Spn_J2 BB 2018: Turnabout
Fic title: Turnabout
Author name:roxymissrose
Artist name:yanyann
Genre:wincest
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: hard R
Word count: 43,755
Summary:Sam's been the quiet one all his life; the shy, steady one. Until his whole quiet, ordered life spins out of control with the appearance of the brother he hadn't seen in years, not since he'd been locked up for the murder of their father...and the attempted murder of a young Sam.
Written for the 2018 spn_j2_bigbang
part one a + part one b + part two + part three a + part three b + part four
Thank you for picking me, and thank you for the lovely art, yanyann! We made it!
Click here for art!
AO3 link!
Part One
Shee-shirck...chunk-chunk...
"Nhu…" Sam's eyes fluttered open. He felt the oddest sensation, as if the hair on the nape of his neck was standing up. It sent creepy little shivers through him...but what had woken him was a sound, something out of the ordinary. He listened hard for a minute, but it didn't repeat so he reached backward, searching the bed for Jess. She wasn't there; her side wasn't even warm. He stared into the darkness, frowning, before common sense caught up with him.
She's in the bathroom, dolt. He smiled slightly at his instant anxious response-milder these days than they'd been when he was younger. Mom had insisted his panic attacks were something he'd grow out of, and she'd been pretty much right.
He turned in the bed, digging back under the covers with a sigh, ready to drop back into sleep, when it occurred to him-there was no light coming from the bathroom. The bathroom was in plain view from the open bedroom doorway, and it was dark, no light rimming the bottom of the door. And while that chunk-chunk sound was the ancient radiators trying to push out heat, that other noise he'd heard definitely sounded...sneaky.
Sam slid out of bed, grabbing the bat he kept at his bedside-his pet Louisville Slugger, Jess called it. Whatever. Having the bat at hand let him sleep at night, had helped him feel safe since he was a little kid. Besides, even Jess had to admit the neighborhood they lived in was a little-a lot-sketchy.
He padded out into the hallway, tip-toeing as quietly as a stealthy mouse, for once not tripping over his bike where it leaned against the hallway wall. Enjoying that little victory, he sneaked into the living room-slash-kitchen doorway, flexing his arms and gearing up to swing the hell out of the bat. Whatever poor sucker was breaking into the Mazur-Moore apartment, they were about to find out that Sam worked out, thank you very damn much.
Sam lowered the bat to his shoulder. He was ninety-nine percent sure it was just Jess grazing through the leftover Chinese from dinner, but he probably shouldn't call her name. Just in case. Didn't want to tip off anyone, especially anyone desperate enough to try and rob a student's crummy place….
He glanced into the big room, but the fridge door was closed, and the blueish-gray light from the street lamps outside revealed the room to be empty.
"Jess?" he whisper-yelled into the room, like not yelling it loudly would make a difference.
CHUNK-CHUNK
He jumped, the freaking hot water running through the pipes almost giving him a heart attack. He took a deep breath, listened to the total silence-and the creaky pipes-and giggled at himself. What a paranoid little fuck he wa-"Holy fuck!"
A shadow detached itself from the wall and lunged straight for him, hands shooting out to catch Sam's arms and whirling him around, sending Louie flying into the dark, where the bat fetched up against something with a hollow, wooden clunk. He had a crazy moment of hoping it hadn't hit any of Jess' million and one tchotchkes, and then the hands tightened on him, pulled him closer to whoever had a hold on him--
"No!" Sam yelled, trying to rip his arms out of the bastard's grip, struggling to remember what he'd learned that one time he took a self-defense class but quit because the guy had been huge, with a thick, salt-and-pepper beard and big, thick, muscles under his skin-tight t-shirt. He'd scared Sam more than the nebulous threat of some asshole trying to mug him someday-
"Let go, you fuck!" He and his attacker both staggered when a rag rug slid under their feet, and so did the other guy. Sam took advantage of it and kicked the shit out of the guy's shin, putting his heart and soul into it and ignoring the crackling sounds his toes made. It hurt, but it was worth it. A low voice spit, "Fuck," and the guy's grip weakened for a moment as his leg buckled. Sam had a moment of triumph before bam he was on his back; in fact, he was spread-eagled on the kitchen floor under some potential killer, someone who was laughing in his goddamn face, the punk.
Said punk dropped his head down onto Sam's shoulder, and Sam froze. This was...weird. There was a strange guy between his legs, in a fucked up parody of intimacy. Sam shuddered, suddenly too aware that the guy smelled like leather and sweat, that he was heavy, and Sam was only wearing a shabby pair of tissue-thin sweatpants and a threadbare t-shirt. He could feel the heat radiating off the guy, and some fucked up corner of his mind was volunteering that the punk's crotch was particularly hot and thick, which freaked Sam the hell out, along with pissing him off. This was terrifying, and frankly, mortifying. He wanted desperately to crawl out from under this possible ax-murderer. He wanted to sink through the floor when for some ungodly reason, his dick started to take notice.
Sam opened his eyes wider-not that he'd ever closed them like a little girl hoping that it was all a dream, nope, nope-and noticed the guy was half an inch from his face. Too close to make out anything but his eyes. They were green...or looked green in the dim light. What the hell, Sam asked himself, what was wrong with him, for gods sake, that he even noticed that? What the hell was happening to him?
Punk smiled into his face. It was more than a smile, really. It was a look of...of awe, like Sam had done more than let his pathetic ass get kicked in his own apartment.
"Sam?"
The guy spoke his name. His name! He was a murderous stalker, or maybe a stalking murderer and he knew Sam's name! Or maybe he'd read Sam's name off the bell, Jesus, he'd known that was a bad idea when they'd done it. "Get off me! Who the fuck do you-no, get OFF!" Sam yelled, bucked up hard as he could, certain that he'd throw the guy off. The asshole didn't even budge, just looked vaguely guilty and shamefaced.
"Sam-"
"Don't call me that!"
The guy's face fell for a second, before he smiled slightly. "Okay, fair enough, it's been a few years. You don't remember me, I get it," but the tone of his voice said something else. Sam got the sense that this stranger was disappointed. "Look, I'm going to get up. Promise not to try to kill me if I do?"
"I'm calling the cops," Sam shouted before thinking it through. Really? Tell the axe-murderer you're going to call the cops a little louder, why don't you? Sam chastised himself.
