Chapter Sixteen

Dean opened his eyes to a pit of wrong in his stomach, a made bed in the dark (the first lights of the day dawning only just now) and two duffel bags on the ground rather than three.

And he knew.

He breathed in softly, sadly. He had wanted to believe that it was only his imagination, had wanted to believe that what he had heard that day in Sam's voice was not what it sounded like. He fell into that same denial that had let him not see how much Adam was suffering, and he knew where that got him.

But he wasn't going to let something bad happen again. Not to Sam. He wasn't going to let him go out on him like this.

…

John woke up to find both of the beds empty. One made and the other untidy and all over, as if left in a hurry. One missing duffel bag out of the three by the wall. Dean had told him about Sam finding out about Adam by the shape-shifter, and putting two and two together, realized Sam had left and Dean, naturally, went after him.

He wasn't sure what it really was about Adam that made Sam like this, that made him look as sad and distant in thought as he had been seeing him look the past week. Maybe a sense of insecurity about his place in Dean's life? Maybe feeling as if he was only there to fill that empty spot in it?

John didn't get much time to dwell on it as his phone rang, Dean's name flashing on the screen. He reached for it quickly and answered.

"Dean?"

"Dad! Sam's been taken. His… his bag's here, and… and oh god, there's blood," Dean said frantically, his breaths short on the other end.

"Calm down, Dean," John said. "We'll find him."

"It's gotta be that bastard again," Dean said, voice shaking with fear as well as anger, talking more to himself than John. "Fuck… he's gotta be out by now."

"Who?" John asked, even though he realized, just as the question came out, that he already knew whose name Dean was going to say.

"Rick."

…

Sam's head pounded when he came to, weighing like lead on his lolling neck as he struggled to raise it up, his mind fuzzy and hazed with confusion. When he tried to reach his hand up to the throbbing spot, he found that he couldn't move, his wrists bounded to a chair. His eyes opened, his vision swimming and blurred, and he blinked fast, the muscles in his forehead stuck in a furrow.

"Welcome back, little brother," a voice sneered, mocking and angry.

Sam's blood froze, trepidation blossoming from the pit of his stomach. He recognized that voice easily, remembered all the words that he heard in it.

"Rick," Sam said softly.

The man in question came slowly around the chair, half-circling around him predatorily, until Sam could see his torso right in front of him, and he didn't dare lift his head up, to look him in the eyes (eyes that looked at him like he was either the most despicable thing or like he was nothing at all) and aggravate his throbbing headache with movement (not that this carefulness would matter, because what Rick would do to him would make it worse anyway). Rick crouched, and Sam's eyes darted briefly up at his face, close enough that he could feel his breaths against his own as he saw him for the first time in a long while, which was enough to gauge his appearance. There were shadows under his eyes, and his face was twisted into a slight sneer, his olive eyes aflame with malevolence and hatred.

But Sam could hear the cold smile in his voice when he spoke. "So. Didn't think you'd see me again, did you?"

Sam remained silent, trying to focus on the pain pounding at his temple rather than the memories struggling to break out of the dark corner he locked them up in, rather than the ice in his veins and the hammering of his heart.

And then his head snapped back, sharp pain blossoming from his cheek to his head, his headache raging up as he had expected it would. He gasped, chest heaving, feeling like nothing was real anymore. His vision was too sharp, lights too bright, colors too dull (couldn't believe he was back here with him), and he felt a throbbing pull at his scalp as a fist tightened in it, tugging his head up to Rick's spiteful face.

"What's the matter, Sammy-boy? Cat got your tongue?" Rick mocked, a baleful half-smile and half-sneer curling at his features.

Sam didn't know what to say, didn't know how to respond, because whatever he said could either be taken the wrong way or not be a good enough answer. He was still hoping he would wake up and this would all just be a terrible dream, and Dean would still be sleeping in the bed beside his, and all he'd have to do was reach out to him in the three feet distance between them so that he could hear him say that he was safe, that he was just dreaming, that he was okay.

The next blow sent the chair sideways to the ground.

…

"Where the fuck are we going, Dad? We have to find Sam!" Dean hissed impatiently from the passenger seat of the Impala, something he'd never do with John if he were in his right mind, which showed just how much this situation was having an effect on him.

