Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural.
Warnings: Non-explicit sexual assault (first handful of paragraphs, skip to paragraph 11-ish if you wish) and implications of a sexual nature. Mentions of drugs and drug use. All medical information was gathered via Google. I am not a doctor, nor do I work in the medical field.
Dean froze after he opened the door and the light in the hallway illuminated the scene before him. Those were Sam's eyes looking over at him, neon lights of his room reflected in them, but they weren't bright in the way he remembered. There was a distance in them. A fogginess that Dean knew wasn't natural. He'd seen Sam on medication before on hunts gone wrong. He knew the signs of detached confusion of a drugged Sam.
But his attention was drawn to the fact that there was a man on top of Sam. Added to the fact that the hem of Sam's shirt was pushed up to his armpits revealing his chest and stomach. And the fact that his wrists were chained to the bed high over his head. And that the man, who now looked at Dean like a deer caught in headlights, had had his mouth on Sam's just a second ago.
Maybe the worst of it all, was that Dean saw that one of the man's hands was in Sam's boxers.
All the hesitance and anxiety surrounding finding Sam that plagued Dean minutes before was replaced with white-hot rage.
He had his gun trained on the man. "Get your fucking hands off of him," Dean said.
He didn't know if the man understood a word he said, but the tone and gun were probably enough for him to get the hint if not.
He scrambled off and away from Sam, glancing at the half of his clothes scattered on the floor like he was trying to decide between grabbing them or just making a run for it.
He decided on the latter, and tried to get past Dean.
Dean had a bullet in his head before he could take more than a handful of steps. Maybe Sam didn't need to see a man killed right in front of him, but Dean wasn't sure that Sam was able to comprehend too much at the moment.
He tucked his gun away and stepped around the man's body to Sam, pulling his shirt back down before anything else.
He took out his lock-pick and set to work on the chains that kept Sam bound to the bed, rusted and archaic like they belonged in the Middle Ages. Those features combined made it take that much longer for Dean to pick the lock in the limited light from the hallway and neon signs of the room.
He knew Sam's eyes were on him as he worked. They tracked him, but he couldn't find any indication that Sam was actually seeing him.
He didn't care if the sound of a gunshot drew attention. He trusted in his dad and Caleb to keep anyone from getting to him and Sam.
It took a few minutes to get Sam's wrists freed, and Dean wanted to give him reassurances, but he was at a loss of what to say while he worked. The scene he walked in on was still shocking his mind into a blank, and his head was starting to hurt from the strong scent of incense.
But Dean was always more of a man of actions, so he continued to act like he was composed and let Sam slowly bring his arms down of his own accord while he shrugged out of his leather jacket. Sam was too out of it to help Dean even if he asked, but his limbs were compliant as Dean threaded them through the sleeves of his jacket and pulled it together over Sam's chest.
"Let's get you covered up, huh?" Dean asked.
He didn't expect an answer and moved on to pulling the top blanket of the bed from where its edges were tucked under the mattress. It wasn't his first choice, but it was his only choice and he wrapped it around Sam as best as he could.
There wasn't time to check Sam over for injuries, and as long as he was alive they could deal with the injuries in a safer place. He still wasn't about to even ask Sam if he could walk. He wasn't sure that Sam would understand a word said to him while in his current state.
So Dean slipped an arm under Sam's knees and one behind his back—being mindful of the knowledge that Sam's back could still be in bad shape from being whipped—and lifted Sam up. He hoped that the blanket around him would be warm enough. He hoped that it would offer enough padding for his wounds that Dean carrying him wouldn't aggravate them too much.
He hoped that Sam wouldn't remember any of his time there.
Sam was lighter than he should have been and still smaller than average, so carrying him was nothing to Dean.
"Gonna get you out of here, Sammy," Dean said as he left the room. "I'm not gonna let anyone else hurt you again, okay?"
He glanced down at Sam between every step, but Sam's eyes were slowly closing and his head lolling towards Dean's shoulder. Both of which Dean was fine with. He thought that he might need the physical contact as much as Sam, or more than. After so long being separated, the weight of his brother in his arms was a welcome reminder that they were together again.
"Go ahead and close your eyes, Sammy," Dean said. "You can rest now. I'm right here."
Sam's eyes did shut, but one of his hands found its way out of the haphazardly wrapped blanket around him and fumbled for a minute before latching onto Dean's shirt with a loose fist.
