fic: the poison in the air
First fic written on the new 'puter, YAY.
This was written for whatjuliewrites, and it does cover a topic that I've really not done before: rape. So, beware for triggers.
OMGWTF: ALLUDES TO OFFSCREEN RAPE (it's vague, and maybe could be construed as general torture); unbeta'd; gen; post season 5
the poison in the air
The first time Dean says it, Sam jerks, imaginary hands clawing and pulling and creeping against his skin.
He chokes on the spit gathered in his throat; coughs loud and long until Dean's just staring at him. He doesn't say anything back, just turns away, pressed against the Impala's door.
He hears Dean sigh, and Sam shuts his eyes.
**
It hurts, is what he wants to say. Please, Dean, it hurts so bad.
Stop them. Make them stop.
Please.
There's heat and fear, a dark roiling along the edges of shadows clouding his eyes. Alive and intent, and Sam breathes through the sick feeling twisting inside of him.
He remembers Dean's upturned mouth, quirked at the corners, wrinkles around his eyes. Sun and his own stupid humor making his eyes squint.
"Bitch." So aware, so pleased, and Sam always smiled helplessly up (when he was younger) and down (when he was older) at Dean.
Everything. It was everything.
Then the whispers start. The clawing, the tearing. He can hear himself scream when something holds him down, holds him open.
He can't see. He can't see. But he can feel. He can hear. And the words are too warm, too violent, too familiar.
Please. Please. Please.
**
He's not stupid. He catches Dean's looks. He can read them like no time has passed; like hell, for both of them, is just a word, a figment. Unreal.
Like it's not burnt into their minds and into Sam's body with scar tissue and brands.
He knows Dean's quiet look. Shut down and pointed. Unafraid to look him in the eye. Saying, "fine. But you're the one doing this. It's not on me."
Sam shrugs. Dean asks him about cases and he shrugs. Dean asks about dinner, he shrugs.
Dean says, "Sam," and Sam looks away. Sam walks away. He escapes because he can, and because it's been years and a few deaths since Dean's bothered to chase after him.
**
The first time, and Sam flinches at the thought - first time, first time; it's too easy to think of not knowing, of thinking of redemption and doing the right thing. Being the good guy. The first time and all Sam can remember is a sinking feeling. Not fear, not then. Not anger, not rage (and maybe he's thankful, just a little bit, because for that time, however long he was in the Pit, he wasn't angry, didn't feel the fury bubbling away under his skin), only a weird swooping feeling.
They touched him, hands and clawed fingers. Maybe it happened and maybe it didn't - not in a way anyone on Earth could define real - but his back and thighs are scarred, twinge and ache when he moves.
**
Sam knows Dean's looks. He can see the anger.
He sees it switch, slowly and inevitably. The initial biting retort, third fourth fifth time Sam ignored him, snarled at him. Everything that said, "watch yourself," big brother and dad and pissed off partner.
He sees it slip away; another bitch-jerk moment that scoots on by and Sam's left shaking, gasping.
"Sam. Jesus, Sam." There's hands on him, high on his arms. Warm palm, blunt rough fingers. "Sam, I'm sorry. It's - sit down, okay? Here, here," and Dean's pushing him toward his bed, letting the back of his knees catch at it, send him collapsing down.
"Stop," he says, batting at Dean. "Stop." It's close enough to what he wants. Please stop. Make them stop.
When he can finally look up, toward the quiet shape standing in front of him, he can see it. The slow slide into a new anger, a look that says, "I'll kill them, all of them."
He breathes and breathes and breathes.