"Dude…" the guy said, and then felt around in the dark, bringing Louie up for Sam to see. Sam instantly went still and silent. The guy rolled off of him, and walked backwards to the wall, feeling around behind himself with his free hand for a light switch. He flicked it, and one of the crappy little wall sconces came on, eking out a little ocher light. It was just enough light to let a body walk around the room without tripping over the bigger pieces of street-harvested furniture. The sconces sucked balls; Jess and he had argued a gazillion times about how stupid those lamps were. House stuff should be practical, not "Oh my god, how completely sweet is that-"
Sam shoved the goofy part of his brain down and concentrated on the fact that he was being held hostage in his own living-kitchen-room. Crappy as the lamp was, his eyesight blurred with the sudden light anyway and he blinked madly to clear them. The guy stayed put, and when Sam could see clearly, he bit the inside of his cheek to stifle a noise.
This guy was...wow. Sam was definitely not into guys, but this guy was...wow. How do you look like that, and end up doing this, he wondered? Not enough underwear ads to shoot?
The guy grinned. "C'mon, Sam, get up off the floor. Come here, sit down."
Sam hurried to do what the guy wanted-no sense in pissing him off, seeing as he was the one with the bat in hand. He settled himself on the couch, nudging a stack of textbooks out of the way. He managed not to grab Jess' grandma's afghan off the couch back and pull it around himself like a security blanket, but it was close.
"So...I wish it didn't have to be like this," the guy said, "but I couldn't figure out any other way to do it. I guess you don't remember me, but I'm Dean. Your big brother."
Dean? Dean? Sam gaped at the guy. Dean..."Dean?" Sam felt like he was on a hamster wheel made of glass. He couldn't stop repeating the word...Dean. Dean who'd tried to kill him, had killed their father; holy fuck, he was at the mercy of a patricide, a murderer, the child-killer who'd tried to murder Sam when Sam was just a defenseless little kid.
The air twisted around him, coiling up tighter and tighter in his chest. He-Dean-the killer was supposed to have been imprisoned for life-what-how was he here now? Black spots crowded out the light, the air coiled in his chest went solid as rock, he heaved and heaved but nothing came up. Tremors rocked him, shaking the table. Across from him, the guy, the supposed-to-be his brother, stared at him, a frown drawing his eyebrows tight. "Sam? Sammy?"
Sam managed to push words past the block in his throat. "D-don't kill me," he gasped, and the man jumped back, hands going out to shield himself, as if Sam had threatened to kill him instead.
"Sam, it's me, your brother!"
Yeah, exactly, that's what he was afraid of. Sam felt himself sliding sideways into the dark, terror following him down, no, no, no on a repeat loop in his head.
He came to still on the couch. The-Dean-was sitting in the chair opposite him, shadows obscuring his expression. Their tiny studio apartment looked even tinier with the guy hulking in the shadows, taking up air. He had a picture frame in his hand-Sam's only picture of his bio mother and father. He quickly glanced up and saw that Mom and Pop were untouched, still hanging in their place on the wall behind the chair. "Don't touch that," he snapped and cursed himself again. Was he trying to get this psycho to kill him?
Dean looked sad, and lay the picture face-down on the table. "I'm not here to kill you," he said.
"Oh sure then, it's all okay, I'm feeling safe as can be-you killed my father!"
"I'm not going to kill you," Dean said, like that was really going to sooth Sam's terror-and fury. "You just don't understand. Not yet."
"I'll never understand," Sam shouted. "How could you-you were a kid! And you killed--"
Dean dropped his head, his hand rubbing hard against his forehead, "Just...shut up, okay? Just, just shut up for a moment."
Sam wedged himself against the couch back, fought off another panic attack by blinking hard to center himself. He was counting blinks and his heart was slowing down until a sudden terrifying thought almost brought him off the couch.
Where was Jess?
The realization hit him like a physical blow. Jess wasn't here. Where was she? "Where's Jess, you sonofabitch? I swear to god, if you hurt Jess, I'll fucking kill you!"
"I haven't touched her-her, right?" Dean asked, and Sam glared at him. What was that supposed to mean? Did he think Sam was gay?
Dean smiled a little, like Sam's affront amused him, the bastard. The smile dropped and he told Sam, "We didn't see anyone here but you. I don't know anything about a Jess." He took his phone out, flipped it open and punched some buttons. Frowning as he looked down, eventually he shook his head, and slid it back into his pocket.
"Not like Mr. I-got-this-ya-idjit Singer to fuck up like that," he muttered quietly.
"What do you know about my girlfriend, you fucking stalker freak? I'm not kidding, I will-" Sam scrambled up off the couch, ramming his knees into the rattan coffee table. A candle rocked and fell over, Sam's books, Jess' sketchbook, all of it sliding to the floor. Dean didn't move, he just gently tapped the Louisville Slugger against his knee and stared Sam in the eye. Sam could see the guy was getting angry but trying to tamp it down-he'd seen the same expression on Jess plenty of times. The guy finally dropped his eyes and laughed, a bitter little bark.
"Now, Sam. Is that anyway to talk to your big brother?"
"You're not, you can't be…" Sam knew the unspoken 'I don't want you to be' vibrated in the air between them.
"Sorry, kid. I'm Dean Winchester, and you're Sam Winchester, my baby brother."
Baby brother. The words made Sam want to throw up. "I'm Sam Mazur, and all I know about you is that you're batshit crazy."
"Okay," Dean leaned back into the chair, eyes narrowed, dark underneath them. He looked exhausted, like he was only keeping his eyes open by sheer force of will. "Okay."
He got up, Sam flinched back as he walked past him. Dean picked up the fallen books and papers and Jess' candle, and dropped them on the table, ignoring the way Sam jumped. He flicked on all the lights in the place, killing the shadows. He came back to the chair, giving Sam a better look at the whack job who claimed he was his brother and holy shit. No way they were related, this guy, this fucking, insane Dean Winchester really was hot as hell. Shit, straight as Sam was, even he could see this guy was, holy fuck, movie star handsome: light brown hair done in some aggressive, macho haircut that highlighted his jaw and high cheekbones, full, dark lips, wide shoulders...his eyes were green, and Sam shuddered when he saw them; they were just the shade that Sam had always had a thing for.
Dean dropped down into the chair again. When he saw that Sam hadn't moved so much as an inch, he raised an eyebrow and shook his head, like Sam had somehow disappointed him. He pulled an old-fashioned, military-style lighter out of his jacket pocket, started flicking it open and shut repeatedly.
Sam gaped at him. The full light, with Dean parked right across from him, showed him something else as well. Dean was scary. He was beautiful and scary. Sam swallowed, and chased beautiful out of his head. Right now, he was really glad that Jess wasn't here, because Dean was obviously a nut job. The guy had weird looking tats up and down his neck, and some piercings in his ear, too, that looked wild. A skull...and maybe a trident? A weird star and a squiggly thing, and...oh fuck. Dean was a devil worshiper.
