Born of Ill Intent.
Please read the warnings from chapter one.
Many belated thanks to my wonderful beta reader, Neats, for all her help and encouragement. Couldn't have done it without you, babe!
Chapter Two.
Sam lay there in the dark, tugging weakly on his chained wrists and ankles. Whatever that bitch had drugged him with was still in his system, making his head spin and his stomach churn.
This was no way for a hunter to die; tied to a bed, beaten and raped, choking on his own vomit. His father would be ashamed of him, not to mention how Dean would react…
He had no idea how much time had passed before he heard the key in the lock. The door clicked open letting in a tiny sliver of light for a brief instant, enough to tell Sam it was still daytime outside.
Moments later, a nightstand lamp was switched on, revealing his new visitors.
It wasn't the blond girl this time, but two tall guys with biceps big enough to wrestle a fully grown bull into submission. Sam stilled his movements and watched them warily as they approached, not liking the leering grins and over-invested smugness.
With a sinking heart, he knew what was going to happen to him before they even spoke.
"So you're Sam Winchester," said the dark haired guy. His teeth were tobacco stained, his clothes ill fitting, and his cowboy boots were covered in mud.
Or shit, possibly. It was hard to tell in the dim motel room light, and Sam was trying not to sniff too hard in his direction.
The guy turned to his companion.
"Wow! You were right; he sure is a pretty one." He leered at Sam again, practically drooling with lust. "Just like his mother, God rest her."
Sam made a slight noise of surprise and fear that had both men grinning widely, eyes flashing silver.
"Yeah, that's right, kid," the guy spoke again. The mattress under Sam's body dipped as he sat down to study his captive closely. "Every shifter knows your background, where you came from... who you came from. So when my little brother, here, or should I say sister," he indicated the other guy, who Sam now guessed to be the original blond girl from the bar, "ran into the infamous Winchester brothers, sons of that bastard John Winchester, well..."
He leaned forward until his eyes were only inches from Sam. "We simply couldn't pass up the opportunity to get to know you a little better."
"Mmmphmmmph," Sam mumbled, helplessly, shaking his head. "Nnnmmmph."
He could smell stale whisky and smoke on his breath and almost vomited right there and then.
"I'll bet you can guess what's gonna happen now, huh, kid?" the guy said in a low growl that had the hairs on the back of Sam's neck rising.
Sweat trickled down his face and dread curdled in his stomach.
No... please... not that... his muffled cries and protests were laughed at, as the two shifters unchained him. He struggled as hard as he could, fought and kicked, and yelled into his gag, but to no avail. These monsters were too strong for him, and soon had him flipped over, his face mashed into a musty pillow, wrists re-chained behind his back, and legs forced apart. He turned his head to one side and worked at spitting out his gag, but one of the shifters chuckled, almost affectionately, and grabbed a bandana from the nightstand.
"Don't bother kid," he said, pinching off Sam's nose between index finger and thumb. "No one's gonna hear ya."
The gag was shoved back deep into Sam's mouth, almost choking him, and secured there with the bandana, the ends knotted tightly at the back of his head.
Sam closed his eyes in despair while the shifters forced him to his knees, presenting his ass like a gift. He felt the hot tears spill over onto his cheeks and dampen the pillow beneath his face, tried to close his ears to the crazed, triumphant shouts of his captors, felt that first, painful thrust accompanied by a harsh grunt of satisfaction from behind him.
There had been no preparation, nothing to ease the way, and something tore inside him, releasing a flow of hot, sharp liquid, and the scent of iron filled his nostrils.
His own blood.
"Fuck, you're so damn tight," he heard the older guy growling from between gritted teeth. Nails dug deep into Sam's hips, holding him in place and drawing more blood. A rough hand gripped his hair, pushing his face down hard into the pillow. "Bet you've never been ass-raped before, huh? Might keep you around a little longer. Maybe your brother will have to wait a couple more days before we've finished with you."
The thrusts became rougher, harder, faster, and Sam screamed until his voice cracked, his broken sobs muffled by both the gag and the pillow.
As much as he wanted Dean to barge into the room at that moment, full on smash the door down, and race to his rescue like the hero he'd always been, Sam didn't think he could live with the shame and hurt of being discovered like this.
He wanted to die, to let go and never wake up again.
The tears dried on his face and his eyes stared off into the distance, mind beginning to separate itself from body, and from this hell.
The shifters took turns with him time and again, until blood saturated the bed sheets and dripped onto the floor.
Sam welcomed the blackness with open arms when it finally came for him.
Dean stood by the broken down stone jetty, waiting impatiently.
He'd been sent another email, two days after Sam's disappearance. Two days of tearing the damn town apart looking for him. He'd stalked the sewers under the streets with a silver loaded twelve bore and a silver short sword, face set in a fierce scowl and frightening the hell out of any vagrants or rats who were stupid enough to get in his way.
