trembling with fear. Dean placed it against his cheek gently, and Sam still jerked back like he had been slapped unexpectedly with a hitch in his breath, eyes fluttering as if they were imitating his heart. It made him feel like he did something wrong, guilt blooming in his gut, but he carried on through it, hoped that maybe with time and some getting used to, Sam would realize there was nothing to be afraid of with him.

"It's not your fault. It was just an accident," Dean told him, lightly patted his cheek. Sam flinched each time again, and it made Dean think of how a hand against his cheek for him must have always meant something else, and how long they might have to go before Sam felt certain and safe with them. "So don't worry about it. Just go change your clothes. Come on, I'll help you up."

Dean left the towel on the carpet on top of the large brown stain and stood up, grabbed Sam by his biceps and pulled while Sam worked on getting his legs up and firm on the ground. Sam clenched his eyes shut in pain as they hauled up to his feet, finally standing upright.

Dean still held on as he guided him to the nearest bed, and put his hand on his shoulder, leaning in to talk to him softly. "Sit here. I'll get you some clothes. Then after that, you rest, good?"

Sam nodded. Dean turned around, went to the duffel bag beside his own sitting on the desk, flower vase and lamps on either side of the television. He reached for the zipper, pulled it open, and the first thing that caught his eye was the large brown stain on top of all his clothes.

"The hell?" Dean breathed out, confused. He grabbed ahold of one of the shirts, looking at it closely. Some part of him was afraid to find out it was blood.

"S'coffee," Sam's quiet voice piped up, and Dean's muscles drained from the tension.

"What's it all doing here?" Dean asked, glancing back at him.

"Rick got pissed, 'cause I got his coffee wrong," Sam answered shortly, still timid and hushed, still afraid to look higher than the bottom of a wall.

"That's a stupid thing to get mad at," Dean commented. "You made a mistake. Hell, it wasn't even you, was it? It was the barista there or whatever."

"Doesn't matter," Sam said softly, his fingers wrung together as he shrugged.

Dean didn't say anything, didn't know what to say. Bastard practically screwed up all of his belongings, but Sam knew that, and yet he didn't think it mattered. Then again, this was probably just the tip of the iceberg, possibly even a relief that he didn't have to suffer through anything more.

Dean didn't reply to the quiet, careless response. Instead, he opted to make a joke, hoping it would get him a small smile. "Your clothes have terrible luck when it comes to coffee though, don't it?" he murmured, just loud enough for Sam to hear him.

Sam did smile, as Dean hoped he would. It was still held-back, but freer somehow. He didn't hide his face towards the ground, even though his eyes were down, and he didn't seem to try to wipe it off quickly.

...

They all met up at the closest library after breakfast in order to gather more information on the hunt, find out the identity and history of the spirit before they barged into it. Sam and Bobby took the records whereas Dean and John made use of the computers, searching for past articles that resembled the situation or the spirit that they were dealing with. There weren't witnesses, as it was ruled out that each death happened somewhere in the dead of night, with no one around to see what had happened.

But Dean and John had gone to gather reports from the police station, which indicated a striking similarity in appearance between each victim; male, blonde, thirties. Often in such cases, the spirit had beef with anyone who resembled their murderer and, in vengeance, killed the victims in the same manner as they were killed. Also, the deaths stretched all the way back from 1987, one victim every few years with no specific pattern in each gap, probably whenever the spirit could find someone who matched its critique, but always on the exact same date. Typical easy case scenario: that was the date the spirit became a spirit. Sam really hoped this was a typical easy case, and that there would be no surprises or twists to jackbox out at them out of nowhere.

"Think I found something," Dean's voice piped up.

Everyone gathered together around the computer. John only had to slide his chair over, whereas Bobby and Sam had to bridge the eight feet distance in-between in order to reach them. Sam was slower, but at least it kept him from twisting his face in pain.