Dean swallowed past the lump in his throat, and surprised himself when his words came out clear and calm. "That's it, Sammy," he said. "Just hold onto me. I'm right here now, and I'm not leaving you."
He rushed up to meet John and Caleb, who were holding their own against the security guards and other men he assumed must work for Liu and heard the gunshot. Hell, maybe there had been surveillance cameras that Dean hadn't noticed that tipped them off. Liu probably spent too much money to want his slaves to go missing, and was probably willing to spend that extra amount on anything he could to prevent it.
Either way, Caleb gave John a quick nod and John moved to usher Dean with Sam out of the club.
"He's pretty out of it, Dad," Dean said as they left. "I didn't get the chance to look him over, but I could tell that he wasn't entirely there. I don't even know if he was really seeing me. His eyes followed me, sure, but there wasn't anything in them. I'm worried."
John led them out of the club and down two blocks farther before stopping to look at Sam. "14710 mentioned whipping, and if he was that out of it, drugs might be involved," he said. "I'm not happy with it, but I think we might have to take him to the hospital. We don't know what we're dealing with, and I'm not willing to be taking risks with Sam's health right now."
Dean held Sam a little closer as they set out towards the hospital, comforted by the soft breaths against his neck as Sam's head rested against his shoulder. John called Caleb and left a voicemail to let him know they were out now and where they were headed so Caleb could meet back up with them once he made his own great escape out of the club.
Dean realized that he would never be able to thank Caleb properly for taking a month to hunt around America, Hong Kong, and China for Sam, and then staying behind at the club with Liu's workers so they could get out safely. And he never asked them for anything in return.
For how much evil he saw outside of the supernatural world in the past month, Caleb reminded him that true good existed, too.
The looks from the medical personnel at the hospital left Dean thinking that this wasn't the first time a slave escaped or was rescued and brought to them.
They brought over staff members who knew English to work with them and ask all of the routine questions, even if they suspected the answer with the mix of sympathy and pity on their faces.
They said that the police would likely be interested in talking to them, and that they did have to report everything to the police despite the protests from Dean and John.
And then they were gone, and Sam was back in a different room with them being examined, tested, and treated without his family beside him.
Dean stayed standing, about to pace, but the rush of adrenaline that kept him going for the entirety of that day and night left him now that Sam was safe. What didn't leave him were the memories of how he found Sam, and he promptly dashed to the nearest bathroom and threw up.
It felt like days passed before someone came out to talk to them about Sam. Caleb showed up in the middle of their wait, looking a little worse for wear, but denying any medical attention. Just a couple scratches and bruises, he told them. No big deal.
Sam's doctor came out to talk to them. A small woman with streaks of grey in her hair, age lines on her face, and a no-nonsense attitude. She spoke English clearly, despite her accent. Something Dean was thankful for since he wasn't great at understanding any thick accents.
John nudged Dean forward. "Why don't you go on ahead with Caleb and keep an eye on Sammy?" he suggested. "I can fill you in later on what the doctor says."
Dean opened his mouth to protest that he deserved to know Sam's condition, but Caleb grabbed his elbow and pulled him down the hall after the doctor gave him the room number.
Once they were out of hearing range, Dean pulled away from Caleb.
"I deserve to hear what the doctor has to say, Caleb," he said. "I'm the one who… This is all my fault."
"Maybe it's just something John needs to do alone, Dean," Caleb said. "He blames himself for leaving you two alone when he knew what was going on so close. Hell, I wouldn't be surprised if he blamed me, too, for dragging all of you over to give me a hand."
"Don't be stupid, Caleb. It wasn't your fault. You didn't know."
"Neither did you."
"No," Dean admitted, "but I should have. Dad gave me an order, and I disobeyed it. Look what happened."
"Then, you'll have to make it up to Sam," Caleb said.
Dean huffed out a humorless laugh. "If he'll even let me with everything he's been through."
"He knows that you would never get him hurt intentionally. Everyone who's ever met the two of you would know that."
"Could be different this time," Dean said. He couldn't get the image of Sam at the club out of his head, and he had no idea how someone recovers from that. He didn't even experience it personally, yet he knew it would always be something that haunted him.
"Doesn't mean it will be."
