Teacher's Pet Chapter 17A

[jcrgirl]

Title: Teacher's Pet Chapter 17A
Author: JCRGIRL
Banner: imogen_lily
Pairing: Dean/Sam, OMC/Sam
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Overall: Wincest, AU, bondage, non-con (not the boys), kidnap, abuse, D/S overtones, weecest (Sam is 16)
Word Count: ~ 9900
Beta: glimmerella
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue. Just playing in Kripke's sandbox.
Summary: Sam is kidnapped and the 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.

MasterPost

Author Notes: You can run from your past but it will always catch up with you. As always much love to my beta glimmerella and my cheerleader imogen_lily who I couldn't do this without. Posted in two parts because of post size.



“They say when you die, your life flashes before your eyes.”

Dean lazily blinked up at the ceiling, eyes following the rapid revolutions of the overhead fan. He turned his head slowly and looked at the boy lying beside him. They were on their backs, springs of the worn out motel mattress poking random places along their spines, with Sam’s head pillowed on the round of Dean’s shoulder. Sweat gathered in the low lying areas of their bodies - the hollows at the base of their necks, the dips between their ab muscles, the grooved angles that ran from hip to groin - and blanketed the rest of them in a salty sheen. “Yeah?” He prompted when Sam didn’t elaborate on his wayward thought.

“I read that they think it’s just the brain’s reaction to what’s going to happen. You know, a way to lessen the blow that it’s all going to end, but what if…”

In the streetlight filtering in from outside, Dean could see Sam’s eyes were far away as his external musings turned internal. Curling the arm pinned beneath Sam’s shoulders, Dean combed his fingers through Sam’s soft locks as he waited for his little brother to work his thoughts out in his head. After a few minutes of patience, Dean nudged Sam’s head with his shoulder. “What if, what?”

Sam tugged his bottom lip with his teeth, eyes focused unseeingly upward. “What if it’s not your life passing before your eyes so much as it’s the judgment of your soul?”

Dean slid his arm out from beneath Sam and raised his torso up on his elbow. “What are you talking about, Sammy?”

“Well,” Sam deliberated, “most religions believe that at death there is a final judgment on whether you led a good life. What if when you die and your life flashes before your eyes it’s like a review of your sins so a final ruling can be made?”

“Like instant replay in football?” Dean placed a splayed hand over Sam’s slick abdomen, talk of death and judgment making him crave the contact.

“Yeah.” Sam arched his back at the touch and pushed his body up into Dean’s palm, uncaring of the added heat on his already flushed skin.

“So you think,” Dean leaned over and nuzzled Sam’s neck just beneath his jaw, “St. Peter or Anubis or whoever is kicked back in a La-Z-Boy drinking a Bud,” he ran his tongue up the sweaty column of skin and rotated the hand on Sam’s stomach, his pinky and ring finger dipping teasingly under the waistband of Sam’s boxers, “watching instant replays of people’s lives so they can decide who is worthy?”

“Dean.” The word started out as a whine and ended on a hitched breath as Dean sucked the fluttering pulse in Sam’s neck. “I’m being serious.” He managed through panting breaths.

“I know, Sammy.” Satisfied with the reddening spot, unlikely to bruise but enough to pacify his current possessiveness, Dean moved to the junction of neck and shoulder and licked over that spot, “It’s a good theory.” He rolled over and blanketed Sam’s body, their combined sweat easing the slide of skin against skin. “I just wanted to make sure I understood.” He bit down suddenly on the sensitive spot, raking the skin with his teeth as he sucked and reveling in the resultant body spasm and groan from the boy under him.

“So, ugh, when we die…” Sam broke off on a moan at the sharp nip to his right nipple followed by the soothing sweep of tongue.

Dean gently pressed his index finger to Sam’s lips, calloused pad fitting perfectly in the pronounced inverted arc of his cupid’s bow. “No more talk of dying, Sam.” He breathed the words over the damp skin and watched as the dusky nub pebbled. Dean felt the hot sticky perspiration on his skin flash cold as the thought of Sam dead sent ice water through his veins. He focused his attention on the lithe body under his lips and tried to lose himself in the smell and taste of his brother.

