Sam's mother looks down at the broken angel in her hands. Sam and Castiel have righted the tree, but some damage is irreparable. Jo collects the other ornaments from the floor and redecorates the boughs while their father, who knocked it down in the first place, stumbles toward and slumps into his chair.
"Shall we…" Sam's mother clears her throat. "How about we open presents now?"
She's hardly looked at him, while his sister hasn't stopped glaring. His father's hand falls limp from the armrest, but the bottle of Johnnie Walker remains safely tucked between his legs. Castiel raises his eyebrows but makes no commentary, which is its own Christmas miracle.
This is not how Sam remembers Christmas at home. Whatever happened to the living Nativities, The Nutcracker, the roasting chestnuts? Sam's father used to wear an authentic Santa suit, which is only slightly awkward to think about considering some of the acts Sam has performed as Santa himself.
Sam and Castiel's Christmas celebrations generally consisted of Sam receiving a costume as foreplay. The first year it was Santa and the Naughty Kid, a scene in which, instead of coal, the iconic imp gets ploughed by Father Christmas. The following year, Cas wanted them to play Mr. and Mrs. Claus. Then, they were Rudolf and an elf. Charlie Brown and Linus was actually surprisingly hot.
For the past six years, Christmas without his family had damn near reduced Sam to tears. Now, he's asking himself whether any of those idyllic memories had any basis in reality.
"JoAnna." Sam's mother hands the incessantly moping teenager a small, rectangular box.
She holds out an immaculately wrapped box in purple paper and says, "Castiel."
Cas covers his heart with his hand and glances at Sam, who knows it's been decades since Cas has seen his mother. He shakes the gift next to his ear with a small smile that wasn't wrecked by the cut, after all. What's left of his brilliant grin is a shadow of its former sparkle. Sam does not miss the worst of Castiel, but the best of him is sedated, too.
Sam's mom frowns at the scar on Cas' cheek and asks, "What happened here?"
"Oh. Just… an accident."
She nods and passes an envelope to Castiel, who reads Sam's name and passes it to him.
"Are you ever going to talk to me again, mom?"
His mother rolls her eyes and picks up the next present. How much easier it would have been to just make a roast and stay at home? He could have been miserable in the comfort of his own place.
Ticket to Orlando. No surprise.
"Ruby looks amazing."
"She always did."
"She asks about you."
Castiel runs a hand down his new black leather vest, watching Sam and his mother like a tennis match. The buttons won't close around his expanding belly. It's another side effect of his medication that Sam doesn't mind, and Castiel can't stand.
"Lulu loves the dollhouse. Have you seen the pictures?"
Sam has a drink of his water. Ruby had sent a full series of videos of the little girl opening the presents she'd received from him.
"And she can't wait to meet you."
"I talk to Ruby, too, mom. I'm going to go, just… I need some time."
Castiel hands Sam the present they brought for Jo. He deliberated over this for weeks and spent three times as much money on it as anyone else's gift. Without reaching out to accept, she takes one look at it, stands up and stalks out of the room.
Speechless, Sam huffs out a breathy, humorless laugh and listens to her footsteps recede up the stairs and down the hall until her bedroom door slams.
Sam's father stirs. His mother rescues the bottle of whiskey and lifts her husband's hand from where it dangles to rest it on his lap. "She's been…like this for a while now."
She wipes her husband's sweaty brow and plants a kiss there.
"And Dad?"
"Hasn't drunk this way in a long time. I think he was looking forward to …"
'Having a son again.' Sam doesn't have to say it.
They both already know, although she doesn't know the half.
Did his father drink himself unconscious when Sam quit the game? What would his mother do if she learned the truth about Dean? What if the old man sent him away with Jody to keep her from finding out? Sam's mouth floods sour with bile when he so much as looks at the man.
"One thing is sure; Dean Smith has left a mark on all of us, hasn't he?" His mother holds up a wrapped gift with Dean's name on it.
Sam refuses to look at that, too.
After Dean had deleted his Facebook profile, Castiel sat beside Sam on the sofa and rested a cold hand on his arm. "Please, do not rip yourself to shreds over this little breeder."
Sam's bleary eyes snapped up into Castiel's sober sky-blue gaze.
"There are three possible scenarios here, Sammy. Okay? The most obvious is that he was looking for someone to take care of him. You know he had that half-starved orphan thing going? The second and equally likely is that with all his daddy issues, he just needed a good fuck to make up for lost hugs. Then, there's the fact that some straight boys like to experiment, in which case, lucky you and now, let it go. Take your pick and move on, Sam. Otherwise, you're just a creepy old guy chasing some minor and that's a new level of pathetic, even for you."