"Jacob Butler, 26," Dean started. "Died on March 23rd, 1987. At first, it was suspected to be a suicide. But that didn't explain the finger bruises on his arms and biceps and all the other wounds found on his body. Later, the police found out from Jacob's wife that he had a history of severe physical and emotional abuse from his brother, Lincoln Butler. Single father wasn't around much, so nobody to stop him. His brother had been charged for many other grave crimes before, such as murder and assault. Wife confessed he was actually a psychopath who stalked his brother around for years, terrorized his friends and whole load of other messed up crap. Police investigated the house for any clues as to what had happened and found a ring fallen on the floor, and the wife said she remembered seeing it on Lincoln once, which must have fallen from his finger during the struggle Jacob put up when Lincoln snuck in in the middle of the night and took him, drove him over to the same location he's killing his victims, beat him and tortured him, then hung him on a tree."

John exhaled. "That's pretty damn dark."

Dean and Bobby nodded in agreement, staring at the picture of Lincoln Butler; male, blonde, thirties.

But all Sam could think about was a brother who hated him.

...

"Does this hunt remind you of him?" Dean asked quietly as they sit in the motel room alone. John and Bobby had gone out to question the wife whom they discovered was still alive at the age at the age of forty-four to find out where her husband was buried as the article didn't mention any cemeteries.

Sam stiffened, barely glanced up at Dean. He forced himself to relax then. "No," he replied, just as quietly, already knowing who 'him' was. "He... he wasn't that cruel."

"Doesn't mean you trusted him with your life," Dean countered, staring at him. But then he blinked, as if he just realized what he was saying. "Sorry. That was... that was out of line. It's not my business."

But Sam wanted to break. He wanted to break because he wasn't wrong. He knew the terror of the finality in the agony, what it felt like to watch someone you were supposed to trust come at you with a knife, grab you by the leg when you tried to escape and bring it down at you, and it was different from the fear of risking your life in order to kill a monster and save people. It was worse. There were so many days when he thought it would go too far, that it had, just seconds before he closed his eyes because they were too heavy and his bones were even heavier with bruises and sadness, only to wake up again the next morning on the floor, cheek and hair stuck in his own blood. He feared it on days where he could muster enough hope, welcomed it on the days he couldn't.

"He stabbed me in the side once," Sam whispered without really thinking, eyes burning. "I thought he was going to put it in my chest."

He didn't hear anything from Dean for a while after that, and he stared down at his hands through a smeared vision and suddenly wished that he had kept his mouth shut because Dean probably didn't want to hear his whiny sob stories. It wasn't like they were friends. Sam could never have friends, could never deserve them.

He wished he did, though. So badly. He wished he didn't have to live with himself, with everything that was wrong with him. Wished he was someone else. Someone better.

He startled when he felt a hand on his shoulder, looked up long enough to see it was Dean before his gaze fell back to where it was before.

"You can talk to me," Dean said, which actually surprised Sam a bit, because Dean didn't seem to be the one to be comfortable with expressing emotions. "I can't promise I'm good at this whole, uh, whole comforting, emotional stuff. But I know that going through what you did, you're... you're gonna need a friend."

A friend.

Sam wanted to laugh, a nearly manic urge bubbling up in his stomach. A friend. It'd be nice to have a friend, even if he didn't deserve it.

...

"You're gonna sit this one out," Dean's voice piped up from behind him, where he was sitting on his own bed. Sam stopped what he was doing, which happened to be packing his own guns. Dean didn't want him to go?

"You don't need any more bruises on you," Dean said, firm, but gentle. "You need to get some rest and recover. It's an easy, two-man hunt so you don't have to worry about anyone needing any back-up, and my dad and Bobby are more than capable of putting this spirit down on their own."

It wasn't harsh, with the way he said it. It didn't make Sam feel useless, unimportant. It just made him feel like there was someone who wanted him alive, wanted him to be alright. It confused him for a few seconds, because he couldn't give a name to the feeling. He couldn't remember anyone making him feel like this, couldn't understand why anyone would want to.

Sam stared at him, right at him (noticed green eyes and freckles and a rough kindness in his features), maybe for the first time since that night he pulled him out of that motel room and away from Rick. He shook his head slightly, brows pinched. "I-I don't understand."

Dean only smiled, shrugged. "Sit this one out. Watch crappy movies and shit. It'll probably get a bit boring, but you'll thank me later. I'll stay with you, keep watch over you if you need it. Or I could tell Bobby to do that. Promise he wouldn't mind. I…I don't know, whatever you decide."

