Fic: In the shadows, on the screen, SPN, gen, PG13
Title: In the shadows, on the screen
Fandom: SPN gen
Rating: PG13
A/N: For spn_reversebang. For the wonderful art made by the beautiful and talented jenilees which can be seen here. It's very evocative.
Warning: Violence and threatening scenes
Words: 5,000
Archive: Now also at AO3
***
Dean took careful aim with his crumpled up burrito wrapper, before throwing it at Sam’s head.
He shoots, he scores!
Sam scowled as he looked up from his homework, glaring at the wrapper which had just bounced off his head onto one of the many, many books laid out in front of him on the tiny table in their rental (which was, frankly, groaning under the weight of all that knowledge) and then at Dean.
“C’mon, Sammy,” Dean said, with a shit-eating grin, twirling the Impala’s keys in his hand. “Let’s go try out your fake ID.”
Sam was already shaking his head by the time Dean had got to his name, and, Jeez, that was depressing - the end of that sentence could have been anything let’s go to Hawaii with Claudia Schiffer and Sam was automatically turning it down to do homework. Sometimes Dean had no idea how he and Sam were related.
“No, Dean,” Sam said. “I want to get this essay finished.”
“It’s Saturday, Sam,” Dean said, sighing. “No school tomorrow.”
Sam shrugged, looking back down at his books and picking up his pen.
A Saturday evening and essays on, Dean glanced at the book, American History were still more appealing than beer with Dean.
“How about a run, then?” Dean suggested. “It’ll still be light for a few hours, and you gotta exercise the body as well as the brain.”
Sam paused, considering.
Running was the only exercise Sam engaged in willingly these days. He’d just reached Dean’s height (and was still growing, the bitch) and since then he’d gleefully discovered that he was faster than Dean.
Part of Dean therefore never wanted to run with Sam again, (the little bitch gloated for a month the first time he’d beaten Dean, and was still insufferably smug every time) but Sam was resisting every single other part of training, bitching and dragging his heels every time John ran weapons training, or sparring, until John either gave up, or forced Sam into it, meaning one or the other (or both) of them was in a foul mood for a few days.
So Dean encouraged Sam’s running, because if the slacker wouldn’t do so much weapons training so he could fight the evil that was out there, Dean had to sacrifice his older brother dignity to ensure Sam could at least run away from it.
“OK,” Sam said, slamming his book closed and stretching his arms above his head as he stood up. He was so skinny these days, all smooth skin and long bones - his growth spurt too drastic to allow any excess flesh - with the merest hint in his shoulders and wrists and long, long (annoyingly speedy) legs of the size he might achieve.
He still looked vulnerable to Dean, though, still so skinny and young.
It was worth a few bruises to his dignity to keep Sam safe.
***
It had been a gorgeous summer day, and the evening was still warm and bright. Sweat dripped into Dean’s eyes, and his t-shirt clung to him. Sam was running next to him, and their feet pounded the pavement in synch - their bodies, trained under the exacting school of John Winchester, always in harmony in a way they hadn’t been on the same page in any other way for quite a long time now.
Sam looked happy, and relaxed, glowing with health, and youth and, yeah, OK sweat basically. Dean took a shot.
“How about we take the crossbow out for some target practice tomorrow?”
John had set up a target in the open, neglected fields out the back of their rental, and Dean had promised that both he and Sam would practice while John was away on a black dog hunt with Caleb.
Sam’s expression immediately darkened.
“I’ve got schoolwork,” he said, shortly, pounding the pavement a little harder.
Dean eased up a gear to keep up with him. He was still a lot stronger and had a lot more stamina than Sam, and while Sam could easily outpace him on the shorter distances, if Dean ran him long enough he could maybe win a sprint at the end.
“C’mon, Sammy,” Dean wheedled, although, honestly, if he was trying to be persuasive he knew he should use Sam instead of Sammy, but he couldn’t really help it, “when you hit five bulls-eyes in a row, I’ll shout for pizza?”
Sam’s mouth twisted slightly.
“No thanks,” he said. “I’m not training unless Dad’s here to make me. I’m afraid the carrot doesn’t cut it - it’s gotta be the stick. Or, I guess, the hand.”
Dean’s stomach twisted slightly, remembering the last time John and Sam had really gone at it - fighting over Sam wanting soccer or drama club or some shit over bow-hunting - and after about an hour of yelling, John had hit him; an open-handed slap that had still sent Sam reeling to his knees, pressing his hand against his cheek.
It was the only time John had hit either of them.
Sam had glared up at John in silence, but with absolute triumph radiating from every pore, and Dean had never seen his Dad look so sick. Grey and worn and horrified, before he strode out the door.
He hadn’t come back until the early hours, and the next day he’d been off on a hunt with Caleb.
Dean really wanted Sam to have practiced before his Dad got back, so John didn’t feel he had to try and make Sam again so soon.
“I’d agree with you if it was an actual carrot, Sam,” Dean said, lightly, ignoring all the other things he could say, “but it’s deep dish pepperoni. That’s worth thirty minutes practice, isn’t it?”
Sam, on the other hand, apparently wasn’t in the mood for light.
“Why have you always got to be on his side?”
Dean sighed, “I’m not, Sam. But you know what’s out there - a good aim could save your life out hunting.”
“Not hunting would do that just as well, don’t you think?”
“Not really,” Dean shot back, “it didn’t work for the Johnsons last week, did it? Or the Carters back in Colorado last month?” Both families has been killed - the Johnson’s by an angry ghost in their new house, and the Carter’s by a werewolf. Both families had young kids. “They weren’t hunting, were they, and look what good it did them. Ignorance and avoidance is no protection like knowing what’s out there and being ready for it.”
“Fuck you, Dean,” Sam said, “that’s not fair. It’s a one in a million shot for something supernatural to come for you if you’re not looking for it - I’ve got more chance of being hit by a bus. If Dad really cared about us, he’d have us as far away from this shit as possible.”