It was cruel, but the more Sam thought of it, the more accurate it felt. All of it. Every word. Why choose an explanation when it all made sense?
Since then, Sam hasn't spoken his name out loud. He deleted Charlie's pics from his computer. He has allowed Castiel back into his bed, just for the comfort of having someone near. Thanks to Cas' medication, sex never even came up. Sam takes care of himself when he needs to - usually in the shower, always thinking of Dean, sometimes in tears. He tortures himself with Pablo Neruda and Elgar's Salut d'Amour, still patiently waiting for the yearning to pass.
It'll pass. Everything does.
Sam asks, only because he can't stop himself. "Have you heard from him?"
She shakes her head and places a hand on Sam's arm. "But I'm sure wherever he is, he's doing just fine."
Even before Dean's eyes open, he winces at the sharp ache in the back of his skull. There's nothing in the room that helps him identify which no star motel he's in, but the filthy curtains, dusty furniture and tiny TV give it away.
He tries to move his arm with the intention of checking the pounding wound on his head. A metal cuff rattles against the corner of the bed. The sound echoes from all four ends where Dean's wrists and ankles have been shackled so that he's spread out like a naked starfish.
"The fuck." The rattling only becomes louder as he uselessly strains every muscle in his body to get free.
That desperate clank of metal on metal merges with the crunch of plastic. The entire bed beneath him is covered with a waterproof sheet.
"What the fuck?" Grunting, he fights against the noisy chains until he's winded. Then he gives them another firm tug until the metal to bites into his skin.
Plan A was a stupid, shock induced reaction.
Plan B. These motel walls are paper thin.
"Anybody hear me? Hello? HELP! HELP!"
The bathroom door opens. Dean shuts up and freezes. His heart kicks up and tries to escape through his mouth.
"Quiet, pumpkin. The neighbors are sleeping."
Even with the douchey, asymmetrical leather jacket suit and impeccably slicked back coal-black hair, he hadn't expected the British accent. The man Dean has been running from his entire life shakes his square head with a smug smile.
"Hello, Dean. Jones, is it, these days?" He grins like Hannibal Lector and waves carelessly at the air. "You do realize I'm joking, of course. There are no neighbors. I've bought up this whole row of rooms. Special rates, what with the holidays and all. You may shout all you like. I rather enjoy it."
It takes every ounce of willpower in his possession, but Dean manages deep breaths as he searches the man's eyes, his nose, his mouth, his build - for traces of himself. The body type might be the same, but it would be difficult to say until a few years from now, when Dean stops growing and starts filling out.
"Like what you see?" The man unzips his jacket, drapes it over the back of a chair. "You are quite the little Romeo, aren't you? Even at a time like this." He opens and rolls up the cuffs of his sleeves. "Sadly, I'm not authorized for recreation. Pity. Though, I could call in for clearance, if you'd really like."
The man traces his pointer finger over Dean's birthmark, the one he shares in common with his mother. "Adorable, really. That she thought this would work."
"Don't you fucking touch me." Dean's head thrashes uselessly, being the only part of him he can properly move.
His captor reaches into one of those 19th-century doctor's bags and pulls out a large, black, velvet-covered cylinder. "There are, of course, many ways to entertain ourselves."
Laying the bundle on the table beside the bed, the man unties the black ribbon and slowly unfurls the package, revealing a neat row of shiny silver tools. Dean recognizes the bone saw from some bad horror movie, but most of them are of a sort he's never seen before.
He struggles against the cuffs yet again.
"I know. Exciting, right? But, I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to remain patient until our guest of honor arrives." The man pats Dean's thigh and walks to the foot of the bed where he casually sits in a chair there, crossing one leg over the other.
He checks his watch. "It won't be long. Unless she's run, which would be monumentally stupid, but of course, she's done it before, hasn't she?"
The man shrugs and lowers his head, as if in prayer. Dean has to crane his neck up to see the thick book in his lap. As he does so, he narrows his eyes at the network of black lines drawn all over his own skin. "What the fuck? What is this?"
The man goes on reading as if Dean weren't even there.
"Hey. Fuckface. I'm talking to you. What the hell …."
That isn't any more effective than rattling the chains, shouting, cursing, or spitting. Apparently, the man's book is more interesting than Dean's rage.
After a few minutes, he manages to calm himself - at least on the outside. Fucking Plan C. The straight black lines that seem to divide his body into sections. "Why?"
The man looks up. "Pardon."
"Why? Why are you doing this?"
"Orders." He goes back to his book, but only for a moment before he his grey-green eyes return to Dean.
"Are you my father?"
His smile gives way to a chuckle that grows into full-scale laughter. "Forgive me. She really has done a number on you, hasn't she? Poor lad." He sighs, as if the topic already bores him. "You may call me Catch."
