For Your Own Good
Summary: "Don't worry, Dean. I'll be a good little soldier and do everything Dad says. Promise." Sam doesn't know how right he is.
Sam is sixteen. Dean is twenty.
Chapter Three
John tells Sam to stand up.
Sam stands up.
John tells him to help clean up the altar and Sam helps to clean up the altar. Sam tells John that he can't do this and John tells Sam that it's already done. He tells Sam to go get in the truck.
Sam sits in the passenger seat, simmering. The fear he felt when the creature burst from the sigil has boiled into rage. Of course saying sorry wouldn't cut it.. He feels stupid for even thinking that that would be enough for his father. John doesn't want an apology.
John wants obedience.
John returns all the items – the brass bowl, the candle stubs, the flashlights and EMF meter – to the trunk and climbs into the drivers seat. He checks the time on his watch and, instead of starting the engine, sits behind the wheel and lays down the rules.
"You won't tell Dean about this. You won't tell anyone. No speaking about it, no writing it down, no charades. When Dean asks about this hunt, you'll act normally. You'll tell him that we found a grave out back and salted and burned the body. You'll tell him that everything went smoothly." There's a pause, then John adds, "You'll say 'yes, sir' when I'm talking to you."
Sam tries to press his lips together but the words spring free, oddly toneless. "Yes, sir."
John nods, satisfied. "I know you're probably angry-"
Sam is grimly thrilled to learn that he can still bark out a derisive laugh.
A tic twitches in John's cheek. He sets his jaw and ploughs on. "I know you're angry but you'll soon learn that this is for the best. I'm not unreasonable-"
Sam scoffs, incredulous, and opens his mouth to spit out something sardonic.
"Sam, be quiet."
Sam's mouth snaps shut. His lips press together and refuse to part. Choking on a mouthful of words that suddenly have no where to go, Sam slams his hands on the dash, enraged.
"Stop acting like a child," John says firmly. He stares resolutely out of the windscreen, curling his hands tightly around the wheel even though they aren't moving.
Sam fumes. John sits. Both of them silent. It must be childish to squirm because Sam finds that he can't move, again. He can only sit still and wait, with mounting frustration, as minutes tick past. Eventually, John drives.
Instead of heading back to the motel, John swings by an all-night drive-through. Sam wonders how he can eat right now, after what he's just done, but John doesn't seem to be bothered. He orders them both large combo meals, in spite of Sam's silence when asked what he wants, and stops the truck again a few streets away. Sam isn't sure why until John checks his watch again. Of course. He's stretching out their absence. It can take hours to dig a grave and burn a body. If they return too fast Dean will know that the story is off.
John tears into his burger. Sam leaves the sack of food John passes him untouched in his lap.
"You should eat," John says, nodding at it.
"I don't want it." A suggestion is apparently not enough to trigger the spell because Sam feels no urge to comply.
"You don't eat enough," John says, like now he wants to play the concerned parent, worried about Sam's well-being. As if he didn't just trick Sam into accompanying him to a shabby old shack in the middle of no where and put a curse on him.
"I'm not hungry."
"Why does everything have to be a battle with you?" John shakes his head. He rubs a hand over his eyes, as if Sam not wanting to eat greasy fast food right now is unreasonable. "Just eat the damn food, Sam."
"Yes, sir. " Robotically, Sam's hands move to open the bag. He unwraps the burger – an unappetizing slab of mince with a wilt of lettuce and a bun soggy with sauce – and takes a bite, even as his stomach turns.
John goes back to his own burger, finishing it off in another two bites. Sam eats his slowly but he can't stop himself from eating it, no matter how hard he tries. He picks out the fries one by one, chewing and swallowing, until the bag is empty and Sam is full. Uncomfortably so. He thinks about trying to throw up – that'd teach John – but whether it goes against the order to eat or the order not to be childish, he can't get his body to listen to him.
Finally, John checks his watch and must decide that enough time has passed. He starts the engine once more but before he drives, he turns to Sam.
"I'm not unreasonable," John insists. "This isn't even mind control. Your thoughts are still your own. You're probably thinking some pretty ugly things about me right now. That's okay. When you're older you'll understand that I did this to keep you safe."
"Yes, sir." Sam grits his teeth, appalled by his own verbal compliance. The meal rolls over in his stomach but stays put.
"I need you to start taking your training seriously," John instructs him. "No more back-chat. No complaints. When it's time to move, you pack your things and we go. Trust me when I say that I know best."
"Yes, sir."
John is right. It isn't mind control. He can make Sam say the words but he can't force Sam to actually trust him.