“And what about the other families that would’ve been killed if we hadn’t got rid of that ghost or the werewolf? What about them?”
Sam shook his head again, “The whole world’s not our responsibility, Dean, and if you and Dad care more about them than us, then just let me take care of myself my way.”
And with that he sprinted away.
Dean yelled after him, but didn’t chase. There was no reasoning with Sam anyway, and he’d come back after he’d cooled off.
***
Or, maybe not.
Three hours later, still no Sam.
Sam was pretty stubborn, sure, but John wasn’t here to witness it, and Dean knew for a fact Sam had no money on him to buy any food, and Sam was currently pretty much gnawing his own arm off if he didn’t get to eat every two hours these days.
Also. He wasn’t answering his cell. Hadn’t been for the two hours Dean had been ringing it (what? He wasn’t worried, he just wanted to get some dinner, that’s all), and Dean was starting to think that Sammy maybe wasn’t coming home that night.
Dean rang Sam’s cell again, expecting not answer. But this time, he heard it ring. Outside the front door.
***
Dean ran over to the door and pulled it open. No Sam - but his cell ringing merrily, flashing Dean’s name and playing ‘Fade to Black’ on top of a box.
Dean grabbed it and pulled it open. Inside there was a video cassette tape.
Dean looked around for a long moment, searching the area, but the rental was a long way back from the road and their neighbors, and the lighting was poor. Dean couldn’t see anything, and the tape was practically burning his hand with his need to see what was on it.
Dean ran back into the house and over to the TV, and pushed the video into the old player. He wasn’t even sure it worked - it had come with the rental - but it did, and Dean held his breath as the image on the screen that came into focus was a dark corridor.
The picture was clearly being filmed on a hand-held camera, as it wobbled a bit as the person behind the lens walked down the corridor and came to a door. The picture took in a hand reaching down, using a key to unlock the door, and pushing is open.
It opened into a small room and, as the camera progressed in, Dean could see it was lit dimly, but there was easily enough light to see the crumpled figure on the bed.
Sam.
Dean sucked in a breath. Sam was lying on a bare mattress on a bed - his hands were handcuffed together above his head to the headboard.
Dean’s eyes couldn’t take in everything at once, processing the images in front of them almost in snap-shots.
Sam’s wrists were bruised and red raw beneath the metal of the handcuffs.
Sam was blindfolded, and there were dark patches on the dirty cloth that looked like tears.
Sam’s lips were chapped and dry, and a small trickle of blood had leaked down the side of his mouth, maybe he’d split his lip on his teeth or bitten his tongue when they’d given him the...
Bruise on his cheekbone, high and blossoming dark against pale skin...
His skin looked chalk white as Sam raised his head for a moment, before it lolled back heavily, showing he was drugged more clearly than any bottle of pills or syringe could...
But there was a syringe, Dean could see it, with a dried drop of his brother’s blood on the tip, lying on the dirty floor...
Dean gasped, sucking in a great gulp of air, and collapsed down on his hands and knees and retched helplessly on the floor.
He lost precious moments getting his body back under control, gasping and clutching his stomach, before wiping his mouth with his hand and looking back up again.
The camera was closer to Sam now, nothing in the image but Sam’s face. Sam’s lips were moving sluggishly, but there was no sound - something Dean hadn’t noticed before - and so he couldn’t make out what Sam was saying.
Dean felt like his heart would stop as a knife came into shot, held for a few long moments over Sam’s face in full view of the camera.
Dean couldn’t tell whether or not Sam knew it was there, he was blindfolded but the person holding that knife could be saying anything to him, telling him what he was going to do to him.
The knife moved to press up against Sam’s lower lip, open where he’d been speaking and Sam froze. It rubbed over his mouth, moving in and out almost obscenely, before scraping up his cheek - gently, not drawing blood... yet - to rest over his blindfolded eye.
Dean watched, captivated, breathless, until the picture flicked off to black.
Dean started forward, hand outstretched, as if he could somehow make the screen come back on, show him Sam again, where Sam was now, but, of course, it couldn’t, staying resolutely black. Dean picked up the box and looked inside, shaking it when it revealed nothing in addition to the video, which itself had no markings.
He threw it down. And then picked it up again - there was nothing else he could do, nothing else to go on - the video had to give him something.
He was just psyching himself up to watch the video again to look for anything that could help him when Sam’s phone rang again.
This time the phone flashed unknown number.
Dean dropped the box and grabbed the phone.
“Sammy?”
“No,” a voice said. It was a man’s voice, soft and deep. “Sammy can’t talk right now past the gun in his mouth.”
Dean’s blood ran cold, “What do you want?” He didn’t bother demanding they let Sam go, or asking who they were. They wouldn’t let him go, and they wouldn’t tell him, or they would, he just needed to know how to get Sam back.
The guy seemed just as keen as Dean to cut to the chase.
“The Orb of Ahriman.”
“The what?” Dean asked stupidly.
“I know your father has it. Deliver it to us and I’ll let your brother go.”
“I don’t know what that is!” Dean protested.
“You took it off as group of worshipers in Duluth two months ago.”
Dean frowned - they’d taken a jewel off of a group of self-styled devil worshipers in Duluth (seriously, devil worshipers? Who even believed in the devil these days, anyway? Like believing in angels) who had been using it to raise and control minor imp-like spirits, getting them to do almost nothing more sinister than steal from the local bank. If they’d had the imps use the door rather than simply spirit in-and-out, it would never have attracted John Winchester’s attention. Even then, if they hadn’t been in the area having just destroyed a ghost killing young children to avenge the death of his own son, they probably wouldn’t have bothered.
“That orange jewel,” he asked, vaguely remembering it. Dad had been only mildly interested in it, although he had said it could easily work with more powerful creatures if used right, but Dean had barely even looked at it. He had no idea what his father had done with it.