He trailed the tip of his nose over Sam’s abdomen, dropping kisses randomly on the tanned skin and lapping the Louisiana August moisture away. Slotting his body between the younger boy’s legs, Dean braced his weight on his elbows, bracketing Sam’s hips, and spread his palms wide over the bony notches of his hips. He dipped his tongue into Sam’s bellybutton, hands holding firm as Sam writhed beneath him.

“Dean,” Sam gasped, fingers twining around the Goodwill sheets, the worn threads stretching with a rending sound as they threatened to rip under the pressure.

Dean slid his left hand up the muscled body and over the toned shoulder to delve beneath the pillow. He trailed the cool plastic bottle he found there down the overheated flesh, thumb flicking the cap open along the way. Sam’s breathing sped up and his legs automatically spread further in a Pavlovian response to the sound.

“D-dad?” Sam’s voice was low and husky, so different than his normal speaking voice that shivers of lust raced down Dean’s spine.

“Won’t be back for hours.”

Dean moved further south, mouthing and sucking the sensitive spots on Sam’s pelvis causing the boy to jerk at the ticklish sensations. One pair of over-washed cotton followed another leaving them bare to each other’s exploratory hands. Dean wasted no time - one lube coated finger quickly became two then three as his mouth licked and sucked Sam’s weeping member to distract him from the burn of intrusion.

“Dean! Dean!” Sam long fingers scrambled over Dean’s shoulders, failing to gain purchase on the sweat covered expanses. Giving in, he patted the muscled rounds impatiently. “Now,” he panted, “need you now.”

Dean kissed his way up Sam’s body, fingers continuing their prep as he claimed Sam’s lips again. He blindly reached under the pillow with his free hand, grasping the cool foil. Sam whined when he pulled free, but he shushed him with a chaste kiss to his lips. Foil crinkled, latex snapped and held breaths were released on moans.

They say when you die…

Dean thrust hard, arms sliding up between Sam’s back and the mattress, hands curling over his shoulders. He shifted, changed the angle, and swallowed Sam’s enraptured cries. Sam puffed Dean’s name over his spit slick lips.

Muscles bulged, heat radiated, moans vibrated, hips pistoned, cries resounded, pleasure built. Life - strong, vibrant, potent. Vitality affirmed in each touch, taste, sight, smell and sound.

“Sam,” Dean gasped, his orgasm hitting him fast and hard. “Sam!” They say when you die… “Sammy!”

“Sammy!”

FINDERS KEEPERS

I WIN

No, no, no, no, no.

A cold sweat broke out across the back of his neck and over his palms, his stomach and knees shaking under the weight of his realization. A deep buzz sounded in Dean’s ears, blocking out the wind in the leaves, the gentle rattle of the chains on the porch swing, Neil Diamond on the kitchen radio and his own voice. Everything drowned out by an insectan hum, leaving him cocooned in his panicked mind. He lurched forward, foot sliding from the top step and causing him to stumble down the next two. “Sam!”

He whirled around looking for some sign, some indication. This wasn’t happening. Sam couldn’t be gone again. “Sammy!” Motion caught his eye and he saw the back gate swinging loosely on its hinges. Moving toward it, he tripped over something hidden in the tall grass shadowed by the large oak tree. It tangled in his legs forcing him to his knees, one hand connecting with the crunchy autumn browned grass, the other with unforgiving plastic. Instinctively he wrapped his fingers around the foreign object and turned to see what had snared his legs. Dangling from the ankle of his right foot, where he’d stepped through the open area, was one of Sam’s crutches.

Kicking the wooden support free, Dean scrambled to his feet. “Sammy! Sam!” He staggered to the back gate, feet doing their best to work without direction from his overwrought brain. Through the swarm of bees in his head he heard the back door open and voices call his name, but they were too high, too feminine to be the one he sought so he ignored them. Next to the chainlink gate something stuck out above the box hedge planted along the house. Sam’s other crutch, tossed carelessly into the perimeter plants. Voices called him again, but he refused to acknowledge them.