They had returned to the motel, packed all their bags and left as soon as they could, Dean following whatever John was doing with a completely confused expression on his face, asking questions with an air of tightly-controlled frustration (until this moment, that was). John had deemed Dean unfit to drive on his own considering his current state of mind. He had called Bobby to tow his truck after explaining the situation to him ("Goddamnit, boy," he had murmured sadly). Dean was ready to fight him on it out of indignation until he said it was an order. Dean had backed down, still fuming silently, but didn't argue further, and John wondered if the word 'order' was some kind of a trigger, and if it was, whether he should be grateful for it or feel terrible about it.

"That's what we're doing," John said calmly, keeping his own surge of irritation down.

"How is driving out of the very town he was taken from going to help find him?" Dean snapped.

"There's a guy, friend of a friend's, only about an hour from here," John answered. "A little cracked in the head at times, but he's good with computers. Been a good help with hunts before. His name's Ash. He might be able to find a way to track him down."

Dean breathed out softly and leaned back, all anger draining out of his features. One glance at him showed that he just looked tired and worried, eyes drooping sadly as he turned his head towards the window.

John sighed, staring up ahead at the road before them, hoping that they'd find Sam soon. The kid had really grown on him, and Dean couldn't afford to lose him too. Not after having lost a brother already.

…

Sam's nose bled, the side of his mouth, his jaw and his cheek swelling up. His ribs and stomach ached, still feeling the phantom collisions of a boot against his body. There were tears involuntarily streaming down his cheeks, eyes clenched shut, sobs frantically restrained in his throat and chest until he couldn't breathe. He took a deep breath, trying not to choke on the lump in his throat, and expelled it in a shaky exhale, his face hidden under his bangs, bowed down towards his knees awkwardly as his hands were still held to the arms of the fallen chair.

A knee came into his peripheral vision, one elbow hanging casually off of it. Sam didn't dare look up.

"Did little Sammy actually toughen up the past few years I've been gone?" Rick taunted, mock-surprised. "Not a sound from you? Well, not yet anyway."

Rick stood up, the light scruff of boot against the stone ground. He walked off, and after a while, came back with something hanging off his hands.

Sam looked up through his bangs tentatively, face twisted in pain.

And there, clutched in his fingers, was the leather belt that he had always feared most.

…

They parked outside a place called Harvelle's Roadhouse, flashing in red and white neon. Dean still wasn't sure if this was going to be much help, and if it wasn't, then that was an hour wasted. One hour of Sam probably getting hurt somewhere out there from that bastard he called a brother.

But he trusted his father. John wasn't the kind to take bullshit, so if he said Ash was good, then Dean had to believe Ash was good.

They both got out of the car and walked towards the bar.

When they walked in, they were immediately hit with warm air and the scent of alcohol, low music playing somewhere distant. But maybe that was just Dean, just Dean not being able to notice anything except the clench of fear with every minute that went by and the flashing horror thoughts across his mind of Sam being beaten and scared again.

They stopped at the counter where drinks were being served by two petite women, one young and blonde and the other older and brunette. Dean would have flirted with the blonde one if it was a normal day, but it wasn't, because Sam wasn't there with him, safe and okay and rolling his eyes with a hint of a smile.

"Look what the cat dragged in," the brunette one said with a grin. "John Winchester. It's been a while, hasn't it?" John nodded with a 'good to see you, Ellen' and a returning smile. She craned her head to the side at Dean. "And you must be the infamous Dean Winchester. Heard a lot about you from your daddy. I'm Ellen Harvelle." She reached out a hand across the counter.

Dean's eyebrows raised at that as he grasped her smaller one in a handshake (she had a pretty firm one, and something told him she wasn't to be messed with), glancing at his father, who was oblivious to his surprise. His father talked about him to others? What did he say?

"All good things, I hope," Dean replied, throwing in a charming smile along with it.

"Definitely," Ellen said. "Talks a lot about how proud he is of you."

John seemed to have a hard time meeting anyone's eyes at that moment, and Dean couldn't help a soft smile, his heart beaming at the revelation.

But his smile faded when he realized something. Ellen wasn't mentioning Adam at all, like he didn't even exist. He wondered if his dad even told her about him, which would depend on when they met, whether that was before or after what had happened. John wasn't the kind of person to be sharing his personal losses to others too easily.

Not for the first time, he marveled at how he still felt smothered from his grief whenever he let himself think about Adam too clearly, even after eight years.

He caught Ellen's eye in that moment, and noticed a quiet, sad droop in her eyes as her gaze slid from him to John, and Dean knew that she knew but wasn't bringing it up, for which he was thankful. He glanced at John, who was watching Ellen and the blonde girl serving to a couple of customers off to the side, and he had his own look in his eyes, but it wasn't sadness that he would often see whenever something reminded him of his lost son. It was unfathomable, but Dean thought that it almost looked like remorse.