“That’s right, Dean, clever boy,” the guy sounded only slightly older than Dean, but Dean ignored the instinctive reaction to that sneering address.
“I don’t have it,” Dean said, urgently. “I don’t know what my dad did with it.”
“You’d better find it, Dean,” the guy said, seemingly unconcerned about this protest, “or things will start to go pretty badly for Sammy.” The guy sounded almost pleasant. “I’m not sure how much he’s enjoying our company as it is - and it can get a whole lot more... unpleasant.”
“I’ll get it,” Dean said, instantly, images flashing in his mind that he had no place for, no way of dealing with. “I’ll find it.”
“Good,” the man said, brusquely. “Come to meet me at midnight,” Christ, that was only three hours away, no time to get it if his dad had stashed it somewhere any distance away, “and wait outside the library.”
“I might not have it by then,” Dean said, helplessly, “I don’t know where it is yet.”
“That’s fine Dean,” the guy said, sounding almost reassuring, “you’ll just start getting Sam back in installments for every hour you miss, that’s all.”
He hung up.
***
ring ring... ring ring
The phone remained stubbornly unanswered, and Dean’s heart remained frantic in his chest.
Neither his Dad nor Caleb were picking up.
After the first time he’d tried and failed to get either of them (leaving them both a message to call him urgently, Sam’s in trouble, Dad, and Dean’s voice had broken on the words, recorded damningly on the voicemail, call me right away) he’d called Bobby and Pastor Jim, demanding to know if John’d left this crazy damn orb with them, or if they knew where he might keep something like that.
Neither had been helpful on either point, although Bobby had tried to put his mind at rest about the power of the orb “It probably can’t raise more than a few sprites, maybe a few demons,” he’d said casually. “It’d take a damn sight more than that to raise the devil, that’s for sure,” like Dean had even spared a thought for what they might do with it, if he managed to find it.
Dean was currently rifling through all of his dad’s personal belongings. They traveled light, and Dean was sickeningly sure this was going to be an entirely fruitless search, but he did it anyway, hands working quickly but methodically through his family’s meager possessions.
Dean had the Impala - his dad had gone in Caleb’s truck - and so it was possible that John had hidden the orb somewhere there with their weapons and IDs, but Dean knew the contents of that car like he knew the contents of his pockets, and there was no mystical jewel tucked away in the ashtray.
The clock showed 23:45 when he gave up his fruitless search and picked up the Impala’s keys.
***
He drove into the town and idled the car outside the small, local library - not sure whether to get out or not.
The street was almost deserted in a sleepy town, and Dean’s eyes almost skipped over the shadow waiting at the door.
He got out.
The guy nodded once and started to walk along the street. Dean followed him, thinking somewhat hysterically about how absolutely hilarious and yet not funny at all it would be if they guy he was following just thought he was picking up a hooker or something, but as he thought to ask, the guy looked back and Dean could see a .45 tucked in his waistband, and shut his mouth.
Dean had two guns in him - one in his waistband and one by his ankle - but he didn’t draw either of them. This guy didn’t have Sam with him, anyway, and Dean wasn’t going to do anything until he knew where Sam was.
The guy - he was a medium sized guy, non-descript in every way - turned off the main street after waking a few minutes, and then led the way into a house.
When Dean reached the door, the guy was in the doorway and now he had his gun out, motioning for Dean to come in and shut the door.
Once inside Dean spoke his first words.
“Where’s Sam?”
The guy grinned, smirking and gestured up the stairs for Dean to precede him.
Dean walked up the stairs, and as he reached the top he found himself in the hallway which was sickeningly familiar from the video. His eyes went automatically to the door he knew Sam had been behind in the video and he froze for a moment.
It wasn’t fear exactly, that stopped him, just the knowledge if... if what was behind that door wasn’t Sam, if Sam was... if Sam was dead then he needed that moment, he needed all the moments in eternity spun together, so he’d live in a moment where Sam was still alive forever...
But the guy was right behind him now, gun pressing against his spine, and Sam, well, Sam could be behind that door waiting for Dean, and Dean wouldn’t keep him waiting a moment longer.
The door wasn’t locked this time, it was ajar, and Dean could see another hand super-imposed over his as he pushed the door open and went inside.
His eyes tracked automatically to the dirty bed and mattress Sam had been on in the film, and found it empty.
There were stains on it, dark stains that could be anything (Sammy) and Dean couldn’t breathe for a moment until there was a movement in the corner and when Dean looked it was Sam, oh God, it was Sam, and no breath had ever been sweeter than the gulp of air in that small, stale room, smelling metallically of blood and fear.
Sam was swaying a bit, a bit wobbly, and Dean could see in that and in his eyes that the drug, whatever they’d given him, was still certainly in his system. He wasn’t wearing the blindfold anymore, though his hands were still handcuffed together in front of him.
There was a guy behind him, and the guy was holding a gun and Sam’s shoulder, holding Sam up as well as holding him back, almost. The guy was big - a good few inches taller than Sam who was clearing six foot now - well muscled and handsome, but the only feature he had which counted was the gun he held pressed to Sam’s temple.
“Dean,” Sam breathed.
Sam sounded wrecked, his voice nothing but a soft exhale.
“It’s OK, Sammy,” Dean said, and it might not be, but Sam would never, ever, hear that from Dean. “It’ll be OK.”
“Do you have the orb?” the guy holding Sam asked.
“No,” Dean replied, keeping eye contact with Sam.
The guy’s hand tightened on Sam’s shoulder and Sam gasped. Dean could tell from the way he was standing that his shoulder hurt, but it didn’t look too bad, probably only bruised. The guy also pressed the gun harder against Sam’s temple, causing Sam to flinch slightly away.
“You haven’t got it!” the guy who’d met Dean at the library exclaimed, and he moved in the room, pressing his gun against Dean’s side. “What do you mean, you haven’t got it?”
“I don’t know where it is, and I can’t speak to my father,” Dean replied. “I’ll get it, but I need to know where it is. It might not even be in the state.”