He checked out every roach infested motel he could find in the area, of which there were only four.
Dean lost count of how many times he'd returned to that bar, questioning patrons and staff, sometimes outright threatening. But while some remembered seeing the kid, drunk off his face and leaving with some blond chick holding him up, no one knew where he went.
Sam rarely got drunk and in any case, light weight though he was, it would have taken longer than half an hour before the kid began to feel the effects of a few whisky shots. He was built like a tree, for Christ sakes!
Bitch must've pumped him full of some serious shit to get him in that state.
But Dean was also fuming at himself.
If only he'd known. If only he hadn't gotten so damn drunk that night, he would have spotted that Sam's bed was empty under the mound of blankets.
If only he'd turned on the fucking light.
Dean's fingers drummed against his father's journal, narrowed eyes scanning the area, his nostrils flared in fury.
The message had been clear. Bring the journal to the lake, alone, unarmed and in full view, or Sammy buys it.
There were many lakes in the area. It was lake country. Hence the name of the brothers' motel: the Lake House Motel.
The dickheads hadn't mentioned which fucking lake, so Dean was forced to disobey instructions and reply to the email. His message had been short and to the point.
But the video that came attached to the responding email had Dean spitting fire and roaring with madness. The sight of his little brother's second brutal rape – gang rape - had been too much to bear.
Dean had never felt so incensed and helpless, but it was the blank look in the kid's eyes and dull expression on his face... that was something Dean would never, ever forget.
The bastards were gonna pay for this. Dearly.
Movement from the other side of the lake caught his attention.
A small motor boat calmly chugged its way across and moored up at the end of the stone jetty.
Dean watched as two of the biggest guys he'd ever seen dragged a bound, limp figure up from the bottom of the boat.
He knew exactly who it was, despite the blood stained hessian sack over his head.
Shit! Is he even alive? Dean felt a moment of blind panic that he might be too late to save his brother, followed by a fresh surge of rage when the captors dumped Sam painfully on his knees, dangerously close to the edge of the jetty, and none too gently ripped the sack from his head.
Dean barely held in a gasp. It looked like the poor kid had been beaten to a pulp, and then some.
"Jesus Christ!" Dean muttered under his breath.
No field surgery was gonna fix this.
Sam's eyes were badly bruised and almost swollen shut, arms bound behind his back, at the wrists and elbows by plastic ties that cut into his flesh.
His right arm made Dean's stomach churn just to look at, swollen to twice the size of the other, and covered in deep, black bruising. It was obviously broken.
As if that weren't enough, his legs were also bound together at the knees and ankles by more plastic ties.
Blood stained the thick, dirty white towel wrapped round his mouth as a gag, almost completely obscuring the lower half of his face. Given how his nostrils were virtually clogged up with dried blood, it was a miracle the kid could breathe properly.
Either these guys were spectacularly sick, or they had a one hell of a bondage kink. Dean was willing to bet on both.
He carried on with his visual inspection.
Sam's t-shirt and jeans were equally soaked in both fresh and dried blood. Had Sam been wearing black or blue jeans the night he was taken? Dean couldn't remember, and there was now no way of knowing.
Kid was a mess, exhausted, badly injured, and Dean suspected that the only reason Sam was able to sit upright on his knees was because of the shifter's hand tangled in his hair, holding him cruelly tight.
The shifter chuckled, sounding like a drain being cleared, and gave a vicious tug on Sam's hair, wrenching a soft, muffled moan of pain from the kid.
Dean scowled, angrily.
You're gonna pay for that, too, you bastard!
The two shifters stood behind Sam, grinning widely.
"Really? And how's that gonna happen?" said the one with tobacco stained teeth, gripping Sam's hair even tighter and this time shaking him like a dog with a chew toy. "I think you're the one doin' all the payin', 'specially if you want your baby brother back alive."
Dean tried to cover his shock. Every hunter worth their salt knew that shifters could acquire personal information from their victims to use against them once they took their skin, much like a mental download, but this was the first time they had exhibited actual mind reading capabilities.
Dean opened his mouth to issue a few threats of his own, but realised the futility of such a gesture when the shifter yanked on Sam's hair once again, pulled hard, and dragged his captive closer to the water.
Sam dangled precariously over the edge of the jetty, inches from death. The water appeared to surge a little, as though it was an alive and sentient being, excited by the smell of Sam's blood, the lake desperate to reach up and claim him for its own.
Sam let out a strangled noise that broke Dean's heart just a little more. He'd hoped the poor kid was barely aware of what was going on, but he was sadly mistaken.