He slammed through the metal gate, the creak like a coffin lid being pried open, and dashed into the front yard. Nothing, but a peaceful suburban neighborhood, its innocuous houses with neatly cut yards and windows of warm amber light. Welcoming clapboard and brick that housed mothers kissing their children goodnight and couples cuddling on the couch, all completely oblivious of the anguish in their midst.

He balled his fist, fingers of his right hand tightening over the forgotten object he’d picked up. Opening his hand, he found a syringe, plunger down, contents expelled. From the needled end, a drop of clear liquid fell to the ground at his feet.

“Dean! Dean! What’s happened? Where’s Sam?”

Closing his eyes, he took a calming breath and curled the syringe in his fist. “I failed him.”

“Dean? What is it? Who’d you fail?” The lilting mid-western was concerned.

An equally worried soft Southern followed it with surety. “Sam.”

In the darkness behind Dean’s lids, images of Sam played like a slideshow, each flickering for a moment before it was replaced by a different one. Sam studying at the table, brow scrunched in concentration. Sam crouched and ready to pounce, eyes determined to win this time. Sam laughing in the passenger seat of the Impala, smile stretched wide across his face. Sam spread across discount sheets, face filled with so much love and trust that Dean didn’t feel worthy.

Dean nodded, eyes still clenched tight. His heart thudded painfully against his ribs, punishing him for being so reckless with its holder, while his lungs heaved in an effort to quell the suffocating pressure in his chest. “Sam’s gone. Reece took him.” The words burned like acid, searing his throat and sitting foul on his tongue. He heard a gasp, one woman realizing what the other had already gleaned from his mind.

They say when you die, your life flashes before your eyes.

Standing shivering on Missouri’s front lawn, Dean knew they were right. He was dying and all he could see was Sam.

Sam woke slowly, head full of cotton and body aching. He was lying on his side on a hard surface, his hip and shoulder protesting the unyielding material and the coldness it seeped through his clothing. Did he fall asleep on the floor? Groaning, he rolled onto his back, relieving the pressure on his throbbing joints.

“You’re awake.” An amused voice chuckled above him, fingers combing through his hair.

“Dean?” Sam murmured. Dean’s voice sounded funny, like he had a cold or was trying to disguise it. Sam whimpered when the hand in his hair pulled the locks painfully.

“Hardly.” The word was spat at him, cold and hard, and Sam froze. He knew that voice. Prying his eyes open, he stared up at harsh sodium lights hanging from aged metal trusses. He scrunched his brows and blinked in confusion, trying to place where he was. A figure moved to hover over him, grey eyes considering him with their steely stare. “Welcome back, Samuel.”

No, no, no, no, no.

Sam kicked his sneaker clad foot against the smooth concrete floor, but the tight grip on his hair prevented him from moving far. Lifting his hands to pry the fingers loose, Sam saw for the first time his arms were bound wrist to elbow. A lacework of rope, under grey industrial duct tape, criss-crossed his forearms securing them snugly together with a loop extending past his hands like a handle. Panic shot through his system. Not again! He couldn’t do this again.

How’d he even get here? Sam searched his mind for the last thing he remembered. Jo! She’d said something about knowing what Dean tasted like and Sam had to get out of there.

At the back door he’d hesitated, fingers clutching the handles of his crutches tightly, and took a deep breath. Jo chuckled in chorus with a canned laughtrack from the TV and he let the sound of it to move his feet over the threshold. In the yard, he turned his face up to the star dotted night sky and picked out the constellations. When they were younger, Dean ‘borrowed’ a book on constellations from a library somewhere in Colorado and they’d spent the next year finding the connect-the-dot images in the night sky. Nights on end spent in companionable silence, staring into the inky blackness above. The neighbors next door were in their kitchen arguing, the sound of their disagreement loud through the open windows. He tried to tune them out and concentrate on the pinpoints of light overhead, but every once in a while a word or crash would break through. He winced when ‘whore’ was followed by shattering glass.