“Well,” the guy holding Sam said, and he dragged the gun down the side of Sam’s face, an obscene parody of a caress, “that’s very bad news all round. Especially for Sam.”
“No,” Dean said, stepping forward almost involuntarily. “Take me instead.”
The guy raised an eyebrow. “Instead? I’ve got you both.”
“No,” Dean said, “you need one of us to get the orb from Dad, and Sam can do that just as well as I can. Keep me as a hostage, and Sam can get you the orb.”
“I don’t think so,” the guy pressed his nose into Sam’s hair deliberately and breathed in. “I’ve got the youngest and easiest to handle, and I think we can have quite a lot of fun together while you’re finding that orb.”
The other guy laughed, and his gun dropped, and that was enough.
The man holding Sam cried out as Sam’s head jerked back and connected solidly with his nose, and Sam twisted in the second of reaction to the head butt and grabbed the hand with the gun with both of his handcuffed ones and pulled it away from his own head, and down to point at the floor.
Dean, who had been watching Sam - always watching Sam - and not laughing, reacted faster than the second guy and pulled the gun from his jeans.
It was one smooth movement - pull the gun, aim, fire - the way John had always taught him when faced with an evil monster, and later Dean would tell himself it was muscle memory that meant he didn’t even pause for a second, didn’t even think before pulling the trigger and shooting the guy square in the chest.
He swung the gun over to where Sam and the other guy were wrestling, and he didn’t pull the trigger that time, because Sam was in the way - holding on with all the stubbornness John Winchester knew only too well, frequently but not always, God, not always, to his annoyance - to a gun wielded by a man four inches taller and twice as heavy.
“Drop the gun,” he yelled instead, and Sam and the guy both froze. Even if he was able to wrest the gun from Sam, the guy clearly had no hope of pointing it at Dean before Dean had a chance to shoot him.
He let go and stepped back.
Sam - suddenly bereft of both the big guy’s support and his own adrenaline - sunk to the floor, but flicked the point of the gun up to train it on his recent attacker.
“Sam,” Dean choked out, letting all the fear and tension escape through his voice, as he still needed to keep his gun straight and firm. “Are you alright?”
Sam glanced at him and smiled - it was a smile of surprising sweetness, dimples and all - “I’m fine, Dean.”
And then his eyes rolled back in his head, and he slumped to the floor.
Fine. Right.
“What did you give him?” Dean yelled, as he swept down to where Sam was slumped on the floor, pushing his hair out of his eyes, and checking his pulse. It was in fact, fine, steady and strong.
“Rohypnol,” the guy said, shrugging - pretty impressively casual for a man at the business end of a gun, “he can just sleep it off.”
Dean breathed in, trying to keep calm, trying to think everything through, and resist the urge to just shoot this man in the head, grab Sam, and run.
“Are you working with anybody else? How did you find us?”
“Hunters talk,” the man said, shrugging, “and we’re working alone. That orb’s incredibly valuable.”
The guy paused for a moment, and then, mistaking Dean’s silence continued. “You know, there’s really not much more you could do with that thing than raise a few spirits, but anyone can use it. Suckers with a hard-on for black magic and too much time on their hands will pay big for it, and it doesn’t do any real harm.”
Dean glanced down to Sam - his pale face with the bruise coming up, the blood still visible from his lip, down his chin, although he’d clearly tried to wipe it off since the film - no real harm.
Dean pulled the trigger.
He man screamed, high and shrill, surprisingly so for such a big guy, and went down holding his knee where the bullet had done its work.
Dean didn’t know the man’s name ‘the guy’ was enough and so he smiled over at the guy, who was drawing in sobbing breaths over low, animal moans, and said, “You’ll be walking again in a few months. No real harm done.”
***
Dean had carried Sam back to the Impala over his shoulder, after assuring himself Sam had no injuries which would be worsened by doing so.
He didn’t want to leave Sam in that place another second, not even to bring the car round, and so he’d staggered slowly and carefully along the deserted street. Sam remained unconscious all that time, and the time it took Dean to maneuver Sam gently into the Impala.
Sam cracked an eye open as Dean started the Impala.
“D’n?”
“Yeah, Sammy?”
“S’alright?”
“It’s fine, Sam. We’re fine.”
***
Sam had slept all the way back to the rental, but when Dean had got him inside he seemed to perk up, starting to shake off the effects of the drug. He’d insisted on a shower before going to bed, and Dean had insisted on helping him.
Sam had grumbled, but complied, as Dean helped him out of his clothes. They were dirty from the bed and floor, but the worst of it was actually on his back - tacky and dark with blood from ‘the guy’s' nose. The blood was in Sam’s hair, too, and Sam had serious issues, apparently, with how gross that was.
The bruises were all Sam’s, though.
In addition to the one blooming nicely on his cheek, his shoulder was covered with bruises (not broken or dislocated, thankfully) where he’d hit furniture when they’d given him the bruise to his cheek, because he’d been handcuffed and not able to stop his fall.
The marks from the handcuffs were raw rings around his wrists.
The blood in his mouth had been a split lip, and that had already stopped bleeding.
There was a mark on the center of his chest, too, where they’d used a tazer to knock him out after they’d got him to stop for them by asking for directions.
Stupid, straight-A students. Oldest trick in the book.
Dean was about to let him get in the shower when he noticed finger shaped bruises, faint but clear, on Sam’s jaw, like someone had held his chin still.
Dean reached out with careful fingers and traced the delicate jaw line.
“Sammy, did they...” Dean struggled with the words. “Did they...”
Sam shivered, and Dean - who had thought he had no reaction left in him today - felt a fire start to burn in his gut, but said, “Just with the gun. It’s what split my lip.” He licked unconsciously at it, and then smirked, tiredly, “Although I think it was probably foreplay.”
Dean closed his eyes, and thought about going back, but Sam brushed passed him, pressing his shoulder against Dean’s as he went into the shower, and there was no way Dean was going to leave.