Sam looked awful, and Dean wondered if he'd have to make a stop in the attached bathroom again. He wasn't sure his stomach had anything left in it to bring back up, but that didn't stop it from feeling like it was on the verge of revolting.
Sam laid on his side, his clothes exchanged for a set of plain scrubs. An oxygen masked covered his nose and mouth, fogging up and clearing in sync in with his breaths. His visible wrist atop the blanket was wrapped in fresh, snow white bandages. An IV in the back of his hand delivered something clear into him.
Dean moved closer and took a seat on the side of the room towards which Sam faced. From there, he saw Sam's right arm. That wrist was wrapped like the other one, but Dean could see ink numbers peeking out of the bandage.
Dean watched Caleb lean over Sam and catch the tattoo by following Dean's line of sight. Then he watched as Caleb carefully pulled up Sam's sleeve until a brand came into view.
Dean didn't know what it was supposed to symbolize, but it looked painful as hell and the last thing Sam needed were these permanent reminders on his skin of what happened.
Dean leaned back in his chair and ran a hand down his face. Caleb dropped into the other chair in the room, looking as lost as Dean felt.
Sam slept through it all as the picture of peace, but Dean figured that was the work of medication. Whether that medication was forced upon him in the club or given to him by the medical professionals at the hospital, Dean didn't know.
Sam probably needed the deep rest, but Dean wished that his skin wasn't so pale. He wished that he could erase the marks put on Sam.
He wished that he hadn't been the reason Sam was like this.
Sam stayed dead to the world while Dean fidgeted in his chair. He bounced his leg on the ball of his foot, up and down and up and down. He wondered if he should be closer to Sam. If he should hold his hand, or even just have his own on Sam's arm for a bit of comfort. But he was afraid of getting too close. He was afraid that the contact would be unwelcome to Sam, no matter how much Dean needed the connection.
He reconsidered his decision to be where Sam faced. What if Sam woke up and Dean was the last person he wanted to see? Did he blame Dean as much as Dean blamed himself?
Would he ever be able to trust his big brother again? The same one who got him forced into slavery because he just had to go out for a drink or two? Because he couldn't leave one non-supernatural case alone?
The only thing that broke his train of thought was his father walking into the room. The stress of the past month caught up to him, making him look ready to fall over with the dark bags under his eyes, which had a new haunted quality in them. Dean wondered just what the doctor told John to leave him looking like that.
He wondered if he really wanted to know.
"What's the verdict?" Caleb asked. Able to get out the words that Dean couldn't.
John sighed, and Dean's stomach twisted into fresh knots. A sigh wasn't good.
"He'll live," John said. "Physically, the worst is the level of drugs they found in his blood. Traces of methamphetamine, probably from a couple days ago, but mostly benzodiazepines. It was high for someone his size. Close to overdose level, but the doctor said it's uncommon to die from an overdose of benzodiazepines, especially with hospital treatment. They have an oxygen mask on him because his oxygen was a little low, but the cannula wouldn't have stayed in place as well since he has to be on his side for now."
"His back's that bad?" Dean asked. He didn't want to think about the injuries that he couldn't see. What were the after effects of meth and benzodiazepines?
Dean would be needing access to a computer once they made it to Pastor Jim's.
"It's not going to be comfortable for him to be laying on it. Doctor said that the cuts were partially healed, but some spots had been reopened recently. The good thing is that there aren't any signs of infection. Other than that, they wrapped the cut on his leg and removed the collar from his neck, then applied ointment to the burns and wrapped them."
Dean hadn't noticed the bandages around Sam's neck. He'd been distracted by everything else, the more prominent signs that he suffered and was still suffering.
"They wrapped his wrists, the skin was a bit raw and bleeding in some spots. Signs of struggle, the doctor said," John continued. "They can't do anything for the brands on his shoulders."
"Brands?" Dean asked. "As in more than one?"
"One on each shoulder," John confirmed.
Dean was going to be sick. Or pass out. Both were reasonable options. He didn't even know where he was supposed to begin in helping Sam. Not when just hearing the description of his injuries hurt him, and he hadn't been the one to experience them. He hadn't felt the pain, but he would've given anything to have felt it instead of Sam.
"He'll be out of it for awhile as the drugs run through his system," John said. "They're giving him fluids, and will likely start giving him nutrients, too."
"And that's just physically," Dean said.
"Yeah," John said. "That's just physically."