Mr. Anderson must have found out about the yard boy. Sam had actually rolled his eyes at the cliché of it all when he’d looked out the bathroom window and saw Mrs. Anderson on her knees deep-throating Seth as he lay sprawled on the chaise lounge, the tanned boy’s lawnmower quietly forgotten by the shed.

A harsh cackle preceded something that sounded suspiciously like ‘closet case’ and ‘neighbor boy’ and more glass breaking. So, Mrs. Anderson had noticed her husband checking Dean out just like Sam had. Last week, Sam had been admiring the view out his bedroom window of Dean’s ass in his tightest pair of jeans while his brother worked under the hood of Ellen’s Mustang. Mr. Anderson pulled in his driveway and almost ran into the closed garage door, trying to get a look as well.

Sam sighed as the screaming reached a fevered pitch and wondered idly after a few more breakables were sacrificed to their anger whether they’d have anything left to divide in the divorce. He focused back on the sky, easily picking out Andromeda and Phoenix. Just as he was beginning to look for Cassiopeia, a noise by the oak tree behind him caught his attention.

He turned toward the sound, thinking that Jo had followed him outside to taunt him some more, and a hand clamped over his mouth while a strongly muscled forearm slid around his neck. He was tugged roughly back against his assailant, forcing him to lose his balance and drop the crutch from under his left arm. He was walked backward into the dark recesses under the tree, the threatening pressure on his throat an effective guide.

Hope bubbled in his chest when the back door squeaked open. As much as he never wanted to see Jo again, the thought of her loud voice and big mouth had his eyes volleying to the door. Backlit by the light from the kitchen, Sam saw the outline of someone better than his teenaged tormentor. Missouri moved to the edge of the porch, hands on her hips, and her shrewd eyes surveyed the yard. Opening his mouth to bite the hand covering it, Sam stopped cold when the pressure constricting his airway lifted only to be replaced lightning fast by the edge of a knife.

“You, then her, and I won’t even bat an eye.” The threat was growled low, voice not meant to carry, and the knife broke the thin skin causing a trickle of blood to run down the side of Sam’s throat.

Sam covered his teeth with his lips and closed his mouth slowly, giving his attacker no reason to mistake it as anything more. Mrs. Anderson’s high pitched shriek was accompanied by what could only be the rest of her dishes hitting the ground and Missouri’s piercing gaze snapped to the blue house’s open window. Sam stood still and waited for the older woman to go back in the house, blood dripping down the front of his neck and sweat running down the back. Finally, Missouri rubbed her temples, turned and opened the door.

“Must just be the Andersons fighting again. Go ahead and deal the cards, Ellen.” She looked back outside once more then retreated into the house.

“Good boy,” the voice purred, “I’m going to take my hand off your mouth. You even think about screaming…” A twitch of the knife finished the sentence, lengthening the knick already there and sending another rivulet of blood down the long column of skin.

“Wh - why?” Sam stuttered softly when the hand disappeared.

Something sharp pricked his arm and a warmth he’d hoped to never feel again spread from the injection site. His heart sped faster, pumping the drug through his system at an accelerated rate, and his limbs became heavy. The knife was gone and strong arms enveloped his chest. He thought to call out, but the idea was buried under the haze overtaking his mind. As his eyes drooped, he heard the growling voice whisper in his ear, “Because you’re mine.”

Sam’s breathing sped up, a mantra of not again circled his brain in an endless loop as he looked around to see where he was.

“Calm down, Samuel. You’re safe now. It was naughty of you to run away like that, but I see your brother,” he sneered the word, “has taken good care of you in my absence. “ Reece ran his free hand down over the splint on Sam’s hand and the cast on his leg, fingers brushing over the sensitive skin of his inner thigh. “I warned you about leaving me, Samuel. I told you it wouldn’t be tolerated,” ghosting his fingers up from the fiberglass brace, he grasped Sam’s groin in a tight grip, “and now you must be punished.”