***
Fandom: SPN gen
Rating: PG13
A/N: For spn_reversebang. For the wonderful art made by the beautiful and talented jenilees which can be seen here. It's very evocative.
Warning: Violence and threatening scenes
Words: 5,000
Archive: Now also at AO3
***
Dean took careful aim with his crumpled up burrito wrapper, before throwing it at Sam’s head.
He shoots, he scores!
Sam scowled as he looked up from his homework, glaring at the wrapper which had just bounced off his head onto one of the many, many books laid out in front of him on the tiny table in their rental (which was, frankly, groaning under the weight of all that knowledge) and then at Dean.
“C’mon, Sammy,” Dean said, with a shit-eating grin, twirling the Impala’s keys in his hand. “Let’s go try out your fake ID.”
Sam was already shaking his head by the time Dean had got to his name, and, Jeez, that was depressing - the end of that sentence could have been anything let’s go to Hawaii with Claudia Schiffer and Sam was automatically turning it down to do homework. Sometimes Dean had no idea how he and Sam were related.
“No, Dean,” Sam said. “I want to get this essay finished.”
“It’s Saturday, Sam,” Dean said, sighing. “No school tomorrow.”
Sam shrugged, looking back down at his books and picking up his pen.
A Saturday evening and essays on, Dean glanced at the book, American History were still more appealing than beer with Dean.
“How about a run, then?” Dean suggested. “It’ll still be light for a few hours, and you gotta exercise the body as well as the brain.”
Sam paused, considering.
Running was the only exercise Sam engaged in willingly these days. He’d just reached Dean’s height (and was still growing, the bitch) and since then he’d gleefully discovered that he was faster than Dean.
Part of Dean therefore never wanted to run with Sam again, (the little bitch gloated for a month the first time he’d beaten Dean, and was still insufferably smug every time) but Sam was resisting every single other part of training, bitching and dragging his heels every time John ran weapons training, or sparring, until John either gave up, or forced Sam into it, meaning one or the other (or both) of them was in a foul mood for a few days.
So Dean encouraged Sam’s running, because if the slacker wouldn’t do so much weapons training so he could fight the evil that was out there, Dean had to sacrifice his older brother dignity to ensure Sam could at least run away from it.
“OK,” Sam said, slamming his book closed and stretching his arms above his head as he stood up. He was so skinny these days, all smooth skin and long bones - his growth spurt too drastic to allow any excess flesh - with the merest hint in his shoulders and wrists and long, long (annoyingly speedy) legs of the size he might achieve.
He still looked vulnerable to Dean, though, still so skinny and young.
It was worth a few bruises to his dignity to keep Sam safe.
***
It had been a gorgeous summer day, and the evening was still warm and bright. Sweat dripped into Dean’s eyes, and his t-shirt clung to him. Sam was running next to him, and their feet pounded the pavement in synch - their bodies, trained under the exacting school of John Winchester, always in harmony in a way they hadn’t been on the same page in any other way for quite a long time now.
Sam looked happy, and relaxed, glowing with health, and youth and, yeah, OK sweat basically. Dean took a shot.
“How about we take the crossbow out for some target practice tomorrow?”
John had set up a target in the open, neglected fields out the back of their rental, and Dean had promised that both he and Sam would practice while John was away on a black dog hunt with Caleb.
Sam’s expression immediately darkened.
“I’ve got schoolwork,” he said, shortly, pounding the pavement a little harder.
Dean eased up a gear to keep up with him. He was still a lot stronger and had a lot more stamina than Sam, and while Sam could easily outpace him on the shorter distances, if Dean ran him long enough he could maybe win a sprint at the end.
“C’mon, Sammy,” Dean wheedled, although, honestly, if he was trying to be persuasive he knew he should use Sam instead of Sammy, but he couldn’t really help it, “when you hit five bulls-eyes in a row, I’ll shout for pizza?”
Sam’s mouth twisted slightly.
“No thanks,” he said. “I’m not training unless Dad’s here to make me. I’m afraid the carrot doesn’t cut it - it’s gotta be the stick. Or, I guess, the hand.”
Dean’s stomach twisted slightly, remembering the last time John and Sam had really gone at it - fighting over Sam wanting soccer or drama club or some shit over bow-hunting - and after about an hour of yelling, John had hit him; an open-handed slap that had still sent Sam reeling to his knees, pressing his hand against his cheek.
It was the only time John had hit either of them.
Sam had glared up at John in silence, but with absolute triumph radiating from every pore, and Dean had never seen his Dad look so sick. Grey and worn and horrified, before he strode out the door.
He hadn’t come back until the early hours, and the next day he’d been off on a hunt with Caleb.
Dean really wanted Sam to have practiced before his Dad got back, so John didn’t feel he had to try and make Sam again so soon.
“I’d agree with you if it was an actual carrot, Sam,” Dean said, lightly, ignoring all the other things he could say, “but it’s deep dish pepperoni. That’s worth thirty minutes practice, isn’t it?”
Sam, on the other hand, apparently wasn’t in the mood for light.
“Why have you always got to be on his side?”
Dean sighed, “I’m not, Sam. But you know what’s out there - a good aim could save your life out hunting.”
“Not hunting would do that just as well, don’t you think?”
“Not really,” Dean shot back, “it didn’t work for the Johnsons last week, did it? Or the Carters back in Colorado last month?” Both families has been killed - the Johnson’s by an angry ghost in their new house, and the Carter’s by a werewolf. Both families had young kids. “They weren’t hunting, were they, and look what good it did them. Ignorance and avoidance is no protection like knowing what’s out there and being ready for it.”
“Fuck you, Dean,” Sam said, “that’s not fair. It’s a one in a million shot for something supernatural to come for you if you’re not looking for it - I’ve got more chance of being hit by a bus. If Dad really cared about us, he’d have us as far away from this shit as possible.”