…

May 16, 1995 was the day William Anthony Harvelle died while on a hunt with John. He remembered that day, remembered that Hellspawn possessing Bill, and he remembered how he tried to fight it as he writhed and writhed, two voices coming out of his mouth, one of the monster's speaking in a foreign language, the other his own, begging John to shoot him. John wasn't going to, he wasn't. He didn't want to. But Bill was in too much pain (he still remembered the suffocating agony that ripped through in his voice, in his rigid muscles), and he was losing control, and then the next thing he knew, the bullet was fired, the gun smoking. He regretted it the moment he did it, knew that it was reckless and stupid, knew that he left Jo, Ellen's daughter, fatherless, all because of his own idiocy.

Ellen, understandably, blamed him. Eyes red and tears streaming down her face, she threatened him out the door with her shotgun when he went to tell her about her husband's death, said if he ever showed his face again, she'd shoot him in the worst places there were. So he turned and he walked out and he never came back. He never heard from her again, and he never tried to keep in touch with her.

But then… then Adam died. His baby boy. And news traveled fast in the hunting community. She got wind of it, and that was the first time he heard from her in a year. They weren't exactly the same way they were before. There was always a barricade between them, something tense and keeping them from being completely easy with one another, but there was a mutual understanding between them, the kind that only the dearest losses could bring.

"Ash here?" John asked, deciding the best thing would be to go straight to the point. He had a very familiar urge, every time he saw her, to somehow make it up to her for his actions eight years ago, but he knew that it wouldn't do any good. Would probably make things even worse to bring the past up now.

She pointed the way to a door with "DR. BADASS IS: IN" written on it. John glanced at Dean, who suddenly didn't look too sure about the guy.

…

Ash was a dude with a mullet.

A mullet.

"Business up front," he said proudly, brushing a hand up his fringe, then flipping his mullet. "Party in the back."

Beside him, Dean could feel John judging him silently.

"We need you to track a guy down…"

…

So as it turned out, Dean underestimated him a little too quickly.

After a few details were given (and after flirting a little with the blonde girl, Jo, as a way to forget some of his anxieties and getting a death glare from her mother), Ash managed to narrow down the location and track Rick down to an area in a town called Littleton from Colorado. That was the good news. The bad news was that it'd take them five hours to get there. Four if they hurry, hopefully.

Dean wasn't sure if they could afford that time, considering how it had already been almost three hours since they've only found out about Sam's abduction. But they didn't know how long Rick had really had him, and he didn't know what condition Sam might be in right now, and he didn't know how much worse it would be by the time they reached him.

…

Sam trembled on the ground, now untied from the chair, wrists chained instead for a better angle at his body. His wet, flushed face was scrunched up and sweaty, teeth grinded hard as his back and sides burned with bone-deep agony that went up to his fingers and toes. He felt small and pathetic and ashamed of himself, because he broke. He finally broke, just like Rick said he would, but it had been going on for so long, and it hurt so bad. God, it hurt so bad that he thought he might pass out or throw up.

He curled up tightly, gasping and sobbing. He was sure a few of his ribs were cracked from all the kicks, and he could barely breathe from the pain. He was used to injuries such as these, considering his line of work and the life he had lived. Cracked ribs and deep bruises weren't anything new, but it was easier in hunting. Quick. A monster flinging him hard into a wall, a ghost throwing him against a headstone, some punches from a shape-shifter or a rugaru here and there.

But this was slow, torturous, wounds deepening more and more with every blow, a slice of pain over an already-present throb.

"Alright," Rick said, hearing him step back. He sounded out of breath, but there was a sick, entertained smile in his voice. "We'll take a break."

Footsteps faded, and then a distant sound, a twist of plastic against plastic. Sam shakily lifted his gaze up to see him drinking down a bottle of water, which brutally brought attention to his own dry mouth, though he knew there was no point saying anything about it.

Rick returned, pulling up another chair in front of them, straddling it casually. The chair Sam was tied to was still fallen, one of the legs broken.

Sam swallowed, clenching his eyes shut. He didn't know what Rick was going to do now. He said he was going to take a break, but him coming back here couldn't mean anything good.

"So, the duffel bag…" Rick said, sounding conversational. "What happened, Sammy-boy? Did he not want you anymore? Kick you out on your ass?"