Sam whimpered at the crushing grip and a grateful whine escaped his lips when it was released. Reece grabbed the loop of rope extending over Sam’s hands and drug the boy from the floor. Placing weight on his casted leg, Sam collapsed as pain shot up the limb, the healing bone not ready for the added pressure.

Reece jerked the rope, jarring Sam. “Get up!”

Sam lay on the hard concrete, panting.

“Fine,” Reece snarled, “you want to lie on the ground like a dog. I’ll treat you like one.” He tugged on the rope, the hemp coiled around Sam’s arms tightening and abrading the skin, and pulled the younger man across the floor.

Sam’s arms were yanked up, the muscles stretched far enough to make Sam gasp. He looked up to see Reece slide the loop of rope over a hook hanging down from a pulley welded to one of the metal trusses. Gears churned to life and the hook rose toward the ceiling lifting his body from the ground. The harsh fibers of the rope bit into his arms as he dangled from the hook, the toe of his sneaker barely touched the cement floor to relieve some of the weight from his arms and broken leg. Sam swallowed down cries, turning them into muffled whimpers.

Reece circled him, smile predatory and smug. “Punishment first, Samuel, then we’ll play.”

Sam saw the glint of light on metal right before the knife sliced through the air.

Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out.

Dean stood on the front lawn and reminded his lungs how to work. He started at the sound of a door slamming and saw Mr. Anderson storm down his front stairs, suitcase in tow. The door banged again and Mrs. Anderson stood on the porch, hand clasping the neck of her bathrobe to keep it closed.

“Don’t you fucking walk away from me, Roger. Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

“Away from you, you hateful bitch!” Mr. Anderson opened the trunk of his car and shoved his suitcase inside, slamming the trunk shut. Rounding to the driver side, he jerked the door open before turning back to his wife. “See if Seth can support your Prada habit. With what that little shit makes you’ll be lucky to wear Jaclyn Smith’s new line from K-Mart.”

“You bastard.” She picked up one of the pots that lined the railing and threw it, baked clay shattering on the pavement. “Why don’t you go next door and see if Dean will suck your shriveled up dick.” She pointed toward Missouri’s house for emphasis. Her eyes widened in horror at seeing the subject of her insult standing watching the interaction. Mr. Anderson’s face was a mixture of mortification and embarrassment.

Dean stood still, shock freezing him in place. Sam had sworn for the last week that Mr. Anderson was after Dean. So far the older neighbor had cornered him twice - once taking out the garbage and once checking the mail. Small talk that lingered long enough to be awkward. Dean wrote it off as coincidence and Sam’s mind needing something other than daytime TV to keep it occupied.

Guess Sammy was right.

That thought thawed him and he spun away from the inconsequential argument to go in the house. He could care less about the Andersons and their mutual love of young cock. He had people he needed to talk to and Roger and Marise Anderson were not them.

Banging through the back door, he found Ellen standing by the stove with her phone cradled between her ear and shoulder. She jumped slightly at the screen door slamming against the casing, but continued with her conversation.

“Missing, Bobby, as in gone. Dean believes that Reece got him.” Ellen lips curled down into a frown. “Yes, Bobby. We’ve been watching him.” She sighed heavily, the stress lines around her eyes deepening. “I don’t know how.” Her voice was layered thickly with regret and sadness.

Dean turned his attention to the black lady seated at the kitchen table. Missouri’s head was in her hands, eyes closed and fingertips rubbing her temples in slow, steady circles. The remnants of the earlier game were still strewn across the surface and Dean could make out the King, Queen and Jack of hearts fanned out under the woman’s elbow. Missouri blinked her eyes open, the dark brown staring directly into Dean’s bottle green.

“I’m sorry.”