“And what about the other families that would’ve been killed if we hadn’t got rid of that ghost or the werewolf? What about them?”
Sam shook his head again, “The whole world’s not our responsibility, Dean, and if you and Dad care more about them than us, then just let me take care of myself my way.”
And with that he sprinted away.
Dean yelled after him, but didn’t chase. There was no reasoning with Sam anyway, and he’d come back after he’d cooled off.
***
Or, maybe not.
Three hours later, still no Sam.
Sam was pretty stubborn, sure, but John wasn’t here to witness it, and Dean knew for a fact Sam had no money on him to buy any food, and Sam was currently pretty much gnawing his own arm off if he didn’t get to eat every two hours these days.
Also. He wasn’t answering his cell. Hadn’t been for the two hours Dean had been ringing it (what? He wasn’t worried, he just wanted to get some dinner, that’s all), and Dean was starting to think that Sammy maybe wasn’t coming home that night.
Dean rang Sam’s cell again, expecting not answer. But this time, he heard it ring. Outside the front door.
***
Dean ran over to the door and pulled it open. No Sam - but his cell ringing merrily, flashing Dean’s name and playing ‘Fade to Black’ on top of a box.
Dean grabbed it and pulled it open. Inside there was a video cassette tape.
Dean looked around for a long moment, searching the area, but the rental was a long way back from the road and their neighbors, and the lighting was poor. Dean couldn’t see anything, and the tape was practically burning his hand with his need to see what was on it.
Dean ran back into the house and over to the TV, and pushed the video into the old player. He wasn’t even sure it worked - it had come with the rental - but it did, and Dean held his breath as the image on the screen that came into focus was a dark corridor.
The picture was clearly being filmed on a hand-held camera, as it wobbled a bit as the person behind the lens walked down the corridor and came to a door. The picture took in a hand reaching down, using a key to unlock the door, and pushing is open.
It opened into a small room and, as the camera progressed in, Dean could see it was lit dimly, but there was easily enough light to see the crumpled figure on the bed.
Sam.
Dean sucked in a breath. Sam was lying on a bare mattress on a bed - his hands were handcuffed together above his head to the headboard.
Dean’s eyes couldn’t take in everything at once, processing the images in front of them almost in snap-shots.
Sam’s wrists were bruised and red raw beneath the metal of the handcuffs.
Sam was blindfolded, and there were dark patches on the dirty cloth that looked like tears.
Sam’s lips were chapped and dry, and a small trickle of blood had leaked down the side of his mouth, maybe he’d split his lip on his teeth or bitten his tongue when they’d given him the...
Bruise on his cheekbone, high and blossoming dark against pale skin...
His skin looked chalk white as Sam raised his head for a moment, before it lolled back heavily, showing he was drugged more clearly than any bottle of pills or syringe could...
But there was a syringe, Dean could see it, with a dried drop of his brother’s blood on the tip, lying on the dirty floor...
Dean gasped, sucking in a great gulp of air, and collapsed down on his hands and knees and retched helplessly on the floor.
He lost precious moments getting his body back under control, gasping and clutching his stomach, before wiping his mouth with his hand and looking back up again.
The camera was closer to Sam now, nothing in the image but Sam’s face. Sam’s lips were moving sluggishly, but there was no sound - something Dean hadn’t noticed before - and so he couldn’t make out what Sam was saying.
Dean felt like his heart would stop as a knife came into shot, held for a few long moments over Sam’s face in full view of the camera.
Dean couldn’t tell whether or not Sam knew it was there, he was blindfolded but the person holding that knife could be saying anything to him, telling him what he was going to do to him.
The knife moved to press up against Sam’s lower lip, open where he’d been speaking and Sam froze. It rubbed over his mouth, moving in and out almost obscenely, before scraping up his cheek - gently, not drawing blood... yet - to rest over his blindfolded eye.
Dean watched, captivated, breathless, until the picture flicked off to black.
Dean started forward, hand outstretched, as if he could somehow make the screen come back on, show him Sam again, where Sam was now, but, of course, it couldn’t, staying resolutely black. Dean picked up the box and looked inside, shaking it when it revealed nothing in addition to the video, which itself had no markings.
He threw it down. And then picked it up again - there was nothing else he could do, nothing else to go on - the video had to give him something.
He was just psyching himself up to watch the video again to look for anything that could help him when Sam’s phone rang again.
This time the phone flashed unknown number.
Dean dropped the box and grabbed the phone.
“Sammy?”
“No,” a voice said. It was a man’s voice, soft and deep. “Sammy can’t talk right now past the gun in his mouth.”
Dean’s blood ran cold, “What do you want?” He didn’t bother demanding they let Sam go, or asking who they were. They wouldn’t let him go, and they wouldn’t tell him, or they would, he just needed to know how to get Sam back.
The guy seemed just as keen as Dean to cut to the chase.
“The Orb of Ahriman.”
“The what?” Dean asked stupidly.
“I know your father has it. Deliver it to us and I’ll let your brother go.”
“I don’t know what that is!” Dean protested.
“You took it off as group of worshipers in Duluth two months ago.”
Dean frowned - they’d taken a jewel off of a group of self-styled devil worshipers in Duluth (seriously, devil worshipers? Who even believed in the devil these days, anyway? Like believing in angels) who had been using it to raise and control minor imp-like spirits, getting them to do almost nothing more sinister than steal from the local bank. If they’d had the imps use the door rather than simply spirit in-and-out, it would never have attracted John Winchester’s attention. Even then, if they hadn’t been in the area having just destroyed a ghost killing young children to avenge the death of his own son, they probably wouldn’t have bothered.
“That orange jewel,” he asked, vaguely remembering it. Dad had been only mildly interested in it, although he had said it could easily work with more powerful creatures if used right, but Dean had barely even looked at it. He had no idea what his father had done with it.
“That’s right, Dean, clever boy,” the guy sounded only slightly older than Dean, but Dean ignored the instinctive reaction to that sneering address.