John doesn't speak again until the truck has grumbled to a halt outside their motel. The neon vacancy sign flickers overhead. John grips the steering wheel, head bowed, and sucks in a breath.
"I'm sorry I had to do this, Sam," he says.
He can't force Sam to believe him.
XXX
"Hey, Sleeping Beauty, you get lost last night?"
Sam peels apart gummy eyelids and blinks up at the fuzzy shape hovering above his face until he blinks it into focus.
Dean's face. It's a lot closer than usual.
His brother is lying beside him on the bed, propped up on an elbow and looking down at Sam with a puzzled look in his eyes. Dean's lip twitches upwards in amusement but confused concern stops him from forming a grin.
"Huh?" Sam asks eloquently.
Dean raises an eyebrow. "You're in my bed, doofus."
Sam looks around the room, confused and only half-conscious. To the right, his own bed sits, neatly made and untouched. The foggy grasp of sleep is still clutching at him. His thoughts are slow and there's a heavy feeling in his chest, pressing him flat against the mattress. He feels sort of like he's waking up from a long illness. His bones weigh more than they should and his skin seems bruise-soft and sensitive. Frowning, he looks back up at Dean.
What happened last night?
Memory returns with all the subtlety of a truck crashing through a wall. The glowing circle on the floor of an old house. John standing at an altar, his eyes lit up by flame. Chanting. Conjuring a serpent of smoke and chains.
Sam gasps, jack-knifing upright. Dean jerks back with a yelp, almost falling off of the bed, and scrambles to sit up, grabbing Sam's heaving shoulders.
"What the fuck, Sam? Are you okay?" His hands skate down Sam's arms, over his chest, searching for injuries in a move that's so familiar and comforting that it makes Sam want to collapse against his brother and cry.
Sam is so not okay.
He remembers floating back into the motel room last night, feeling as though he was sleepwalking. Shell-shocked and exhausted and nauseated from being force-fed fast food. John had told him to go to bed but he hadn't specified which bed so, in a fit of defiance and desperation, Sam had elected to lie down beside his brother, who was asleep on top of the covers, still fully dressed. He must have succumbed to fatigue while awaiting Sam and John's return.
The two of them never shared a bed unless they had to these days. It would be a sign to Dean that something was wrong. Sam had wanted to wake him but John had warned him as they crossed the parking lot to be careful not to disturb his brother so instead, Sam had laid there, still and silent, staring at the ceiling, until sleep had finally claimed him.
"I'm okay," Sam says, his mouth moving without his permission.
"What happened?" Dean demands, staring at him. "Is Dad okay? Did the hunt go bad?"
Yes, Sam thinks furiously but what he hears himself say is, "No, everything went smoothly."
"Went smoothly?" Dean makes a face. The wording sounds awkward to Sam, unnatural. Dean must hear it, too. He lets go of Sam's shoulders, leaning back to eye Sam critically "Did you and Dad get into another fight?"
"No." Words are building up behind Sam's teeth. He desperately wants to tell Dean everything. About the altar and the circle and the snake.
"Well, what the hell, then?" Dean huffs, starting to sound frustrated now. "What did happen?"
Sam opens his mouth. He needs to let Dean know about the witchcraft. Dean will know what to do, how to convince John to reverse what he's done. John listens to Dean, sometimes. Sam just needs to get the words out.
"Nothing," Sam says. He wants to scream. "We found a grave behind the house. We salted and burned the body."
"Okay..." Dean says slowly. He looks at Sam with narrowed eyes and furrowed brows. Confused and suspicious. Like he's not sure whether Sam is messing with him or if he's lost his mind. "So why the hell are you in my bed?"
"I..." Sam's explanation refuses to leave his tongue. He searches his brain for words that would alert Dean to his plight without disobeying John's orders but he can't find any.
"Are you sure you're alright?" Dean can't seem to decide whether he's supposed to be worried, amused or annoyed. "You sound weird."
"I'm fine." Sam feels like a ventriloquist's dummy. John's words tumble out of his mouth. "Everything went smoothly."
Dean definitely looks like he's questioning Sam's sanity now. He grins, a little awkwardly, like he thinks Sam must be pulling some sort of prank that he doesn't get. "Have you turned into a robot or something? What's wrong with you?"
The bitter taste of disappointment joins the words stuck to Sam's tongue. He can't say what he needs to say. He doesn't know how to make Dean understand.
Sam flops back on the bed.
"Nothing," his mouth says. "Nothing's wrong with me."
To Be Continued...