Sam's bruised eyes swivelled in their sockets, the only part of him he was able to move, until they rested on Dean. The blue-green slits were dull, filled with pain and something else Dean couldn't quite discern at first, but as he held Sam's weary gaze for a long moment, he soon realised what it was.
Shame, resignation, death.
Sam had given up.
And, despite the momentary flash of anger and grief that thought procured, in all honesty, Dean couldn't blame him. Poor kid had been violated in every way imaginable; humiliated and tortured by these monsters in human guise, all over a damn, stupid book.
Leather and paper.
It wasn't worth Sam's life.
Sheer, white hot anger, coupled with a ton of regrets, pushed Dean to act.
He felt the weight of his dad's journal, hefted it in his hands, felt the weight of this life, dad's life, Sam's... all of it, all on his shoulders.
Enough was enough.
Maybe he couldn't save Sam in time. Poor kid was half dead already, but Dean could give him one last gift: proof, that some things were more important than vengeance, or the job, or even saving people.
Proof, that his big brother loved him above all else.
Hold on Sammy. Please hold on for me.
Tobacco laughed. "I know what you're thinking, kid. Forget it. I know you won't risk little Sammy's life."
Dean stared long and hard at the journal in his hands, then slowly raised his head.
"I won't say I'm not disappointed," he said, sounding almost sad. "Guess I stupidly expected a little more finesse from shit eaters like you. But then," Dean chuckled, shook his head, and the two shifters glanced at each other, suddenly looking nervous. "Your luck ran out the very moment you set your sights on my little brother."
"That so?" said Tobacco, no longer sounding so confident. "But you forget yourself, Dean." He sneered, suddenly. "We hold all the aces."
Dean now stared hard at him, face devoid of all expression, all emotions shut down.
"You forget, asshole," he told the shifters, calmly. "I also know what you're thinking. And you had no intention of letting either of us walk away from this."
Dean's muscles tensed under his jacket, getting ready, gearing up for what lay ahead.
"And that," he pulled his hand back.
"Pisses," he hoisted the journal into the air.
"Me," took great satisfaction at the looks of angry disbelief forming on their faces.
He grinned. Mind read this, you fuckers!
"OFF!" and launched John Winchester's journal into the lake.
As it sank into the depths, lost forever, bubbles chased each other up to the surface, gasping for freedom with tiny pops, only to lose themselves to the world above.
A fair exchange, some might say.
The shifters, unable to believe what just happened, were frozen in shock just long enough for Dean to pull out his Taurus and fire twice. Each silver round hit their mark, dead centre and, without giving them another thought, Dean took off at a run, tossing aside his weapon, and stripping out of his leather jacket, mind only intent on saving his brother from what was coming next.
Each shifter blinked in shock as they stared down at their chests. Blood pumped and sprayed for an instant, then slowed as their black hearts gave out. The hand wound in Sam's hair loosened its grip in the throes of death; the poor kid landed with a splash, face first in the lake, and sank almost immediately.
Just as Dean dived in after him, he saw both shifters fall backwards, their faces slack and eyes glazed over. That was all he needed to see.
He swam until his lungs were fit to burst, and then swam some more, eyes scanning the gloomy water for his brother, until finally he saw a floating shadow in the distance, surrounded by a growing cloud of red. The kid, unable to move let alone swim, must have drifted pretty quickly because he was now some way from the jetty.
Dean frowned. There was no movement, not even a struggle, no sign of life.
If he stopped now, if he kicked to the surface for a lung refill, Sam would die. The clock was ticking, and if Dean also died in this attempt, then all was well.
He and Sam would go together, and that was more than they could ever ask for in this life.
Some ten feet down, his vision began to darken, lungs no longer screaming for air; his body had passed through the pain barrier and re-emerged with renewed purpose. It gave his determination that last little boost, and soon his arms were wrapped round his little brother's waist, holding him close.
Dean kicked feebly, trying for the surface, but he knew it was probably too late for the both of them. Still kicking, just for the sake of it, he cupped one hand to the back of Sam's head, tugged and fumbled with the knots until he finally pulled away the gag. He gently stroked the kid's hair as it moved and swayed with the motion of the blood reddened water.
Staring at Sam through the murky gloom, and taking in his closed eyes and slack mouth, Dean nodded. His lungs no longer burned, cooled by the water filling them, and it didn't hurt as much as he thought it would. Instead, a strange peace settled over him, and he took comfort in it. He drew Sam closer and buried his face in the kid's neck.
Sammy, I'm here. I'll always be here.
As he lost consciousness, still clinging to his little brother, a smile slowly formed on Dean's face.
A peaceful, reassuring smile, meant only for Sam.
TBC.
Oh dear! What have I done to the boys?
MWwwwahahahahaha!
Bitch, ain't I!
Leave me some love, and I'll set you free from the evil cliffie…
Love and hugs,
ST xxx