“I don’t have it,” Dean said, urgently. “I don’t know what my dad did with it.”
“You’d better find it, Dean,” the guy said, seemingly unconcerned about this protest, “or things will start to go pretty badly for Sammy.” The guy sounded almost pleasant. “I’m not sure how much he’s enjoying our company as it is - and it can get a whole lot more... unpleasant.”
“I’ll get it,” Dean said, instantly, images flashing in his mind that he had no place for, no way of dealing with. “I’ll find it.”
“Good,” the man said, brusquely. “Come to meet me at midnight,” Christ, that was only three hours away, no time to get it if his dad had stashed it somewhere any distance away, “and wait outside the library.”
“I might not have it by then,” Dean said, helplessly, “I don’t know where it is yet.”
“That’s fine Dean,” the guy said, sounding almost reassuring, “you’ll just start getting Sam back in installments for every hour you miss, that’s all.”
He hung up.
***
ring ring... ring ring
The phone remained stubbornly unanswered, and Dean’s heart remained frantic in his chest.
Neither his Dad nor Caleb were picking up.
After the first time he’d tried and failed to get either of them (leaving them both a message to call him urgently, Sam’s in trouble, Dad, and Dean’s voice had broken on the words, recorded damningly on the voicemail, call me right away) he’d called Bobby and Pastor Jim, demanding to know if John’d left this crazy damn orb with them, or if they knew where he might keep something like that.
Neither had been helpful on either point, although Bobby had tried to put his mind at rest about the power of the orb “It probably can’t raise more than a few sprites, maybe a few demons,” he’d said casually. “It’d take a damn sight more than that to raise the devil, that’s for sure,” like Dean had even spared a thought for what they might do with it, if he managed to find it.
Dean was currently rifling through all of his dad’s personal belongings. They traveled light, and Dean was sickeningly sure this was going to be an entirely fruitless search, but he did it anyway, hands working quickly but methodically through his family’s meager possessions.
Dean had the Impala - his dad had gone in Caleb’s truck - and so it was possible that John had hidden the orb somewhere there with their weapons and IDs, but Dean knew the contents of that car like he knew the contents of his pockets, and there was no mystical jewel tucked away in the ashtray.
The clock showed 23:45 when he gave up his fruitless search and picked up the Impala’s keys.
***
He drove into the town and idled the car outside the small, local library - not sure whether to get out or not.
The street was almost deserted in a sleepy town, and Dean’s eyes almost skipped over the shadow waiting at the door.
He got out.
The guy nodded once and started to walk along the street. Dean followed him, thinking somewhat hysterically about how absolutely hilarious and yet not funny at all it would be if they guy he was following just thought he was picking up a hooker or something, but as he thought to ask, the guy looked back and Dean could see a .45 tucked in his waistband, and shut his mouth.
Dean had two guns in him - one in his waistband and one by his ankle - but he didn’t draw either of them. This guy didn’t have Sam with him, anyway, and Dean wasn’t going to do anything until he knew where Sam was.
The guy - he was a medium sized guy, non-descript in every way - turned off the main street after waking a few minutes, and then led the way into a house.
When Dean reached the door, the guy was in the doorway and now he had his gun out, motioning for Dean to come in and shut the door.
Once inside Dean spoke his first words.
“Where’s Sam?”
The guy grinned, smirking and gestured up the stairs for Dean to precede him.
Dean walked up the stairs, and as he reached the top he found himself in the hallway which was sickeningly familiar from the video. His eyes went automatically to the door he knew Sam had been behind in the video and he froze for a moment.
It wasn’t fear exactly, that stopped him, just the knowledge if... if what was behind that door wasn’t Sam, if Sam was... if Sam was dead then he needed that moment, he needed all the moments in eternity spun together, so he’d live in a moment where Sam was still alive forever...
But the guy was right behind him now, gun pressing against his spine, and Sam, well, Sam could be behind that door waiting for Dean, and Dean wouldn’t keep him waiting a moment longer.
The door wasn’t locked this time, it was ajar, and Dean could see another hand super-imposed over his as he pushed the door open and went inside.
His eyes tracked automatically to the dirty bed and mattress Sam had been on in the film, and found it empty.
There were stains on it, dark stains that could be anything (Sammy) and Dean couldn’t breathe for a moment until there was a movement in the corner and when Dean looked it was Sam, oh God, it was Sam, and no breath had ever been sweeter than the gulp of air in that small, stale room, smelling metallically of blood and fear.
Sam was swaying a bit, a bit wobbly, and Dean could see in that and in his eyes that the drug, whatever they’d given him, was still certainly in his system. He wasn’t wearing the blindfold anymore, though his hands were still handcuffed together in front of him.
There was a guy behind him, and the guy was holding a gun and Sam’s shoulder, holding Sam up as well as holding him back, almost. The guy was big - a good few inches taller than Sam who was clearing six foot now - well muscled and handsome, but the only feature he had which counted was the gun he held pressed to Sam’s temple.
“Dean,” Sam breathed.
Sam sounded wrecked, his voice nothing but a soft exhale.
“It’s OK, Sammy,” Dean said, and it might not be, but Sam would never, ever, hear that from Dean. “It’ll be OK.”
“Do you have the orb?” the guy holding Sam asked.
“No,” Dean replied, keeping eye contact with Sam.
The guy’s hand tightened on Sam’s shoulder and Sam gasped. Dean could tell from the way he was standing that his shoulder hurt, but it didn’t look too bad, probably only bruised. The guy also pressed the gun harder against Sam’s temple, causing Sam to flinch slightly away.
“You haven’t got it!” the guy who’d met Dean at the library exclaimed, and he moved in the room, pressing his gun against Dean’s side. “What do you mean, you haven’t got it?”
“I don’t know where it is, and I can’t speak to my father,” Dean replied. “I’ll get it, but I need to know where it is. It might not even be in the state.”