"Catch?"
The man spells it, slowly, as if he's speaking to a toddler. He hasn't answered Dean's question, though. Just spewed a bunch of cryptic shit.
Ketch stands, rolls his neck to stretch and crosses back to the table. There, he peels carefully off an expensive looking watch and pulls on a pair of OJ Simpson-looking leather gloves.
"You're bored, aren't you? I understand. Young, and it can be so hard to wait." Ketch picks up a scalpel and twirls it in his hand. "It's all right. We'll pass the time together."
"I am going to kill you. Just so you know." The words come out sounding 20 times more confident than Dean feels.
"Shh. Don't strain yourself." Ketch's lowers the blade to Dean's chest. "You'll want to remain very still."
Out of pure reflex, Dean sucks in his gut and holds his breath as the cold silver presses to his navel. It trails in a perfectly straight line to his dick, leaving a faint pink line over unbroken skin.
In spite of his best efforts to stay cool, Dean's chest heaves in and out. His face stings as he fights back tears.
"You're doing very well. Now, don't move." Ketch scrapes all the way to the tip, painting slow stripe after stripe until Dean begins to get hard. "Isn't that lovely?"
A tear slips from the corner of Dean's eye. "Kill you."
Ketch's lips part and he licks the curling corner of his mouth. "You know, I could make that request," he says breathily. "Would you like that?"
"Fuck off."
"Yes. I agree. I'll just place a call then." Ketch moves to the bedside table, picks up the phone and asks for fresh towels.
"Remember, keep still. We wouldn't want any accidents." He traces the blade over Dean's lower lip, then the top, leaving a trail of cold heat in its wake.
Ketch's tongue parts his mouth, brow wrinkled in slope of his jaw is familiar, like maybe Dean's seen it in the mirror.
"Housekeeping."
Dean jumps at the knock on the door and the blade slips, only slightly.
Ketch tuts. "Apologies." He leans forward and gently sucks the bead of blood from the corner of Dean's mouth.
He crosses the room and opens the door for the maid who enters with a bundle of towels folded in her arm.
"Perfect. Thank you."
The woman's eyes pop open when she sees Dean. Ketch smiles. "Gorgeous. I know."
"Help me." As Dean mouths the words, Ketch holds some sort of silver bowl below her chin and slits her throat with the same blade he's been using all along.
Dean gasps, stomach churning sour as the maid bleeds out. Her body crumples to the floor. Ketch speaks directly to the bowl of blood.
"Yes, sir. Everything's perfect, sir… No, of course not. No trouble at all… He's rather a dear... Still waiting… If I may, sir. I just wanted to request additional permission… Yes, sir. Very much, sir…. That is an excellent idea, sir. Gladly. Thank you again, sir." He flashes a toothy, reptilian smile and begins to loosen his belt. "Fantastic news, pumpkin. I'm allowed to fuck you now, as well as when she arrives-for her benefit of course. I'd say fortuitous for us all."
Dean scrambles uselessly, causing no more disruption than the clanking of his cuffs and the furious rustling of the plastic beneath his body. It's stuck to the sweat on his back, but otherwise, there's no change in his predicament other than his heart trying to slam its way out of his chest. "Listen…"
A knock at the door interrupts whatever he was going to say to try and buy some time. Ketch's grin never falters. "Ah. Suppose that means it's show time. You don't mind an audience, do you?"
The moment Ketch begins to open the door, before he can even see who is there, Dean yells, "RUN! Get out of here! This guy is fucking crazy!"
Ketch steps out of the way to make space for Jody to enter.
"NO! No no no! You leave her alone." He fights so hard against the shackles that his wrists and ankles begin to bleed. "I swear to God, you touch her, I will fucking end you!"
Ketch chuckles over his shoulder. "So feisty." He spreads his arms and folds Jody to his chest in a warm, familiar embrace. "Princess Josephine." He takes her shoulders in his hands and bends down to look directly into her face. "Wonderful to see you."
Dean's mother looks over at him, lips pursed, head tilted, eyebrows gathered in what could be contemplation, disgust or something else entirely. She breathes deeply before she asks Ketch, "How'd you find him?"
She's speaking with a British accent, too, and Dean's head is about to explode.
Ketch's shoulders shake with laughter as he pats her cheek. "You were always so precious. Do you think there was a single moment when your father didn't know precisely where you had him?"
Her eyes narrow and Dean recognizes the anger on her face and in her voice. "Then why… why did you not just bring us back the moment I ran?"
Ketch shrugs. "Entertainment? No one's ever had the audacity to steal from your father before. You intrigued him. And I must say, your shenanigans have been very interesting to watch these sixteen some odd years. Far better than prime time television. And every now and again, he'd have me say 'Boo,' just to keep it funny."
