Born of Ill Intent.
Please read warnings from chapter one.
Well done to those who referred to the Tardis in their comments. You pre-empted Dean you little geniuses.
Note to a certain idiot 'guest' reviewer from the last chapter:
what I write might well be trash but you were obviously reading it,
so what does that say about YOU?
And four chapters in? Dear oh dear…
Me thinks you doth protest too much.
Now, enough time wastage on the little fandom trolls.
On with the 'trash'…
Chapter Five.
Dean huffed and scrubbed a hand down his face. "That still doesn't make any sense to me."
"In... o-other w-words," came a pained, breathy whisper from the bed. "The Cr-cranberry isn't a hotel. Not really."
If Patch was surprised that Sam had joined in with the conversation, he didn't show it. He just nodded, triumphantly. "Listen to your brother. He knows what he's talking about."
Dean swung around and stared between his now conscious brother and Patch.
"What? Don't tell me this place had a makeover at Walmart, then sprouted legs and walked all the way out here?"
Patch snorted, lightly. "In a manner of speaking. Just not Walmart. Not my kind of establishment. Too many weirdos frequent that place."
He sniffed and rubbed his hands together, absently. "It doesn't walk, so much as cease to exist for a while, and travels through time and the ethereal planes…"
"Thank you Dr Who," said Dean, vaguely, no longer really listening because something more important had just dawned on him.
His brother spoke.
"You're awake at last, huh?" he asked with a weak grin, because he really couldn't think of anything else to say.
Sam didn't answer, just stared up at him with a strange, blank expression that was beginning to weird Dean out.
"Sometimes, they used your face," Sam murmured, voice dull and emotionless.
"What?" Dean frowned in confusion at first. "Use my…"
It didn't take him long to figure out what his brother meant, and his face lost all colour. "Christ almighty..."
"Sometimes they used Dad's," Sam continued, oblivious to Dean's reaction. "That one really hurt, they made sure of it." He paused, seemingly lost in thought, then added: "The last time, it was the both of you. Together. Just about tore me in half. I wondered, then, if I was going to die."
He sounded so matter-of-fact, so detached, that Dean felt his heart slowly shattering to pieces.
"Jesus, Sammy..." Dean sank down onto the edge of the bed, head in hands, not sure he was ready to hear this but reluctant to let it go now he knew. His gut churned with hatred and anger, and his heart throbbed with remorse.
"I wanted to die," Sam whispered, half to himself. "Was ready to go. Deserved to."
It was all Dean could do to bite back his sobs but tears escaped and rolled down his face. He licked his lips, tasting the salt water, sniffed, and tentatively reached out to grasp his brother's uninjured arm, relieved when Sam didn't flinch back or pull away.
"No," he told him through gritted teeth. "You don't deserve to die. You don't deserve any of this! What those bastards did to you?" he shook his head and bit down on hard on his lower lip. "I had no choice but to kill them outright, but I'd have cheerfully ripped them apart limb from limb, if I'd had the chance. God knows, I might still. Dead or not."
Sam dropped his wary gaze to where Dean's hand rested against his arm.
"How can you say that after what they made you do?" He glanced up again, eyes no longer blank, but filled with despair and deep seated guilt.
Sam began to crumble before his brother's eyes.
"Dad's journal… I'm sorry, Dean," he said, voice trembling with grief. "So sorry. You shouldn't have had to do that, not because of me."
Dean stared at him. This whole scenario seemed so surreal and he was way out of his depth. On top of that, he was a little surprised that Sam would want to talk about this so soon after it happened, but then, that was Sam all over. Kid had always insisted on talking things out, like talking was some magic bullet therapy. After Dad died and Dean shut him out, heartbroken though he was himself, Sam never gave up, never turned away, kept doggedly by Dean's side, tried to work that magic bullet therapy, tried to make sure his big brother slept and ate properly, and watched his back.
In return, big brother had let Sam down, and the poor kid was blaming himself.
Sam needed to physically heal before they really got into the nitty gritty of his captivity, but he was carrying around way too much shame and guilt.
Something needed to be said.
"Sammy, I can't imagine what you went through," said Dean, hoarsely. "But what I do know is that two shifters violated you, beat the living shit out of you, tortured you just for the hell of it, and nearly drowned you. But you did nothing wrong, kid. I should have been there. I should have realised you weren't in the room when I got back that night, but I was too damn drunk to notice. Ok? This is on me." He gazed beseechingly at his little brother, and gave his arm a gentle squeeze. "As for Dad's journal? This may come as a surprise to you kiddo, but I'd have done the same to the Impala."
Sam's eyes widened. "huh?"
Dean nodded, gaze never leaving his. "I'd turn the world upside down if I had to, if it meant keeping you safe."
"But..." Sam blinked. "It was Dad's hunting journal."
Dean shrugged. "It's just a book, Sam. It's not you. Or Dad." He smiled a little. "It's not a human being, just the summary of a hunter's life. And we both have it memorised, virtually word for word. Pretty sad, if you think about it."
"Yeah," Sam answered, after a pause. "I guess so." Then he looked closely at his brother. "The shifters told me neither of us was going to make it out alive. That's why you threw it in the lake, right?"
Dean paused.
