Teacher's Pet Chapter 1
Title: Teacher's Pet Chapter 1
Author: JCRGIRL
Banner: imogen_lily
Pairing: Dean/Sam, OMC/Sam
Rating: NC-17 overall, PG-13 this chapter
Warnings: This story will contain: Wincest, AU, bondage, non-con (not the boys), kidnap, abuse, D/S overtones
Word Count: ~ 3100
Beta: glimmerella
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue. Just playing in Kripke's sandbox.
Summary: Sam is kidnapped and hunting community, headed by Dean and John, band together to find him. Four days after he's taken, Sam stumbles out of the woods beaten, bruised and broken and reminds Dean and John that not all evil is supernatural.
Athor Notes: I found a call for anyone interested in a bunny over on abused_sammy. I like bunnies so I went over and saw a cute one. I petted it and loved it and it followed me home. This is what comes of petting bunnies. That being said this story is to fulfill my prompt claim for Prompt Fest 2.5. So much thanks to glimmerella for the wonderful beta job she does and imogen_lily for the cheerleading. Stories are just words on paper without great editing and they'd never be written with encouragement. *Hugs and kisses* to you both.
Dean lifted the beer bottle to his lips, condensation slicking the glass and cooling his warm palm. Running his tongue over his bottom lip to catch a stray drop of the bitter liquid, he surveyed the bar. Intimate couples and groups of friends circled the small tables scattered throughout the place while the regular barflies lined the highly polished bar alternately drowning their troubles and flagging down the bartender for refills. There was a 50s style jukebox in the corner filling the air with the eclectic choices of the patrons - one minute country, the next top 40 - and lighting the far corner with the rainbow glow of the multi-hued front. The pool tables were tucked in a back alcove and surrounded by ‘blue collar buddies’ and ‘good time Charlies’, all loose from the liquor in their systems with wallets full from the cashing of their Friday paychecks. All sheep ripe for the fleecing.
Leaning back against the wall, Dean’s eyes catalogued them, assessing each with a cursory glance in search of his next contestant, before landing on a figure secluded in a dark corner behind the felt top tables. The person’s lanky frame was hunched over the high table, long legs bent at a casual angle and tattered sneakers perched on the bottom rung of the stool. Through the dimly lit, smoke filled room, Dean could make out books and papers covering the available space as nimble fingers traced the printed words of the former and copied important information to the latter. A long index finger diverted from its track across the glossy page and brought Dean’s attention up as a pink tongue peeked out to wet the pad for the page turn.
Damn, only Sammy could make studying seem sexy.
Feeling the weight of Dean’s gaze, Sam raised his head and smiled slightly. Dean suppressed a spike of arousal at the sight of Sam’s swollen lips, knowing he was the reason for the puffiness.
Fingernails sank into tender flesh seeking purchase and left a dotted trail of blood in their wake as sweat covered skin caused them to lose and gain ground. Dean hissed and arched his back, head lowering to capture sinful lips in a bruising kiss.
Dean took another swallow of his beer and sat it on the table next to him, pulling himself from his thoughts at the sound of resin balls striking one another indicated his opponent had finally taken his shot. He smiled at the mumbled curse that announced whatever maneuver the guy had intended didn’t live up to his expectations and pushed off of the wall. Dean turned to study the new lay of the table and size up his next shot when a warm hand slithered around his waist, the other coming up to rest against his chest. They were small and gentle and Dean knew it belonged to the bottle blonde he’d been trading a flirting banter with all night.
“Good luck, darling,” she purred in his ear before pressing a sloppy kiss to his neck.
“Luck ain’t got nothin’ to do with it,” Dean smirked, squeezing her waist before neatly sidestepping the girl to chalk his cue. Taking one last look at the ball placement, Dean flitted his eyes over to the corner, locking on hazel in a look that clearly communicated watch this!