“How could you not know?” Dean’s voice was harsh, his anger edging the tone in broken glass. “You’re supposed to be a psychic, how could you miss someone sneaking into your own backyard and stealing Sam right out from under your nose?” He held out his hands out beseechingly, begging her for answers. When she didn’t offer anything more than a sympathetic glance, his eyes darkened to an acid green. “What, were the spirits not in a talkative mood or is it all just smoke and mirrors because I gotta’ tell you lady, I’m not impressed.”

“Bobby, I gotta’ go. Just hurry.” Ellen was already lowering the phone as she spoke the words, her mind taking in what Dean had just said. An electronic beep indicated the call was disconnected.

“Dean, I’m so sorry. I’m not perfect. The Anderson’s have been fighting for hours, radiating so much anger and hate. When emotions run that high they’re all I can feel, like static that clouds everything else. Add that to Jo and Sam’s fight and I was overwhelmed.” Her dark eyes were wide, reflecting every emotion that was boiling Dean from the inside out - anger, regret, guilt.

Dean’s shoulders slumped and he dropped into one of the kitchen chairs, fingers tightening in his hair. Warm arms surrounded him and soft words “we’ll find him, we’ll find him” were cooed in his ears. He shrugged out of the embrace and took a deep breath. He didn’t have time for self-pity. Reece had Sam and Dean was going to get him back. He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed the first name in his contacts.

As the phone rang, Jo sauntered into the kitchen and took in the solemn people gathered there. She crossed to the sink, taking a glass from the drainer and filling it with water from the tap, questions in her eyes.

“Dean-o!” The voice was almost drowned out by the background noise, loud music mixed with a multitude of voices all talking at once and underlaid by glasses clinking.

“Ash, I need a favor. Reece took Sam.” At those words, Jo paled and the hand holding the glass shook.

“What do you mean Reece took Sam? How? When?” The noise lowered in volume gradually until a soft snick dampened it completely.

“Doesn’t matter. You were able to track Sam’s cell phone last time. If I give you his new number, can you do it again?” Dean’s eyes never left the blonde girl at the sink, the water in her glass sloshing back and forth under the tremors coursing through her arms. Her face was too guilty for someone who’d played no part in Sam’s disappearance.

“Yeah, of course.” Ash’s normally affable voice was gone, the hippie pretense dropped and replaced by a no-nonsense air that Dean would never have believed the man possessed. “Like last time, it won’t be exact but should be within a few blocks.”

Dean rattled off Sam’s new number, repeating it twice to ensure that Ash had it copied correctly. “Thanks, man. Call me when you get something.”

“I’ll get right on it.”

Dean ended the call, his eyes never wavering from Jo as he sat the phone on the table. “What did you do?” He snarled the accusation at her and reveled in the flinch it caused. Things had seemed off earlier and now he knew she was hiding something.

“N-nothing,” she stammered under his penetrating gaze.

“You’re lying.” At her head shake, he smiled ferally. “I know lies, Jo. I do it professionally. You did something, didn’t you? Something to Sam that made him go outside.” He stood and stalked over to the petite girl. “What did you do?” he repeated, menacingly.

“Dean!” Ellen’s tone was sharp with reprimand, but he refused to back down.

“I-I,” Jo stuttered. “It - it was nothing. We were just talking. That’s all.”

Not averting his eyes, Dean tilted his head in Missouri’s direction. “You said that Jo and Sam argued earlier?” He didn’t wait for confirmation before he continued. “Do you know what they were fighting about?”

“No, not really. That was around the time the Andersons really starting mud-slinging. All I got was the word ‘cinnamon’, Sam hurting and him repeating ‘Big Red’.”

Realization hit and Dean saw red. “You little bitch.” He lunged forward, one hand coming up to encircle her throat.

“Dean, let go of my daughter.” A gun cocked near his head, the barrel steady in his peripheral sight.

Slowly, he uncurled his fingers and backed away from the scared girl, hands held up in surrender. A flick of a thumb released the hammer and the gun lowered, index finger still on the trigger in case it was needed. “What is going on?” Ellen’s shrewd eyes flicked between Jo and Dean.