"Yep." He nodded, and then said conviction. "Yes I did. I brought it with me 'cos Dad's journal wasn't worth losing you over, but if we both had to die then better it went with us. It's a choice I'd make again in a heartbeat, Sammy, so don't ever blame yourself."
Sam looked down at his broken arm. "She drugged me," he said, quietly. "In the bar, I mean, while you were playing pool. Didn't see it coming, turned away for just a second and I was screwed."
Dean slowly moved his hand to the side of Sam's head, still worried about spooking him, and brushed away a few locks of hair.
"I know what you're thinking," he told his brother. "So you can stop that right there."
Sam's gaze shot to Dean's. "What?"
Dean smiled, knowingly and sadly. "You're thinking that Dad would be ashamed of you, but you're wrong. The bitch drugged me too, but it just didn't take like it did with you." He sighed. "Hell, Sammy, even John Winchester was known to get caught out by rookie mistakes, and he'd be the first to admit it if he were here."
"Yeah, sure," Sam replied, bitterly. "Bet he didn't get fucked by a shifter wearing his brother's face!"
"Sam..." Dean tried not to flinch.
"Or how about a shifter morphing into a wendigo, huh?" Sam continued on as if he hadn't even heard him, his own voice growing louder and shakier. "Was he ever tied to a bed, raped and beaten by a couple of monsters? Held down, unable to call for help, unable to f-fight b-back...?"
Dean watched in dismay as his brother broke down in desperate, painful sobs, and this time when he reached out for him, Sam tried to scramble away, nearly wrenching the IV from his arm.
"Sammy..."
"Don't!" Sam suddenly screamed out, arms flailing. "Please don't! Please... no..."
Patch appeared on the other side of the bed in an instant, and laid a gentle hand on the crown of Sam's head. The result was instant and incredible.
"And relax..." the Irishman whispered, softly.
Dean watched in amazement as Sam's panic subsided immediately, body going limp, eyes sliding from wide to half closed, as though he'd been drugged up to the gills again.
"Fuck me," said Dean, absently, when Sam blinked sleepily and smiled up at him.
"S-sorrrry..." he slurred, and blinked again.
Dean's own responding smile was a little shaky, but he was so relieved to see his brother calming down again.
"Nothing to be sorry for, Sammy," he said, softly.
Patch gently ran his hand around Sam's head, whispering something under his breath, then settled it back on top again.
"You're safe now, Sam," he told the youngster. "You can sleep some more if you want to."
"'Kay," Sam whispered and closed his eyes.
Patch watched him in silence for a few minutes, one hand on Sam's head, the other holding his uninjured wrist, checking his pulse. Sensing the older brother's barely controlled patience, Patch finally moved away from the bed and motioned for Dean to join him.
"He'll rest for a few hours," he told Dean, and guided him towards the front entrance. "But in the meantime, let's get some fresh air."
Dean stared at the Irishman, then planted his feet and refused to budge. Patch seemed different all of a sudden, a little edgy, perhaps, as though something had changed in the last few minutes.
It made Dean feel uneasy. He folded his arms, and narrowed his eyes.
"What's wrong?"
"Dean..."
"C'mon, Patch," Dean wouldn't let him try placation. "I might not have known you too long, but I can tell you're hiding something. Now spill!"
Patch turned and studied Dean's face with a soft smile. "Can't hide anything from you, eh? You're just like your Da in that respect." He opened the door and slipped through, with Dean reluctantly following after him. "Very well, young Dean. But let's get Bobby; I suspect he's already figured it out but he needs to hear this too, and it saves me having to say it twice."
"Say what twice?" Bobby appeared on the veranda, covered in dirt and sweat, and leaned his axe against the cabin's outer wall. His eyes flickered between Dean and Patch, and he raised an eyebrow at them. "Someone want to tell me what's going on here?"
Patch sighed and sat down on the swing. "To put it bluntly, Sam is still very much in mortal danger," he said, then glanced up at the other two men. "Just not in a way you'd expect."
Dean and Bobby glanced at each other.
"Okaaay," Dean murmured and shifted his stance a little. "You wanna clarify just what this 'way' is? Or do I have to guess?"
Patch shook his head. "I doubt you could guess this one, boyo, believe me," rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, looking uncharacteristically worried, Patch winced and came out with it. "Sam's... uh... in a gestational state right now."
Dean looked at him blankly, while Bobby blew out a long, slow breath.
Patch glanced from one to the other. "You see what I'm saying? He's up the duff... knocked up... in a sense, he's pregnant." He stared at Dean, gauging his reaction.
"Shit," Bobby muttered aloud, hand over his mouth.
Then, to Dean's horror, Patch announced: "And if the shifter was wearing your skin when it happened, that makes you more or less the father."
And if the circumstances hadn't been so serious then the look of slowly dawning horror on Dean's face might well have been hilarious.
As it was, Patch and Bobby had to settle for catching him before he hit the deck in a dead faint.
TBC.
So, anybody reeling from this?
Feeling a bit sick?
'Cos I bloody well was when I thought it up!
My word, I have a sick and twisted mind.
Haha!
So what next? How will they tell Sam, and how will he react?
Wanna know?
Really, really wanna know?
Go on then. Click that button…
Cheers guys!
And to the other guest reviewers, who went out of their way to NOT be a smug tosser:
*passes over fresh homemade bread and stew*
Love and hugs,
ST xxx