Oh god. That was it. He had come to kill Sam, to perform some kind of satanic rite over his body. He eyed the blank spot where Jess' crucifix had hung, until some drunken night he didn't remember, he'd knocked it off the wall and broke it. Why wasn't it hanging there now that he could use it-
And do what with it, beat Dean unconscious with a little bit of wood-look plastic?
Dean was silent, just sitting in the ratty orange chair, playing with that silver lighter and...staring at him, smiling softly, like he couldn't get enough of Sam. And Sam...Sam startled when he realized he actually remembered that look on Dean's face. The memory unfolded like a kid's paper fortune-teller; a smaller, softer, face, bigger eyes, thinner nose, longer, blonder hair...freckles. Sam swallowed. He hadn't thought about his brother in years, not really. If asked, he'd have said he remembered nothing about him, just vague, pale images of a blond kid...who'd wanted to kill him.
What happened back then? Sam wondered, Why did you want to hurt me?
"Okay. So. I'm your brother. Whether you like it or not. And yeah. I killed our Dad. In a way."
Sam stared, stared, stared, like his eyes were frozen open. It was like Dean was in some other room talking to some other guy, because Sam was here, and the only thing he could hear now was his own breath from a long, long way away, his heart beating wildly out of time. He scrambled over the back of the couch, knocking pillows awry, crashing into the piles of books stacked behind the couch.
He had to get out, he had to get away; he was running for the hallway, running for his life, but this time around, he didn't miraculously avoid the bike-he hit it. He collided with the wall, and the bike's old fashioned rat-trap pedals ripped a streak down his shin, breaking skin through the too-thin old sweatpants. "Shit, shit," he moaned, crawling towards the door, fear killing any embarrassment as he screamed like a baby for help.
"Fuck!"
He heard Dean curse as he hit the bike as well, but of course, the bastard managed to leap over it like a fucking gazelle, leather coat flowing out like a motherfucking cape, son of a bitch.
Sam made it to the door, ready to fling it open but the chain was still on-how the fuck had Dean gotten into his apartment? and it flung him back. He could hear the downstairs neighbor shout something about shutting the fuck up, it was ass-crack in the morning. Sam grabbed an umbrella from the coat-hooks, and through some incredible confluence of sheer desperation and dumb luck, managed to connect with Dean's temple just as he grabbed him. Sam felt Dean's hold weaken, felt a split second of victory-and then he saw Dean's face.
Really saw Dean's face.
His lips were thinned, drawn back, baring white, white teeth, his eyes were snapping; there was no sign of the almost fond look he'd worn through the evening; it was gone like it never existed. Sam was looking into a deadly stranger's eyes, one whose whole body radiated rage and the capability of delivering a world of hurt. A thin rill of blood snaked down his temple, outlining his cheek...somehow, Sam had gotten a solid hit in. He also got a glimpse of Dean's fist drawing back, the light glinting off something thin and silvery clenched in it-
"Nooo," Sam moaned, he didn't want to die, not like this, spread out in his dingy hallway, where Jess would open the door and find his corpse...he didn't want his brother to kill him...all the nightmares he'd ever had, coming true right there. He felt a stabbing pain, followed by something soft settling on his cheek. A feeling of loss followed him under.
"God, I'm so sorry, Sammy," he heard dimly-Dean's voice soaked with apology and sadness.
~o0o~
Darkness….Sam rolled to the side, and his head smacked up against a solid, cold surface. His eyes fluttered open; through glass, he saw what might be trees flashing by in the darkness. Something smooth under him, cold where his hands lay. He could feel a gentle rocking, there was a sound like...tires on the road. He was in a car. The smell of close quarters well used filled his nose: take-out, sweat, musty carpet, and pine-scented car trees. "Uuunhhhg," rolled out of his mouth-it was supposed to be, 'where am I?" but his tongue sort of flopped around uselessly and he couldn't feel his lips.
"Hey, hey, relax, Sammy, you're safe."
Safe? Kidnapped by his insane brother who tried to kill him, oh, but no, he was safe. Sam blinked back a terrified tear, fell into the memory of how Dean had tried to kill him-but it wouldn't come, not like before. He saw a kid, barely taller than the dresser he was pushed up against, and saw his Dad...swinging a gun towards Dean? Sam blinked again, and a black cloud covered Dad and Dean. Sam reared away from the window, catching sight of his reflection in the glass, but he was seeing Dean's face, fake little Dean, who a lonely Sam used to pretend in daydreams, loved him and treated him like a treasure. Sam dropped back to the window, a rolling fog of exhaustion pulling him down again. He heard Dean's voice, again, and felt his hand drift over his cheek, the multiple bracelets on Dean's wrist tickling him.
"Sleep, Sam. Nothing we gotta do until we're there."
But where was there, Sam wondered muzzily before gratefully giving in to the pull.
~o0o~
They were in a motel. He'd seen some crummy motels in his time-hey, he was a student, after all-but this one took the prize.
They were in a narrow, dingy room. There were two doubles separated by a flimsy particleboard nightstand, a single lamp that tried to throw some light, but it was an uphill fight against the dark brown black-out drapes.
He moved his head and winced; it ached like he'd taken a kick from a mule. He ran fingers over the back of his head, and yeah, he found a small lump, but no blood, nothing to write home about. He'd given himself worse getting out of the shower. He smacked his lips, rolled his head carefully, slowly, on his shoulders-and froze. There in a chair across from him was Dean. Well, of course he'd be there, Dean was the one who'd stolen him from home. This waking up to Dean was getting to be a really horrible habit.
"You drugged me," Sam snapped, anger overriding fear-until it came back in an avalanche. "You stabbed me with a, a needle full of drugs! Did you-oh my god, did you-?"
Horror shot painful spikes throughout his body. He was afraid to move, to find out that, oh god, no…he moved carefully, afraid to find that he'd been assaulted while he'd been out….
Dean fixed him with that expression of concern mixed with worry that was becoming all too familiar a look on him. He stood abruptly, frowning when Sam yelped and jumped back. "What's wrong, dude?"
He studied Sam, and Sam couldn't help sliding his hands under his ass, lip trembling...after a second Sam could see the light bulb blinking on for Dean, sparing Sam from having to spell it out.
"Oh, fuck, ew!" Concern morphed into horrified disgust. "Brothers, you sick asshole! Besides the fact that you were fucking unconscious!"
Sam gaped at this bizarre person calling himself his brother. Really? He was offended that Sam thought Dean wouldn't care about lack of consent, which was a fucking laugh seeing that he'd kidnapped Sam. And not only that-"You did drug me, though!"
"Just a little," Dean said, and had the nerve to give him a wide-eyed, apologetic look. "I wouldn't have drugged you if I thought I could get you out without a fuss."