“The other night your daughter attacked me when I came back from the bar. Did you tell Sam that? Did you tell him that you kissed me? That I turned you away? Did you tell him what I said?” Dean’s eyes blazed and Jo closed hers against the hellfire she saw there.

“Joanna?” Ellen sounded blind-sided, she looked at Jo like she’d never seen her before. “Why would you do that?”

“I-I.” Tears streaked down Jo’s face and Dean curled his fist at his side. “I wanted Dean for myself. I th-thought…”

“You didn’t think. Now, Sam’s gone. Back in that monster’s hands. If anything happens to him, I won’t be responsible for my actions.”

“Dean, please,” Jo begged, stepping toward him, saltwater dripping from her jaw.

“You really don’t want to be here right now.”

Jo came up short at the calm rage in his tone. Slowly, she slunk from the room, leaving Dean with two shocked women and his own anger. He snatched his keys from the counter and headed for the front door. Grabbing his jacket, he heard Ellen and Missouri follow him.

“Where are you going? Your Dad and Bobby should be here in a few hours.” Ellen looked worried, her eyes darting up the stairs where Jo’s sobs could be heard.

“I can’t stay here and do nothing. I’m going to drive around and see if I can find anything.” He shoved his arms in the sleeves and flipped the collar down.

“I really think we should all stay put until they arrive.” Missouri put a hand on his arm, but he jerked away.

“I can’t. I’m sorry. Why don’t you call some of the neighbors and ask if they noticed any strange cars on the street today? Maybe someone saw something. If you find out anything, call me. I’ll have my cell.”

Sam was tired. The calf of his good leg ached from the strain of supporting his body on his tiptoes and trembled as the muscle quickly fatigued. Reece had used his knife to strip Sam of his clothing then a small saw to remove the structured fiberglass brace on his damaged leg. Since, the man had been content to spend the last however long leaning against the wall and staring at Sam’s naked form dangling like a worm on a hook.

He’d taken stock of his cavernous prison, mind cataloguing the exits and possible weapons. Large letters were painted on the wall over what appeared to be an office, faded to a dull rust brown by the passage of time - Lawrence Metal Works. Reece had never taken him out of Lawrence. Sam’s heart lightened at the thought of his brother so close. He could see three exits - two doors, one at the front and the other at the rear with a large retractable bay door for deliveries. Two walls were lined with stacks of thick iron rebar, bundled together in groups of ten by thick metal bands. Metal racks spanned a third wall from floor to ceiling, each shelf containing layers of sheet metal. Short sections of rebar were welded to the rack support beams and large metal shears hung from them by their handles, secured to the racks by a chain. The gray concrete floor was swept clean and the tool boxes against the last wall were padlocked shut. Nothing that would make an effective weapon.

Sam tried to rotate his toes to relieve some of the ache and cried out when the overtaxed calf knotted into a cramp. The leg buckled forcing the rope to take all of Sam’s weight. His arms and chest stretched, the intercostal muscles pulling on his healing ribs and stealing his breath. He tried to stand on his broken leg, but screamed when the pain only transferred from his upper body to his lower. He lifted his leg and hung from his arms again, the pain moving with the change in position.

“You lasted longer than I thought you would,” Reece righted himself and paced toward Sam. He ran his hand over Sam’s bare skin, fingers digging into sore ribs. “So strong, Samuel. In both mind and body. A lesser man would have given in long before now. I know it hurts, angel, but what’s punishment without pain? We must learn from our mistakes and pain,” he kicked at Sam’s injured leg, “is the most effective teacher. Don’t worry, though, once you’d atoned for your sins, we’ll be able to play.” He ran his palm over Sam’s naked ass. “You remember how much I like to play don’t you, Samuel?”

Sam shifted to legs again, lasting less than a minute before the good one spasmed painfully and the bad one left him nauseous from the pain. He dangled from his arms, grey danced around the edges of his vision as his body fought desperately for air. At least in the dark there was peace, a respite from the pain.

Part B http://jcrgirl.livejournal.com/21325.html

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