Sam felt like shit, but at the same time he felt better than he had in a long time. A comfortable numb. Safe. He remembered meeting Dean's eyes as he burst into the room, but thought it was just a trick of his mind.
His eyelids were impossibly heavy, but he opened them to be greeted by hospital white and the guardrail of his bed blocking his view of anything else.
Something covered half of his face, but when he raised an arm to find out what, Dean was there. He grabbed Sam's hand midway.
"Oxygen mask, Sammy," he said. "Gotta leave it."
Dean gave him a half-hearted smile that looked at odds with the bone-deep sadness in his eyes.
It was strange hearing someone call him by his real name, or even nickname. How many times had he dreamt of this, only to convince himself that Dean wouldn't be able to find him? That he would be trapped in a life that wasn't a life at all.
But Dean came, and he heard the rumble of his dad's voice. John came, too.
"Dean, why don't you go get something to eat?" John asked. "I want to talk to Sam."
Dean looked at John like he grew a new head, and Sam almost smiled at the sight. He would have smiled, if his muscles weren't so heavy or if the weariness would leave him for only a moment.
Sam didn't know what Dean saw in John's face that made him back down and leave the room with a dozen glances back before he made it out of the door. Whatever it was, Sam didn't see it.
John took a deep breath, stood up, and moved so that he was partially leaning above Sam. He moved his hand like he wanted to brush Sam's hair away, but stopped like he remembered that his hair was too short now. "I'm so sorry for all of this, Sammy. I'm not sure if you even understand me right now, but if you do, I need to know something. The doctor… Did anybody… Sammy, were you…?"
John was never a man to be left searching for words, but Sam supposed that he never needed words like this before. It had never been an issue. Should never have been an issue.
But it became one, and John was left stumbling over half-finished questions while Sam understood what he was trying to ask. So Sam shook his head, then switched to a small, one-shoulder shrug. He really didn't know.
"You can't remember?" John asked.
Sam shook his head. He couldn't remember much more than unclear snippets, and he didn't know if that should be comforting or terrifying.
John nodded. He didn't look completely relieved, but he accepted the answer anyway with a certain amount of resignation. There was something else about his expression that Sam couldn't remember being there before, but his mind was still too fogged for him to figure out what that was.
"I didn't bring it up to Dean," he said.
Sam nodded this time. That he could agree with.
He wanted to stay awake a little longer, if only because he was scared that if he fell asleep here, he'd wake up and find that it was all just a dream. He was never rescued.
But his body had other plans, and John whispered soft encouragements for him to get some rest along with promises that he and Dean would still be there when he woke up again.
Dean kept his pace to an average walk as he went back to Sam's room. It took all of the willpower he had to keep from lingering outside of the door and eavesdropping on whatever his dad hadn't wanted him to hear. He just hoped that John said what he needed to say by the time Dean got back because he didn't plan on leaving again.
If Dean listened to his dad two hours ago to find a nearby motel with Caleb and get some rest, he wouldn't have been there when Sam woke up.
He stepped into a silent room, only to find that Sam was back asleep. Dean clenched his hands into fists, but kept his anger in check.
Sam didn't need to be woken up again, especially not by Dean yelling. Sam needed the rest.
And Dean had to do what was best for Sam. He should have always done what was best for Sam. He was fragile right now physically. Dean had no idea about his psychological status. Hell, 14710 couldn't remember his own name. That took years, but how much damage could a month do?
"What'd I miss?" Dean asked.
"Not much," John said. "I don't think he remembers much of what happened, and the doctor said that was a possibility with the drugs, but she mentioned his mind might deal with the trauma by repressing it. That, uh, happened with some of the other escaped slaves, she said."
"They just couldn't remember what they went through?" Dean asked.
That seemed bizarre, to go through that much trauma and not remember it. Yet he hoped that would be the case for Sam. He'd gladly carry the burden of the images in his mind of Liu's nightclub as long as Sam got to live in ignorance.
"They repressed the memories, but they don't always stay repressed."
"Oh," Dean said. He paused. "What about Liu?"
"You have no idea how much I want to hunt him down and gut him," John said.
"But."
"But Sam needs both of us here. I hate it, but we need to focus on getting Sam to Pastor Jim's. Getting him on the path to recovery."
"So we just let him walk," Dean said.