"How does you telling me that make it better?" Sam shook his head, biting his lip. He tried not to be obvious about scoping out the room, looking for a door, a window that opened, anything. Dean watched him look and just smiled, it was a blank, empty smile that did fuck-all to comfort Sam. Sam dropped his eyes...he was still in his tatty t-shirt and torn sweat pants, with an obvious streak of blood down one leg, and no shoes. Great. They were in the kind of place where his ensemble didn't raise an eyebrow, apparently. As far as Sam could tell, Dean was still and calm in his chair.
So, there was no possibility of escape unless he could knock Dean out-and remembering their fight made him cross that off the list-or sneak out some other way. Maybe the bathroom had a window.
"How about some water?" Dean asked, and headed to the bathroom. Sam glanced in the open doorway; no window visible. Looking back at the room's door, he did a double take. Dean was busy in the bathroom and he was here alone and the motherfucking door was unlocked.
He jumped off the bed and sprinted across the room, slamming the door open and racing across the parking lot, praying all the way it wasn't a pit full of broken glass (and used needles, judging by the looks of the place). He put his head down and put his whole soul into it. He'd almost gone out for track at Stanford, and he knew he was fast.
Feet pounding across the cold asphalt, Sam ran for all he was worth towards his goal-the thin line of shrubs at the far end of the lot.
He didn't hear anything behind him, but wasn't stupid enough to waste time looking. He felt gravel shift under his feet, gave a jump when he reached the curb, and landed on cool grass. Another push took him across the grass strip and closer to the shrubs. He could see the highway through them. If he got out to the highway, for sure somebody would stop. Dean at least wouldn't pursue him out there, not without risking getting caught himse-
Sam hit the ground hard, impact headache crashing through his brain and leaving him momentarily blind and deaf.
"Good showing, kid, but no one's ever got past me."
Sam went straight from survival mode into major-freak out. He was done, he was screwed, this maniac was going to strangle him or knife him or do something equally deadly. He threw his head back and started screaming. Or would have anyway-he barely got out one shriek before Dean clocked him, wrapped his open hand around Sam's mouth and squeezed it shut.
"You can scream all you want, Cinderella, but this joint is full of assholes screaming all the time."
Sam fought against his damn brain wanting to check out-he struggled against Dean's hold, but he had to admit finally that he'd lost. Dean was the winner, and it was only a matter of whether Dean iced him in the parking lot or in the motel room. A harsh whisper yanked him out of his misery.
"Damn it, Sammy, how many times I gotta tell ya, I'm not tryin' to hurt you. Or kill you, for fuck's sake. Now please, get up and come back to the room. You can get away with a lot in these dumps, but sooner or later, someone's gonna find their balls and come looking-and we might not like it."
Sam stiffened, then nodded. Dean helped him up, and turned him back to the room, all without letting Sam's mouth loose. Talented, he thought bitterly.
Back in the ashtray-scented room, Sam sat on the uncomfortably slick comforter, his foot propped up on the room's trashcan. Apparently, adrenaline helped to mask the sensation of broken glass embedding itself in a foot. He bit his lip, and manfully struggled not to cry. This was one of the worst nights of his life, almost as bad as the night he'd watched his big brother kill his dad. And now he was stuck in a motel room with that killer, who at the moment was crouching over his foot as he carefully, almost fucking reverently, cleaned and bandaged it.
A tear escaped Sam-his control was fading fast-and dripped off his chin, darkening a little spot on his sweatpants leg. He was confused about what was happening, and exhausted with fighting fear. It was all too fucking much. He broke.
"I don't even know what happened to Jess," he howled. "Why won't you tell me what you did to her? You keep saying you aren't going to kill me, so…" he sobbed, his voice catching, and the shame of crying in front of this murderer made him cover his face. "Did you hurt her? Please, tell me."
Dean leaned back, rubbed his hands on the alcohol-soaked gauze, dropped it in the bowl of water by his knee.
"Sam...look, I never touched her, okay? As far as me and Uncle Bobby knew, you had no one." He held up his hand, even though Sam hadn't opened his mouth, and said, "I'll explain about Bobby later. We saw you, plenty of times, even if I-we-didn't always get what we were seeing. But...never saw a girlfriend. She wasn't there when I checked your place out, I didn't get a sense of her."
Dean got up, lowered Sam's foot gently to the carpet. He picked up the trashcan and walked it back to the desk. "I've got a lot to tell you, and you're not going to believe any of it. That's why I'd rather wait until we get to Missouri's first." He took the bowl to the bathroom and dumped it. Sam gingerly put weight on his foot. It wasn't bad, so he stood, and followed Dean to the bathroom while keeping as much space as possible between them.
"We're going to Missouri? Why, what's in Missouri?"
"No, we're not...Missouri the person, not the state. She's based in Kansas, where my-our-mother died."
Sam's eyes went wide with horror as he backed away from Dean. "You killed her too…"
"No, you idiot, I was fucking four years old when she died!" Dean shouted, the last bit of his patience burned off, Sam guessed. Well, excuse him for not being able to keep his terror to himself. "God! I didn't kill anyone in our family, okay? I don't give a fuck what you were told-I didn't purposely kill anyone!"
Dean reached out for him, and Sam flinched at his touch. He pushed Sam back on the bed, and Sam scrambled backwards up to the headboard, not taking his eyes off Dean for one second. He watched Dean raise his face to the ceiling, mutter something. He saw that Dean's eyes were glassy, the way his chin wobbled for a moment, and for some insane reason felt a pinprick of guilt.
"Can you just-Sam, can you just go to sleep? Just...be quiet, okay?" Dean turned away, grabbed a broken-down, old duffle bag from the other bed and slammed through the bathroom door.
"Jesus," Sam whispered. "What am I gonna do? How do I get out of this…?" His foot was raw and painful, but Dean had cleaned it gently, and pressed bandages on it as carefully as he could. Sam was confused, but beginning to believe maybe he might survive this after all...Dean did seem to care, in some way. Dean was careful with him, even though he'd kidnapped him. Right, right, kidnapped. Loving brothers probably didn't kidnap each other-he might be an only child, but he was pretty sure that was not one of the ways that siblings pranked each other….
~o0o~
Sam opened his eyes, blinking slowly and peering around.
Waking up to terror was getting old. He was somewhere he didn't know, in what looked to be the world's crummiest motel, with the hottest-and scariest-guy he'd ever seen in his life. And he was hungry enough to eat the bed he was...handcuffed to? What the everloving fuck?
"FUCK."
He automatically yanked against the restraint, and the cuffs bit in, drawing a yelp out of him. God damn it! He was cuffed to the crappy bed, he had to piss like a racehorse, and where the fuck was Dean?