Jody sinks into a chair, staring at the floor.
"Oh, don't be sad, princess. He's not even really angry with you. Chalks it all up to a tantrum. All he wants is for me to break your dolly and bring you home." He leans forward to whisper loudly, "I'm allowed to fuck it." He rubs his hands together and licks his lips. "Then I get to play."
"Don't." Her eyes snap up to him. "If you have to… finish him, Arthur, for God's sake, do it quickly."
Dean's heart hasn't truly let up pounding in his ears since he came to. Now, though, it comes to a stand-still and ice spreads over his flesh as his mother pronounces his death sentence to this freak.
Ketch shudders visibly when she swears. "Ugh. You have been up here too long. The filth you speak. But no, dear. I've got orders."
He removes his gloves, places them and his belt on the table with all his Dark Side Dentist equipment. Finally, when his back is turned to her, Jody meets Dean's eyes. She brings a finger to her lips and nods.
"None of this is his fault, Arthur."
"Nor is it mine." Ketch begins to unbutton his shirt. "You know he can't just let you get away with this without some consequence. You have to admit, watching this one suffer seems fair." He pulls off the shirt and drapes it carefully over his jacket. "I suggested a meat market, since he's so delectable, and your father took me quite literally."
Laughing, he taps on a piece of paper out of Dean's line of sight. Jody takes one look at it, shuts her eyes and shakes her head before she lowers it.
Ketch clears his throat to get her attention. "You're meant to watch. All of it. Now, what position do you favor? I'm rather partial to canine coupling." As he steps out of his boxers, his face contorts in pain.
He shudders and turns his eyes to Jody. She's muttering like a mad woman. It's probably not even a real language she's murmuring, but it's sure making Ketch uncomfortable. Her, too. They both shake and grimace like they're in agony.
Ketch smacks her hard with the back of his hand and her shouting stops. "You fool."
"Don't you touch her!" Dean tenses against his shackles.
Neither of them seems concerned with him.
"Behave." Ketch stretches a length of black tape over her mouth. "I don't want to have to explain to your father why I had to hurt you. You know he doesn't look kindly on that sort of thing. We're meant to save the violence for them, but I will claim self-defense and he'll understand."
He nods at something on the table. Jody's eyes follow his and she nods, a tear slipping over the tape.
"Now… " Ketch begins to stroke himself and returns his attention to Dean. He moves to the end of the bed, and his greedy eyes travel the length of Dean's body. "Relax and enjoy yourself, Josephine. You've done a lovely job. Look at this as the culmination of your work. I understand some girls find a bit of boy on boy action rather alluring."
Ketch removes one of the cuffs from Dean's ankles. The firm kick to the jaw only knocks his grin back into place. He spits a glob of blood onto Dean's crotch. "You don't need to behave, pumpkin. In fact, it's a lot more fun if you don't."
There's a flicker of motion in the corner of Dean's eye. Everything happens so swiftly he can hardly make sense of it.
Jody snatches some sort of strange triangular prism blade from Ketch's tools and jabs it up into the soft spot below his jaw. A lightning storm goes off under his skin, crackling, flashing bright. Then a thin plume of black smoke slips through his lips and flies up through the air vent. Dean thinks of that thing from Lost and immediately vows to watch less television. Ketch falls forward onto his legs. With his one free foot, Dean kicks what's left of the bastard to the floor.
Jody rips the tape from her mouth; unshackles all but one of Dean's hands. She watches with a sad look on her face as he unlocks the final cuff himself. "What the hell was that?"
"I don't have time to explain," she says, sounding like a proper American again. "I'm sorry for everything. If I can fix it, I will."
"What the fuck, Jody?"
He's examining his mangled wrists when another crack of lightning makes him look up in time to see his mother fall to her knees. The hilt of the blade juts out of her chest. Her skin sizzles and fizzes the same as Ketch's had done. For a moment, her expression is sorrow and regret. Then her mouth opens wide and black smoke flies from her mouth, following the same path out of the building.
Dean kneels beside her body. His hand hovers over her for a long time before he lowers it to her face and wipes back the hair hiding her open eyes.
'Mom?' He breathes the word, unable to find his voice.
She's gone. He knows without needing to touch her. And she's raised him well enough to not stay at a crime scene, even if it's not his crime.
There could even be more of whatever Ketch was. Whatever his mother (Josephine?) was. Whatever that makes Dean.
He uses the bed to help him stand. His clothes are nowhere to be found. That piece of paper on the table shows a diagram for butchering a pig. Dean chokes back the vomit that fills his throat. Then he lets it out, all over Ketch's tools.
He stumbles across the room, picks up the phone in his trembling hand and dials the only number he's ever learned by heart.