Lining up his shot, Dean quickly sank the 6 with the two remaining solids following in short order. Rounding the table, he grinned smugly, “Eight in the corner.” He pointed at the opposite corner with his pool stick before sliding it smoothly through his bridged fingers to send the white cue ball gently into the black 8. Without waiting to watch the ball drop into the indicated pocket, Dean turned to beam at Sam. His smile fell and he distantly heard the soft clunk of the 8 landing against his opponent’s purple striped number 14 already nestled in the netted pouch. Sam’s table still looked as it did before, books and a smattering of papers spread over the top, but Sam wasn’t in sight.
Passing by people trading money on the bets that had been placed for and against him, Dean ignored the jeers from those now a few bucks lighter and vaguely acknowledged the cheers from those a few bucks richer. He focused on the vacant table, mind rationalizing that Sam could have merely gotten up to use the restroom, but gut insisting that something wasn’t right. He disentangled himself from his female admirer, pushing her to the side when she refused to let go. He could hear the timber of her sickly sweet voice, but the words of congratulation were lost as his stomach sank lower the closer he got to where his brother had been sitting.
Still a few steps away he could see the creased page of the book Sam had been reading and the wrinkled page of notes Sam had been writing. If it had been anyone but Sam studying there, Dean wouldn’t have worried. But it was Sam. Sam who reveled in neatness and order. Sam who rewrote an entire essay once because the corner of the page had gotten crumpled in his binder. Sam who insisted that the bed be made every day to an almost military standard. Sam would never allow anything to be less than perfect…not willingly anyway.
Dean placed a hand on the thick textbook, Physics by the look of it, and slid it around to face him. There covering up the definition of acceleration and the formula for force were smears and thick droplets of bright red blood. Dean swallowed down bile as a small, childish voice sing-songed from the past.
Hey, Dean! What’s black and white and red all over?
I don’t know Sammy. What’s black and white and red all over?
A penguin with a sunburn!
At 6, it was Sam’s favorite joke and Dean laughed every time. Dean must have heard it a hundred times as Sam told it anyone who’d listen. Now, a new answer sat in front of Dean and mocked him. What’s black and white and red all over? Sam’s homework.
Shifting around the space to where Sam was sitting, Dean stumbled over something. Staring up at him like a harbinger of doom, a well-worn brown Puma laid on its side, laces askew. Recognizing them immediately as the pair he’d teased Sam mercilessly about - they were a little douchy if you asked him which Sam reminded him he didn’t - after he’d picked them up during their last Goodwill trip.
Dean hurried to the bathroom, unsure whether it was to throw up the beer and pizza sitting in his stomach or to check for Sam as either was a distinct possibility. Finding it empty and his stomach only nauseous, he returned to Sam’s table to search for a note - Denial much? Like Sam was going to go for a walk with only one shoe on. Shifting the items Sam had been working on, but not finding any clues Dean stopped the waitress as she walked by with a tray laden with fresh beers and shots.
“Did you see the guy that was sitting here?” Getting a blank stare in return, he elaborated, “You know, the skinny guy with the floppy hair and puppy eyes?”
The waitress shook her head, looking at Dean like he was a little disturbed. God, their hope at the beginning of the night had been that Sam’s obvious underage presence would go unnoticed. Good job on that. Watching her walk away, Dean ran desperate eyes over the crowd. No one seemed to be paying any attention to his mini-freak out, the friendly girl from earlier turning her charms on the next hotshot at the pool table and the gamblers setting stakes on the new game. Looking down, Dean noticed Sam’s ever-present backpack propped next to the back entrance they’d used earlier to sneak him in. He reached over, lifting the bag by the strap, and felt a rush of cool air wash over the back of his hand. Dropping the bag, he pushed the metal door and felt the hinge swing open easily with the gentle force.