"We have to. For now," John said. "We'll keep an eye out. See if he goes to America for another auction and take care of him then."
Dean didn't reply to that, and John didn't offer any more on the subject. He understood the reasoning, but how many more kids could Liu hurt before their chance to kill him came along? How would Sam be able to sleep at night knowing that monster was still alive and well?
"Do you know when Sam will be discharged?"
"It'll be a couple of days, at least. He may not have officially been at the point of overdosing, but they still want to keep an eye on him."
Dean wanted to get Sam back to Jim's. He wanted him to be comfortable and safe, not trapped in yet another room. Even if this room was safe and clean. Even if antiseptic replaced the scent of incense and alcohol.
He wanted a lot, but Dean knew better than to expect that he would get any of it.
Caleb left the next morning with a promise that he would get John's truck and drive it to the Chicago airport for them. He knew Sam was safe and in good hands, so he wasn't needed there anymore.
It would be a six and a half hour drive from Chicago to Blue Earth, but they would stop if they needed to.
Dean didn't ask about getting the Impala back. He didn't feel that he deserved it back. He hadn't earned that privilege.
So he sat and watched over Sam while John took his turn in the motel room sleeping after the cops came to talk to them (he didn't hold out much hope that they would be arresting Liu anytime soon, more likely they'd file the report and pretend it never happened), amazed that his dad trusted him to be solely responsible for looking after Sam again, even if it was just at the hospital.
A nurse came in earlier to change Sam's bandages, and Dean's rage towards Davies and Liu returned in full force when he saw the lashing marks criss-crossing Sam's back. He wanted to hunt Liu down and whip him until he felt tenfold the pain Sam did. He wished he could resurrect Davies just to kill him again.
Sam woke up a few times through the day, but never for very long. Just long enough to roll onto his other side, avoiding laying on his back despite not knowing of the doctor's orders to do just that.
So Dean waited, until he finally saw Sam's eyes open again. He immediately put himself in Sam's field of vision.
"Hey, Sammy," Dean said. "You need me to press your call button for anything?"
Dean didn't know what else to ask. Sam had yet to speak, so he limited his questions to yes-or-no questions. Sam was far from okay, so he skipped that series of questions.
Sam wasn't awake long enough to eat anything, so he received IV nutrients. But Dean noticed how thin Sam was now, and knew that the nutrients could only do so much.
Sam needed calorie laden food to put meat back on his bones, but he probably wouldn't be able to keep down too much for awhile.
If Dean still had difficulties keeping his food down, he couldn't expect Sam to.
Sam shook his head.
At least he was aware enough to respond.
"No pain?"
Sam shook his head again.
Dean gave him a small smile. Sam wasn't in pain, and that was always a good thing.
"You want me to turn the TV on?" Dean asked. "Wasn't sure if it'd bother you, and you need the rest, dude."
Sam nodded at that, so Dean tried to find something that Sam might like watching.
He settled on some cartoons that he couldn't understand, but he could keep up with what was going on just through the animation. Sam wouldn't be awake for long, he knew that.
But sitting there with Sam and watching some TV almost felt normal. It reminded him that Sam was really there, and he might not be in perfect condition, but he was alive. As long as Sam was alive, Dean could deal with the trauma and the recovery. He could give Sam all of the help he had to offer.
Sam fell asleep within minutes, and Dean was content to mute the TV and watch it in silence. He moved his chair a little closer to Sam and let his arm rest on his bed, encouraged by the fact that Sam hadn't shied away from him yet or done anything to indicate he didn't want Dean by him. His arm wasn't close enough to be touching Sam, but it was close enough that in case Sam woke up and wanted the contact, he barely had to move for it.
It was the first time that he felt confident that he would be able to handle anything thrown his way while helping Sam heal.
It was the first time he let his tears fall for both what he almost lost, and what he failed to prevent.
Author's Note: Rescued at last with one chapter to go, but Sam has a long recovery ahead and Dean has some trauma of his own to deal with. If anyone would like to mention things they hope the sequel includes, now would be a good time. I have a list of what I want to include, but I'm open to considering other ideas also. Along those lines, would you prefer the sequel be of a slow or fast pace? Honestly, I have it as slower pace, since it's acting like a very extended epilogue in a way.
Regardless, thanks to all of you who read, follow, favorite, and review! I'm glad that you're enjoying the story. Please take a second to leave a review before you go.