He pulled again, yanked and shook the metal bracelet. He pulled hard, until the pain made him stop. TV had told him often enough that he wouldn't be able to pull the handcuff loose. Sam remembered something involving the main character using blood as a lubricant, and slipping his hand out of the cuffs...or was it that he broke, or dislocated his thumb and then bled and then pulled loose..."Oh, fuck me."
Yeah, none of that was happening. Sure, he could pull until the metal cut, but that wasn't going to be easy to do. They were pretty well made...plus, he doubted he could break his thumb without choking to death on his own vomit, and he didn't have the first idea as to how to dislocate his thumb, but he was sure he wouldn't survive that either….
He had a hand between his legs and his lip pinned in his teeth by the time Dean came back.
"Hey, Sammy, you hungry-oh shit," he gasped and turned bright red, "Sorry for walking in on you like that" -and then smacked his forehead.
"Oh damn, man, I'm sorry!" He tossed a grease-spotted white bag on the table, and quickly unlocked the cuffs.
Sam leaped up and dashed for the bathroom, ignoring the stupid laughter coming out of Dean's fat face. He kneed the door shut, yanked his pants down and groaned loudly, pointing the stream at the back of the bowl, sighing when the urgency to empty his bladder eased. "Damn. Ugh," he moaned. Being able to finally pee had to rank right up there in the World's Top Ten Good Feelings, he thought.
"Sam? There's a toothbrush in there for you, and some toothpaste...they got little bars of soap, and the towels don't look too sketchy."
Sam saw what Dean was talking about. Took the time to brush, and to wash his face and pits and ass. He grimaced at putting the filthy t-shirt back on and looked down at the horrible sweatpants. God, he didn't want to wear them anymore. He wished he had clean clothes-and some fucking shoes--
There was a tap-tap at the door. "Okay to come in?"
"I-hold on." Sam eased the door open, peered through the narrow opening.
"Here...you probably want this stuff. And, not for nothing dude, take a real shower. You're, ah, a little sweaty and, ah, aromatic. You know?"
Sam looked down at what was poking into the doorway. A bag, with...clothes? He snatched it. "Fuck you," he muttered. A kidnapper telling him he stunk. Sam's lip quivered, the goofy part of his brain rolled over and giggled. You do stink dude, can't argue there. He giggled himself, and looked up in time to catch a hopeful eye staring at him.
"I hope this is the right stuff...I brought food too, when you get out."
He shut the door while Sam was still standing there, nodding. He looked in the bag. Oh, god. The guy had raided his closet while he was unconscious. A shiver of horror ran down Sam's back. Christ...there were a pair of sneakers, some socks, underwear...the guy had gone through his underwear drawer….
Sam flipped through the boxers folded on top of the clothes in the bag. It looked like Dean had just grabbed the first layer of stuff in his drawer, he hadn't picked and chosen. That did make him feel marginally better.
He sighed, and sat on the closed toilet, opened the bag wider. There were a few pairs of jeans balled up, a couple of t-shirts. His Stanford hoodie, the first thing he'd bought himself, a kinda lame symbol of his new-found independence. He loved the stupid thing.
"You are so fucking lame." Sam shook his head. Pulled the next item out of the bag. Hunh. One of Jess' plaid shirts, for fuck's sake. His eyes filled. She was probably scared shitless right now. The bathroom light reflected from something shiny in the bag...that small picture of his bio mom and dad. Sam ground the tears out of his eyes-no damn time to cry now-and dumped the rest of the bag onto the floor, hoping for a wallet, his cellphone, something. Nothing. Of course.
He had no options, so he did what Dean said to do, showered and put fresh clothes on. He washed his hair, worked the tangles out of his hair with a comb and the cheap conditioner the motel offered. Personally, he was stunned that there even was conditioner, soap, and shampoo in the crappy little room. He tried not to imagine how cheap and horrible all that stuff must be...pictured huge vats of crummy shampoo being siphoned into the teeny bottles. He wondered if Dean had purposely not given him shaving stuff. Maybe he was afraid that Sam would make a Bic into a weapon. If that was the case, the guy was giving him way too much credit.
"Sam! Your food's getting cold!"
Sam hurried out of the bathroom, leaving weird brain farts and his ragged clothes in the room.
continued in part b
Author name:roxymissrose
Artist name:yanyann
Genre:wincest
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: hard R
Word count: 43,755
Summary:Sam's been the quiet one all his life; the shy, steady one. Until his whole quiet, ordered life spins out of control with the appearance of the brother he hadn't seen in years, not since he'd been locked up for the murder of their father...and the attempted murder of a young Sam.
Written for the 2018 spn_j2_bigbang
part one a + part one b + part two + part three a + part three b + part four
Thank you for picking me, and thank you for the lovely art, yanyann! We made it!
Click here for art!
AO3 link!
Part One
Shee-shirck...chunk-chunk...
"Nhu…" Sam's eyes fluttered open. He felt the oddest sensation, as if the hair on the nape of his neck was standing up. It sent creepy little shivers through him...but what had woken him was a sound, something out of the ordinary. He listened hard for a minute, but it didn't repeat so he reached backward, searching the bed for Jess. She wasn't there; her side wasn't even warm. He stared into the darkness, frowning, before common sense caught up with him.
She's in the bathroom, dolt. He smiled slightly at his instant anxious response-milder these days than they'd been when he was younger. Mom had insisted his panic attacks were something he'd grow out of, and she'd been pretty much right.
He turned in the bed, digging back under the covers with a sigh, ready to drop back into sleep, when it occurred to him-there was no light coming from the bathroom. The bathroom was in plain view from the open bedroom doorway, and it was dark, no light rimming the bottom of the door. And while that chunk-chunk sound was the ancient radiators trying to push out heat, that other noise he'd heard definitely sounded...sneaky.
Sam slid out of bed, grabbing the bat he kept at his bedside-his pet Louisville Slugger, Jess called it. Whatever. Having the bat at hand let him sleep at night, had helped him feel safe since he was a little kid. Besides, even Jess had to admit the neighborhood they lived in was a little-a lot-sketchy.
He padded out into the hallway, tip-toeing as quietly as a stealthy mouse, for once not tripping over his bike where it leaned against the hallway wall. Enjoying that little victory, he sneaked into the living room-slash-kitchen doorway, flexing his arms and gearing up to swing the hell out of the bat. Whatever poor sucker was breaking into the Mazur-Moore apartment, they were about to find out that Sam worked out, thank you very damn much.
Sam lowered the bat to his shoulder. He was ninety-nine percent sure it was just Jess grazing through the leftover Chinese from dinner, but he probably shouldn't call her name. Just in case. Didn't want to tip off anyone, especially anyone desperate enough to try and rob a student's crummy place….