"Dean, I..." Sam trailed off, realized it was the first time he called him by his name. If Dean did too, he didn't react much to it. "I-it's okay. I don't... I can do this. I'm used to doing it like this, r-really, so it's not that much of a p-problem anymore." He tried to smile reassuringly at him. He didn't want to sit back and let them do all the work. It'd be selfish, lazy. His dad had always told him he was selfish and lazy.

But he was so, so achingly tired, wanted to do nothing but sleep (but he shouldn't just do what he wanted, should he?). He didn't want to get anyone hurt by going in there like this, but he also didn't want to be selfish and lazy, and he didn't know what to do.

"Then that's all the more reason why you shouldn't," Dean told him, smiled sadly. "You shouldn't have to be used to this."

Sam stayed silent, fidgeting uncertainly. Some odd, irrational, distrustful part of him wondered if this was some kind of a test to his character. He wondered if Dean would yell, "I knew you were useless!" if he gave into his fatigue and said okay (he must be extremely exhausted if he didn't feel completely ridiculous for just thinking that).

Sam swallowed. "I... I don't want to be selfish or... or lazy and useless. I don't... I don't want anyone to think that. I mean, your father... h-he already doesn't like me much, and I accidentally shot him in the shoulder on our first hunt together and-and now I'm skipping out and I-I just feel like a burden on you and-" He knew he was starting to panic, rambling on and on frantically, and he was growing breathless. This was the most he had ever talked around anyone, other than Bobby. He had always felt alright talking to Bobby. But Bobby didn't like him much anymore either. "I-I mean I probably must - "

He jerked back when Dean reached for him. Dean stilled for a few seconds after, and Sam felt guilty for making him react like that, but it didn't stop Dean. It only slowed him, made him cautiously reach out once again and hold him by the shoulders. He held his gaze firmly for the brief time Sam could do the same to him before he broke the contact, instead shifting his attention to tugging at his sleeves unsurely.

"No one is going to think any of that, first of all," Dean assured him carefully, convictedly. "Second of all, my dad doesn't dislike you. He's just not used to you yet, and he's got some issues that don't really have much to do with you, and he doesn't know what an awesome kid you really are." Dean grinned, ruffling his hair. Sam felt like a stranger to the feelings inside of him, the warmth of whatever it was. It was new, and it was almost awkward to him, but it was nice so he held a smile back. "I've only known you for a few days, but I can already see that. And third of all, you're not a burden on me. It's cool having someone kinda close to my age around. I mean, yeah, four years isn't that close, but it's closer than the century-difference between my Dad and me and Bobby and me. Wait, don't tell them I said that..."

Sometimes Dean made him wish he could remember how to laugh, without the strain in his stomach to hold it back. He wished he could be open and free, and he hoped someday Dean could teach him how to be that. But for now, he ducked his head and grinned under the fringe of his hair.

"Now go get some sleep. You need it," Dean said softly, patting his cheek lightly, avoiding the bruises. "You're safe here, alright? I promise."

Naive as it probably was, Sam couldn't bring himself to doubt that for a second.

Author's Note: OMG. I wrote a case back-story. *hides* I'm not good at this stuff. I don't even know if it makes sense or if it's good or not. But I needed to write a hunt here, so I can give the bros some bonding time alone.

I've been writing these days. A lot. 15,000+ words in a month or two. Which is a lot more than I have ever written in such a short (comparatively) time. I was thinking about just posting each chapter every next week once I'm done writing the entire story, but I wanted to break the delay cycle because I felt like shit, so I decided to post this now. I still have about 3-4 chapters to go before I'm finished completely with this story, and then a whole lotta editing after, but I think I could be done this year. If I don't...get creatively constipated again.

Thank you. I say that like every chapter, but I mean it with all my heart every time. I do. I'm surprised every time by the response I receive, 'cause it never gets easy to put your work out there no matter how many times you've done it, and I keep thinking that this'll be the chapter where I receive nothing at all because it stinks really bad, but then I look after hours later, and see I've got all these reviews that make me grin like an idiot, and then these tags like every single day or something, and there are like actual freaking people who read my stuff, almost 300 of them, and I just... seriously, I love y'all. So thank you for all of it, and thank you for not giving up on me.

Yeah, I'm over-sentimental, so what? *wink*