Peering into the dark alley, the stench of garbage and urine filling his nose, a glint of light caught his attention. The lone street light at the front of the building glinted off something metallic lying on the damp ground. Walking over Dean picked up the small, reflective item, heart caught in a tug-o-war between leaping into his throat and sinking into his stomach, as he ran a thumb over the horned figure and smeared a drop of blood over the snarling face. His amulet.
Dean lined up his first shot of the evening and felt the relief of a weight from around his neck. The cord his amulet hung from, weathered thin from years of constant wear, had broken and as he stood the charm slid down his chest to rest against his stomach where tucked shirt met waistband. It wasn’t the first time, this string was the third since he’d received the necklace over eight years ago, but Dean hadn’t expected it to snap just yet and didn’t have a new cord ready. Untucking his shirt to free the amulet, he smirked at the blonde girl when she ran appreciative fingers over the revealed strip of skin below his navel. Resettling the hem of his shirt, he excused himself and walked over to Sam who’d watched the exchange with a thunderous look.
“Hey, Sammy, can you hold onto this for me? The cord broke again and the horns will poke me when I shoot if I put it in my pocket.” Dean dangled the amulet from the cracked cord, waiting for Sam to open his hand.
“Why don’t you get your new friend to do it?” Sam scowled, eyes narrowed in the direction of the girl blatantly staring at Dean’s ass.
“Sam,” Dean sighed in annoyance. “We talked about this at the house. Remember? Now, hold this, will you?” He dropped the metal charm on Sam’s open book.
“Fine, Dean. Whatever you say. You better get back. You’re date looks lonely.” Sam lifted up from the stool and shoved the amulet into the front pocket of his jeans.
Dean huffed an angry breath and turned to head back to the pool table. He didn’t understand why Sam had to be such a princess about this. Dean was a flirt; he liked to flirt. He liked the thrill of the chase, the seduction, and he was good at it. Even other people realized it. Dave, his boss at the garage, had been reluctant to hire him with his limited experience, but decided to give him a chance working on tune-ups and oil changes. When Dave saw how the female (and some male) customers responded to him, okaying any service recommendation that passed those sinful lips, Dean was promoted to full mechanic and encouraged to use his natural talents to their fullest. Sam needed to suck it up and face facts. Dean was Dean and nothing would ever change that. And besides, it was harmless. Dean loved Sam and although he enjoyed and reciprocated the attention of others, he always went home with or to Sam.
Picking up his cue, Dean smiled at the blonde girl as she sidled up next to him again. Yeah, Sam just needed to get over it. A little flirting never hurt anyone.
Palming the night-cooled metal, Dean’s throat won the tugging match as he vomited the contents of his stomach on the dirty asphalt.
Sam was gone.
Consciousness returned to Sam in starts and stops. The first thing he noticed was the loud rumble of an engine and the gentle sway of his body as the road shifted him back and forth. Even though he was lying down, he could feel the press of a seatbelt around his waist keeping him from falling on the floor. It was something that Dad had done for him when he was little after he’d been tossed to the floorboards one too many times before Dean got strong enough to hold him better.
Had they been on a hunt? Did he get choked out again?!
Encouraging his eyelids to open, Sam tried to organize his scattered thoughts to determine his injuries since he knew Dean’s first question would be where does it hurt? His body felt weak, but nothing screamed in pain. Finally able to pry open his heavy lids, Sam squeezed them shut again against the glare of a street lamp as they passed under it. The bright light made his eyes ache and a pounding begin inside the confines of his skull. Nausea rolled over him and he tried to call out Dean’s name certain his brother would never forgive him if he threw up in the backseat of the Impala.
A concussion? Did he hit his head? What were they hunting again? He couldn’t remember being thrown into a wall or tossed into a gravestone, but his mind felt disconnected and fuzzy, thoughts proving hard to put into any kind of order.
The lingering scent of cigarette smoke wafted up to him and caused his stomach to churn threateningly. Cigarette smoke? The bar! That’s right. He and Dean had gone to a bar, his brother needing a little relief after being cooped up in their apartment for the last two weeks at John’s order.