He glanced into the big room, but the fridge door was closed, and the blueish-gray light from the street lamps outside revealed the room to be empty.
"Jess?" he whisper-yelled into the room, like not yelling it loudly would make a difference.
CHUNK-CHUNK
He jumped, the freaking hot water running through the pipes almost giving him a heart attack. He took a deep breath, listened to the total silence-and the creaky pipes-and giggled at himself. What a paranoid little fuck he wa-"Holy fuck!"
A shadow detached itself from the wall and lunged straight for him, hands shooting out to catch Sam's arms and whirling him around, sending Louie flying into the dark, where the bat fetched up against something with a hollow, wooden clunk. He had a crazy moment of hoping it hadn't hit any of Jess' million and one tchotchkes, and then the hands tightened on him, pulled him closer to whoever had a hold on him--
"No!" Sam yelled, trying to rip his arms out of the bastard's grip, struggling to remember what he'd learned that one time he took a self-defense class but quit because the guy had been huge, with a thick, salt-and-pepper beard and big, thick, muscles under his skin-tight t-shirt. He'd scared Sam more than the nebulous threat of some asshole trying to mug him someday-
"Let go, you fuck!" He and his attacker both staggered when a rag rug slid under their feet, and so did the other guy. Sam took advantage of it and kicked the shit out of the guy's shin, putting his heart and soul into it and ignoring the crackling sounds his toes made. It hurt, but it was worth it. A low voice spit, "Fuck," and the guy's grip weakened for a moment as his leg buckled. Sam had a moment of triumph before bam he was on his back; in fact, he was spread-eagled on the kitchen floor under some potential killer, someone who was laughing in his goddamn face, the punk.
Said punk dropped his head down onto Sam's shoulder, and Sam froze. This was...weird. There was a strange guy between his legs, in a fucked up parody of intimacy. Sam shuddered, suddenly too aware that the guy smelled like leather and sweat, that he was heavy, and Sam was only wearing a shabby pair of tissue-thin sweatpants and a threadbare t-shirt. He could feel the heat radiating off the guy, and some fucked up corner of his mind was volunteering that the punk's crotch was particularly hot and thick, which freaked Sam the hell out, along with pissing him off. This was terrifying, and frankly, mortifying. He wanted desperately to crawl out from under this possible ax-murderer. He wanted to sink through the floor when for some ungodly reason, his dick started to take notice.
Sam opened his eyes wider-not that he'd ever closed them like a little girl hoping that it was all a dream, nope, nope-and noticed the guy was half an inch from his face. Too close to make out anything but his eyes. They were green...or looked green in the dim light. What the hell, Sam asked himself, what was wrong with him, for gods sake, that he even noticed that? What the hell was happening to him?
Punk smiled into his face. It was more than a smile, really. It was a look of...of awe, like Sam had done more than let his pathetic ass get kicked in his own apartment.
"Sam?"
The guy spoke his name. His name! He was a murderous stalker, or maybe a stalking murderer and he knew Sam's name! Or maybe he'd read Sam's name off the bell, Jesus, he'd known that was a bad idea when they'd done it. "Get off me! Who the fuck do you-no, get OFF!" Sam yelled, bucked up hard as he could, certain that he'd throw the guy off. The asshole didn't even budge, just looked vaguely guilty and shamefaced.
"Sam-"
"Don't call me that!"
The guy's face fell for a second, before he smiled slightly. "Okay, fair enough, it's been a few years. You don't remember me, I get it," but the tone of his voice said something else. Sam got the sense that this stranger was disappointed. "Look, I'm going to get up. Promise not to try to kill me if I do?"
"I'm calling the cops," Sam shouted before thinking it through. Really? Tell the axe-murderer you're going to call the cops a little louder, why don't you? Sam chastised himself.
"Dude…" the guy said, and then felt around in the dark, bringing Louie up for Sam to see. Sam instantly went still and silent. The guy rolled off of him, and walked backwards to the wall, feeling around behind himself with his free hand for a light switch. He flicked it, and one of the crappy little wall sconces came on, eking out a little ocher light. It was just enough light to let a body walk around the room without tripping over the bigger pieces of street-harvested furniture. The sconces sucked balls; Jess and he had argued a gazillion times about how stupid those lamps were. House stuff should be practical, not "Oh my god, how completely sweet is that-"
Sam shoved the goofy part of his brain down and concentrated on the fact that he was being held hostage in his own living-kitchen-room. Crappy as the lamp was, his eyesight blurred with the sudden light anyway and he blinked madly to clear them. The guy stayed put, and when Sam could see clearly, he bit the inside of his cheek to stifle a noise.
This guy was...wow. Sam was definitely not into guys, but this guy was...wow. How do you look like that, and end up doing this, he wondered? Not enough underwear ads to shoot?
The guy grinned. "C'mon, Sam, get up off the floor. Come here, sit down."
Sam hurried to do what the guy wanted-no sense in pissing him off, seeing as he was the one with the bat in hand. He settled himself on the couch, nudging a stack of textbooks out of the way. He managed not to grab Jess' grandma's afghan off the couch back and pull it around himself like a security blanket, but it was close.
"So...I wish it didn't have to be like this," the guy said, "but I couldn't figure out any other way to do it. I guess you don't remember me, but I'm Dean. Your big brother."
Dean? Dean? Sam gaped at the guy. Dean..."Dean?" Sam felt like he was on a hamster wheel made of glass. He couldn't stop repeating the word...Dean. Dean who'd tried to kill him, had killed their father; holy fuck, he was at the mercy of a patricide, a murderer, the child-killer who'd tried to murder Sam when Sam was just a defenseless little kid.
The air twisted around him, coiling up tighter and tighter in his chest. He-Dean-the killer was supposed to have been imprisoned for life-what-how was he here now? Black spots crowded out the light, the air coiled in his chest went solid as rock, he heaved and heaved but nothing came up. Tremors rocked him, shaking the table. Across from him, the guy, the supposed-to-be his brother, stared at him, a frown drawing his eyebrows tight. "Sam? Sammy?"
Sam managed to push words past the block in his throat. "D-don't kill me," he gasped, and the man jumped back, hands going out to shield himself, as if Sam had threatened to kill him instead.
"Sam, it's me, your brother!"
Yeah, exactly, that's what he was afraid of. Sam felt himself sliding sideways into the dark, terror following him down, no, no, no on a repeat loop in his head.
He came to still on the couch. The-Dean-was sitting in the chair opposite him, shadows obscuring his expression. Their tiny studio apartment looked even tinier with the guy hulking in the shadows, taking up air. He had a picture frame in his hand-Sam's only picture of his bio mother and father. He quickly glanced up and saw that Mom and Pop were untouched, still hanging in their place on the wall behind the chair. "Don't touch that," he snapped and cursed himself again. Was he trying to get this psycho to kill him?