Sam didn't answer. Rick's boot collided hard into his ribs again, and he whimpered.

"Answer me when I'm talking to you," Rick commanded coldly.

Sam swallowed hard again, trying to breathe.

"N-No," he mumbled, sucking a gulpful of air, pained tears falling down his cheeks. "I l-left."

Rick chuckled. "Finally realized that nobody could tolerate you the way I can?"

"Y-you never t-tolerated me," Sam said quietly, the note of bitter defiance overshadowed by his uncontrollable stutters and the gurgles from the blood in his mouth, try as he might to talk smoothly and clearly. He could hear Rick mutter something sounding very similar to 'retard', which sent a flush of embarrassment up at his cheeks, and he determinedly ignored the shame and humiliation coiling inside of him. "And he was - was g-good t'me. H-he cared abou' m-me." But that wouldn't have lasted long.

"Right. If that was true, then why did you leave him? Come on, something must have happened. You wouldn't walk out on a guy who smiled so nicely at you, considering what a needy bitch you are."

Sam closed his eyes.

"…already has a brother, didn't you know? He doesn't need another one. He doesn't need you."

"…reminds him of his real little brother."

"…when he finally sees through that illusion? Sees that you're not Adam? Will he feel bad for you, suffer your existence? Will he get sick of you and kick you out? This liability that he picked off some dirty carpet under the delusion that you were just like beloved little Adam?"

"They all leave in the end, Sam. Nobody's ever gonna want you, and nobody's ever gonna keep you for as long as I have. When you gonna get that?"

"Dean's a b-better brother than - than you eve' w're," Sam said, words still thick from blood and pain still stabbing every inch of his body. He didn't really know where that came from, where the courage to say it to his face did.

Rick stilled at that, and if Sam didn't know any better, he'd have thought he was stunned at his response.

Then he chuckled, something dark in it. Then he looked off to the side, and laughed, shaking his head.

"And what'd he ever do for you?"

And Sam blinked back tears, feeling a pit deep in the centre of his heart. Here was a man who had loved him more than anyone ever had, and Sam left him, was never going to see him again, just because he was terrified to watch him leave him himself. He could say so many things to that. So many (even though he would never say it to Rick because somebody like him could never understand somebody like Dean). Dean had done so much for him, more than he could manage to put into words. He could list off the way he saved his life in every sense, how he made it so much better, so much more worthwhile and meaningful, just by being there by his side, how he watched movies with him and joked around with him and ruffled his hair and held him when he was sad or scared. But how could he explain the things he made him feel without making it small? The worthiness, the love, the purposefulness.

He remembered Dean, and the way he looked at him, like he meant something, something more than he ever believed he could. He remembered the way he smiled at him, and the softness in his green eyes, the playful glint in them when he teased him, the pinched brows over them when he was worried about him, and Sam wondered if he was seeing a brother who was already long gone instead of him. But he let himself believe, just for a moment, that it was all for him, and those memories pushed him, gave him a heat of strength in his stomach that he didn't know he could muster in front of the man who had abused him for the other half of his life.

He slowly forced himself up on his knees and elbows, body trembling and weak under its own weight. "He t-taught me that you were wr-wrong," Sam said, with a power that came through from recollections of Dean and the love he gave him that Sam never truly deserved, blood dribbling out of his mouth, as he looked him in the eye. He was worthless, but there was somebody who had wanted him anyway (even if not for forever). "You and Dad."

Rick didn't say anything for a long while after, icy olive eyes staring at him without reaction.

And then he slowly stood up, wiped his hands on his jeans.

"I think the break's gone on a little too long, don't you?"

Author's Note: So er... just so you know... I'm not incredibly advanced-tech-hacker-savvy, so I hope you don't mind that I skipped over it mostly. Obviously, there were other ways to find Sam, but I wasn't sure of what they were. Especially to be looking for a human rather than a monster.

Thank you to:

reannablue

Ghostwriter

StyxxsOmega

babyreaper

Sam J Eller

Tie-Dyed Broadway

Finnaboo

lenail125

Souless666 (Yeah, you got it right! Adam's taking Sam's place in the show, pretty much. Even in the supernatural world)

ArtistKurai

ncsupnatfan

YesteryearsGirl

AlElizabeth

Guest

sichul14

IWantColoredRain

PutMoneyInThyPurse

Kas3y

for your lovely reviews. They made me smile! Thank you all for the reads, for all your patience and loyalty, for all the tags!