Now at least having a starting point, Sam concentrated on piecing together how he’d ended up sick in the backseat of the car. He remembered studying for his Physics exam. Formulas and variables skimming the surface of his mind, but not penetrating since his attention was more concerned with the blonde slut hanging off his brother. A bottle of beer was on the table, gradually warming to the point of undrinkability, but it was just a prop. Dean had brought it over, drinking half the contents before setting it down, letting its presence and volume ward off passing waitress who were on the lookout for customers with empty bottles in need of another.
Had he drunk the warm beer and passed out? Granted he wasn’t much of a drinker, but even he couldn’t be so much of a lightweight that half a beer did him in. Right?
Pressing his face into the cool leather beneath his head and panting through his mouth to control his roiling stomach, Sam concentrated on the comforting smell of his rolling home. Except the smell was off. Instead of the familiar scent of gunpowder, oil and sweat, Sam’s senses were blindsided by a cloying fragrance - a mixture of gas station freshener, cologne and something oddly medicinal.
Shifting onto his back, Sam groaned as the change in position amped the snare drum beat in his head to a bass and his stomach threatened to rebel. Peeling his gummy eyelashes apart, Sam meekly called out for Dean again and let his eyes roam over his surroundings. As his sight focused it became obvious that he wasn’t in the Impala.
He was lying on the second row seat of a SUV and when he tried to rub the sleep from his eye, he realized that his hands were secured together, palm to palm, in front of his body. Trying to move his legs, he noticed his ankles were secured together as well. Just as panic started to set in, the car slowed and the terrain turned bumpy from what Sam assumed was the car stopping on the shoulder.
Full moon light shone in through the windshield creating a halo like glow around the head of the driver and Sam could see dark eyes flick to the rear view mirror and stare into his. A familiar voice drifted through the space between the front seat captain’s chairs as the driver turned toward him, lingering disorientation and fear preventing him from placing the owner.
“You awake back there, Samuel?”
Sam’s heart and lungs sped up. Any hope that Sam harbored that this was Dean, flew out the window when he was addressed by his full name. Their Dad would sometimes call him by Samuel when he was in serious trouble, much like some children were referred to by first and middle names, but Dean never called him Samuel. Normally it was the much abused Sammy or some variation of it. It was Sam when he was angry, sharp and clipped, or when he was aroused, breathy and husked, but never Samuel.
“Now, now baby. You need to calm down. Everything’s fine. I know you’re scared, but you don’t have to be. I got you away from him. You don’t have to worry about Dean anymore. I’m going to take care of you,” the voice cooed, a large hand reaching between the seats to run soothingly over Sam’s thigh.
Sam recoiled from the touch, trying to press himself further against the seat back and away from the unwanted caress. The man’s words - where had he heard that voice before? - ran through his still confused mind. I got you away from him. You don’t have to worry about Dean anymore.
“Wut?” His tongue felt swollen and uncooperative, his words slurring as his mouth refused to keep up with his thoughts. “Wut goin’ on? Where D’n?”
“Relax, Samuel. You’re free of him. He can’t hurt you anymore. Now, I’m going to give you something to help you sleep for a while. When you wake up again, you’ll feel better.” The man turned back around and rummaged through something in the passenger seat.
Realization dawned slowly on Sam as the voice washed over him again. Just as the last pieces to the puzzle of his kidnapper’s identity started to fall into place, the man turned with a syringe in hand. Wriggling to get away from the needle, shining sinisterly in the phosphorous glow of the street lamp, Sam finally caught a glimpse of the man’s face as headlights from a passing car lit up the man’s features.
Oh God! Struggling harder, refusing to let his shock paralyze him, Sam felt a pinch as the needle pierced the skin of his arm followed by a warm haze of drugs flooding his system. His limbs grew heavier and his eyelids drooped, drifted off toward an artificially induced sleep.