Dean looked sad, and lay the picture face-down on the table. "I'm not here to kill you," he said.
"Oh sure then, it's all okay, I'm feeling safe as can be-you killed my father!"
"I'm not going to kill you," Dean said, like that was really going to sooth Sam's terror-and fury. "You just don't understand. Not yet."
"I'll never understand," Sam shouted. "How could you-you were a kid! And you killed--"
Dean dropped his head, his hand rubbing hard against his forehead, "Just...shut up, okay? Just, just shut up for a moment."
Sam wedged himself against the couch back, fought off another panic attack by blinking hard to center himself. He was counting blinks and his heart was slowing down until a sudden terrifying thought almost brought him off the couch.
Where was Jess?
The realization hit him like a physical blow. Jess wasn't here. Where was she? "Where's Jess, you sonofabitch? I swear to god, if you hurt Jess, I'll fucking kill you!"
"I haven't touched her-her, right?" Dean asked, and Sam glared at him. What was that supposed to mean? Did he think Sam was gay?
Dean smiled a little, like Sam's affront amused him, the bastard. The smile dropped and he told Sam, "We didn't see anyone here but you. I don't know anything about a Jess." He took his phone out, flipped it open and punched some buttons. Frowning as he looked down, eventually he shook his head, and slid it back into his pocket.
"Not like Mr. I-got-this-ya-idjit Singer to fuck up like that," he muttered quietly.
"What do you know about my girlfriend, you fucking stalker freak? I'm not kidding, I will-" Sam scrambled up off the couch, ramming his knees into the rattan coffee table. A candle rocked and fell over, Sam's books, Jess' sketchbook, all of it sliding to the floor. Dean didn't move, he just gently tapped the Louisville Slugger against his knee and stared Sam in the eye. Sam could see the guy was getting angry but trying to tamp it down-he'd seen the same expression on Jess plenty of times. The guy finally dropped his eyes and laughed, a bitter little bark.
"Now, Sam. Is that anyway to talk to your big brother?"
"You're not, you can't be…" Sam knew the unspoken 'I don't want you to be' vibrated in the air between them.
"Sorry, kid. I'm Dean Winchester, and you're Sam Winchester, my baby brother."
Baby brother. The words made Sam want to throw up. "I'm Sam Mazur, and all I know about you is that you're batshit crazy."
"Okay," Dean leaned back into the chair, eyes narrowed, dark underneath them. He looked exhausted, like he was only keeping his eyes open by sheer force of will. "Okay."
He got up, Sam flinched back as he walked past him. Dean picked up the fallen books and papers and Jess' candle, and dropped them on the table, ignoring the way Sam jumped. He flicked on all the lights in the place, killing the shadows. He came back to the chair, giving Sam a better look at the whack job who claimed he was his brother and holy shit. No way they were related, this guy, this fucking, insane Dean Winchester really was hot as hell. Shit, straight as Sam was, even he could see this guy was, holy fuck, movie star handsome: light brown hair done in some aggressive, macho haircut that highlighted his jaw and high cheekbones, full, dark lips, wide shoulders...his eyes were green, and Sam shuddered when he saw them; they were just the shade that Sam had always had a thing for.
Dean dropped down into the chair again. When he saw that Sam hadn't moved so much as an inch, he raised an eyebrow and shook his head, like Sam had somehow disappointed him. He pulled an old-fashioned, military-style lighter out of his jacket pocket, started flicking it open and shut repeatedly.
Sam gaped at him. The full light, with Dean parked right across from him, showed him something else as well. Dean was scary. He was beautiful and scary. Sam swallowed, and chased beautiful out of his head. Right now, he was really glad that Jess wasn't here, because Dean was obviously a nut job. The guy had weird looking tats up and down his neck, and some piercings in his ear, too, that looked wild. A skull...and maybe a trident? A weird star and a squiggly thing, and...oh fuck. Dean was a devil worshiper.
Oh god. That was it. He had come to kill Sam, to perform some kind of satanic rite over his body. He eyed the blank spot where Jess' crucifix had hung, until some drunken night he didn't remember, he'd knocked it off the wall and broke it. Why wasn't it hanging there now that he could use it-
And do what with it, beat Dean unconscious with a little bit of wood-look plastic?
Dean was silent, just sitting in the ratty orange chair, playing with that silver lighter and...staring at him, smiling softly, like he couldn't get enough of Sam. And Sam...Sam startled when he realized he actually remembered that look on Dean's face. The memory unfolded like a kid's paper fortune-teller; a smaller, softer, face, bigger eyes, thinner nose, longer, blonder hair...freckles. Sam swallowed. He hadn't thought about his brother in years, not really. If asked, he'd have said he remembered nothing about him, just vague, pale images of a blond kid...who'd wanted to kill him.
What happened back then? Sam wondered, Why did you want to hurt me?
"Okay. So. I'm your brother. Whether you like it or not. And yeah. I killed our Dad. In a way."
Sam stared, stared, stared, like his eyes were frozen open. It was like Dean was in some other room talking to some other guy, because Sam was here, and the only thing he could hear now was his own breath from a long, long way away, his heart beating wildly out of time. He scrambled over the back of the couch, knocking pillows awry, crashing into the piles of books stacked behind the couch.
He had to get out, he had to get away; he was running for the hallway, running for his life, but this time around, he didn't miraculously avoid the bike-he hit it. He collided with the wall, and the bike's old fashioned rat-trap pedals ripped a streak down his shin, breaking skin through the too-thin old sweatpants. "Shit, shit," he moaned, crawling towards the door, fear killing any embarrassment as he screamed like a baby for help.
"Fuck!"
He heard Dean curse as he hit the bike as well, but of course, the bastard managed to leap over it like a fucking gazelle, leather coat flowing out like a motherfucking cape, son of a bitch.
Sam made it to the door, ready to fling it open but the chain was still on-how the fuck had Dean gotten into his apartment? and it flung him back. He could hear the downstairs neighbor shout something about shutting the fuck up, it was ass-crack in the morning. Sam grabbed an umbrella from the coat-hooks, and through some incredible confluence of sheer desperation and dumb luck, managed to connect with Dean's temple just as he grabbed him. Sam felt Dean's hold weaken, felt a split second of victory-and then he saw Dean's face.
Really saw Dean's face.