“Well,” the guy holding Sam said, and he dragged the gun down the side of Sam’s face, an obscene parody of a caress, “that’s very bad news all round. Especially for Sam.”
“No,” Dean said, stepping forward almost involuntarily. “Take me instead.”
The guy raised an eyebrow. “Instead? I’ve got you both.”
“No,” Dean said, “you need one of us to get the orb from Dad, and Sam can do that just as well as I can. Keep me as a hostage, and Sam can get you the orb.”
“I don’t think so,” the guy pressed his nose into Sam’s hair deliberately and breathed in. “I’ve got the youngest and easiest to handle, and I think we can have quite a lot of fun together while you’re finding that orb.”
The other guy laughed, and his gun dropped, and that was enough.
The man holding Sam cried out as Sam’s head jerked back and connected solidly with his nose, and Sam twisted in the second of reaction to the head butt and grabbed the hand with the gun with both of his handcuffed ones and pulled it away from his own head, and down to point at the floor.
Dean, who had been watching Sam - always watching Sam - and not laughing, reacted faster than the second guy and pulled the gun from his jeans.
It was one smooth movement - pull the gun, aim, fire - the way John had always taught him when faced with an evil monster, and later Dean would tell himself it was muscle memory that meant he didn’t even pause for a second, didn’t even think before pulling the trigger and shooting the guy square in the chest.
He swung the gun over to where Sam and the other guy were wrestling, and he didn’t pull the trigger that time, because Sam was in the way - holding on with all the stubbornness John Winchester knew only too well, frequently but not always, God, not always, to his annoyance - to a gun wielded by a man four inches taller and twice as heavy.
“Drop the gun,” he yelled instead, and Sam and the guy both froze. Even if he was able to wrest the gun from Sam, the guy clearly had no hope of pointing it at Dean before Dean had a chance to shoot him.
He let go and stepped back.
Sam - suddenly bereft of both the big guy’s support and his own adrenaline - sunk to the floor, but flicked the point of the gun up to train it on his recent attacker.
“Sam,” Dean choked out, letting all the fear and tension escape through his voice, as he still needed to keep his gun straight and firm. “Are you alright?”
Sam glanced at him and smiled - it was a smile of surprising sweetness, dimples and all - “I’m fine, Dean.”
And then his eyes rolled back in his head, and he slumped to the floor.
Fine. Right.
“What did you give him?” Dean yelled, as he swept down to where Sam was slumped on the floor, pushing his hair out of his eyes, and checking his pulse. It was in fact, fine, steady and strong.
“Rohypnol,” the guy said, shrugging - pretty impressively casual for a man at the business end of a gun, “he can just sleep it off.”
Dean breathed in, trying to keep calm, trying to think everything through, and resist the urge to just shoot this man in the head, grab Sam, and run.
“Are you working with anybody else? How did you find us?”
“Hunters talk,” the man said, shrugging, “and we’re working alone. That orb’s incredibly valuable.”
The guy paused for a moment, and then, mistaking Dean’s silence continued. “You know, there’s really not much more you could do with that thing than raise a few spirits, but anyone can use it. Suckers with a hard-on for black magic and too much time on their hands will pay big for it, and it doesn’t do any real harm.”
Dean glanced down to Sam - his pale face with the bruise coming up, the blood still visible from his lip, down his chin, although he’d clearly tried to wipe it off since the film - no real harm.
Dean pulled the trigger.
He man screamed, high and shrill, surprisingly so for such a big guy, and went down holding his knee where the bullet had done its work.
Dean didn’t know the man’s name ‘the guy’ was enough and so he smiled over at the guy, who was drawing in sobbing breaths over low, animal moans, and said, “You’ll be walking again in a few months. No real harm done.”
***
Dean had carried Sam back to the Impala over his shoulder, after assuring himself Sam had no injuries which would be worsened by doing so.
He didn’t want to leave Sam in that place another second, not even to bring the car round, and so he’d staggered slowly and carefully along the deserted street. Sam remained unconscious all that time, and the time it took Dean to maneuver Sam gently into the Impala.
Sam cracked an eye open as Dean started the Impala.
“D’n?”
“Yeah, Sammy?”
“S’alright?”
“It’s fine, Sam. We’re fine.”
***
Sam had slept all the way back to the rental, but when Dean had got him inside he seemed to perk up, starting to shake off the effects of the drug. He’d insisted on a shower before going to bed, and Dean had insisted on helping him.
Sam had grumbled, but complied, as Dean helped him out of his clothes. They were dirty from the bed and floor, but the worst of it was actually on his back - tacky and dark with blood from ‘the guy’s' nose. The blood was in Sam’s hair, too, and Sam had serious issues, apparently, with how gross that was.
The bruises were all Sam’s, though.
In addition to the one blooming nicely on his cheek, his shoulder was covered with bruises (not broken or dislocated, thankfully) where he’d hit furniture when they’d given him the bruise to his cheek, because he’d been handcuffed and not able to stop his fall.
The marks from the handcuffs were raw rings around his wrists.
The blood in his mouth had been a split lip, and that had already stopped bleeding.
There was a mark on the center of his chest, too, where they’d used a tazer to knock him out after they’d got him to stop for them by asking for directions.
Stupid, straight-A students. Oldest trick in the book.
Dean was about to let him get in the shower when he noticed finger shaped bruises, faint but clear, on Sam’s jaw, like someone had held his chin still.
Dean reached out with careful fingers and traced the delicate jaw line.
“Sammy, did they...” Dean struggled with the words. “Did they...”
Sam shivered, and Dean - who had thought he had no reaction left in him today - felt a fire start to burn in his gut, but said, “Just with the gun. It’s what split my lip.” He licked unconsciously at it, and then smirked, tiredly, “Although I think it was probably foreplay.”
Dean closed his eyes, and thought about going back, but Sam brushed passed him, pressing his shoulder against Dean’s as he went into the shower, and there was no way Dean was going to leave.
***