His lips were thinned, drawn back, baring white, white teeth, his eyes were snapping; there was no sign of the almost fond look he'd worn through the evening; it was gone like it never existed. Sam was looking into a deadly stranger's eyes, one whose whole body radiated rage and the capability of delivering a world of hurt. A thin rill of blood snaked down his temple, outlining his cheek...somehow, Sam had gotten a solid hit in. He also got a glimpse of Dean's fist drawing back, the light glinting off something thin and silvery clenched in it-
"Nooo," Sam moaned, he didn't want to die, not like this, spread out in his dingy hallway, where Jess would open the door and find his corpse...he didn't want his brother to kill him...all the nightmares he'd ever had, coming true right there. He felt a stabbing pain, followed by something soft settling on his cheek. A feeling of loss followed him under.
"God, I'm so sorry, Sammy," he heard dimly-Dean's voice soaked with apology and sadness.
~o0o~
Darkness….Sam rolled to the side, and his head smacked up against a solid, cold surface. His eyes fluttered open; through glass, he saw what might be trees flashing by in the darkness. Something smooth under him, cold where his hands lay. He could feel a gentle rocking, there was a sound like...tires on the road. He was in a car. The smell of close quarters well used filled his nose: take-out, sweat, musty carpet, and pine-scented car trees. "Uuunhhhg," rolled out of his mouth-it was supposed to be, 'where am I?" but his tongue sort of flopped around uselessly and he couldn't feel his lips.
"Hey, hey, relax, Sammy, you're safe."
Safe? Kidnapped by his insane brother who tried to kill him, oh, but no, he was safe. Sam blinked back a terrified tear, fell into the memory of how Dean had tried to kill him-but it wouldn't come, not like before. He saw a kid, barely taller than the dresser he was pushed up against, and saw his Dad...swinging a gun towards Dean? Sam blinked again, and a black cloud covered Dad and Dean. Sam reared away from the window, catching sight of his reflection in the glass, but he was seeing Dean's face, fake little Dean, who a lonely Sam used to pretend in daydreams, loved him and treated him like a treasure. Sam dropped back to the window, a rolling fog of exhaustion pulling him down again. He heard Dean's voice, again, and felt his hand drift over his cheek, the multiple bracelets on Dean's wrist tickling him.
"Sleep, Sam. Nothing we gotta do until we're there."
But where was there, Sam wondered muzzily before gratefully giving in to the pull.
~o0o~
They were in a motel. He'd seen some crummy motels in his time-hey, he was a student, after all-but this one took the prize.
They were in a narrow, dingy room. There were two doubles separated by a flimsy particleboard nightstand, a single lamp that tried to throw some light, but it was an uphill fight against the dark brown black-out drapes.
He moved his head and winced; it ached like he'd taken a kick from a mule. He ran fingers over the back of his head, and yeah, he found a small lump, but no blood, nothing to write home about. He'd given himself worse getting out of the shower. He smacked his lips, rolled his head carefully, slowly, on his shoulders-and froze. There in a chair across from him was Dean. Well, of course he'd be there, Dean was the one who'd stolen him from home. This waking up to Dean was getting to be a really horrible habit.
"You drugged me," Sam snapped, anger overriding fear-until it came back in an avalanche. "You stabbed me with a, a needle full of drugs! Did you-oh my god, did you-?"
Horror shot painful spikes throughout his body. He was afraid to move, to find out that, oh god, no…he moved carefully, afraid to find that he'd been assaulted while he'd been out….
Dean fixed him with that expression of concern mixed with worry that was becoming all too familiar a look on him. He stood abruptly, frowning when Sam yelped and jumped back. "What's wrong, dude?"
He studied Sam, and Sam couldn't help sliding his hands under his ass, lip trembling...after a second Sam could see the light bulb blinking on for Dean, sparing Sam from having to spell it out.
"Oh, fuck, ew!" Concern morphed into horrified disgust. "Brothers, you sick asshole! Besides the fact that you were fucking unconscious!"
Sam gaped at this bizarre person calling himself his brother. Really? He was offended that Sam thought Dean wouldn't care about lack of consent, which was a fucking laugh seeing that he'd kidnapped Sam. And not only that-"You did drug me, though!"
"Just a little," Dean said, and had the nerve to give him a wide-eyed, apologetic look. "I wouldn't have drugged you if I thought I could get you out without a fuss."
"How does you telling me that make it better?" Sam shook his head, biting his lip. He tried not to be obvious about scoping out the room, looking for a door, a window that opened, anything. Dean watched him look and just smiled, it was a blank, empty smile that did fuck-all to comfort Sam. Sam dropped his eyes...he was still in his tatty t-shirt and torn sweat pants, with an obvious streak of blood down one leg, and no shoes. Great. They were in the kind of place where his ensemble didn't raise an eyebrow, apparently. As far as Sam could tell, Dean was still and calm in his chair.
So, there was no possibility of escape unless he could knock Dean out-and remembering their fight made him cross that off the list-or sneak out some other way. Maybe the bathroom had a window.
"How about some water?" Dean asked, and headed to the bathroom. Sam glanced in the open doorway; no window visible. Looking back at the room's door, he did a double take. Dean was busy in the bathroom and he was here alone and the motherfucking door was unlocked.
He jumped off the bed and sprinted across the room, slamming the door open and racing across the parking lot, praying all the way it wasn't a pit full of broken glass (and used needles, judging by the looks of the place). He put his head down and put his whole soul into it. He'd almost gone out for track at Stanford, and he knew he was fast.
Feet pounding across the cold asphalt, Sam ran for all he was worth towards his goal-the thin line of shrubs at the far end of the lot.
He didn't hear anything behind him, but wasn't stupid enough to waste time looking. He felt gravel shift under his feet, gave a jump when he reached the curb, and landed on cool grass. Another push took him across the grass strip and closer to the shrubs. He could see the highway through them. If he got out to the highway, for sure somebody would stop. Dean at least wouldn't pursue him out there, not without risking getting caught himse-
Sam hit the ground hard, impact headache crashing through his brain and leaving him momentarily blind and deaf.
"Good showing, kid, but no one's ever got past me."
Sam went straight from survival mode into major-freak out. He was done, he was screwed, this maniac was going to strangle him or knife him or do something equally deadly. He threw his head back and started screaming. Or would have anyway-he barely got out one shriek before Dean clocked him, wrapped his open hand around Sam's mouth and squeezed it shut.
"You can scream all you want, Cinderella, but this joint is full of assholes screaming all the time."
Sam fought against his damn brain wanting to check out-he struggled against Dean's hold, but he had to admit finally that he'd lost. Dean was the winner, and it was only a matter of whether Dean iced him in the parking lot or in the motel room. A harsh whisper yanked him out of his misery.
"Damn it, Sammy, how many times I gotta tell ya, I'm not tryin' to hurt you. Or kill you, for fuck's sake. Now please, get up and come back to the room. You can get away with a lot in these dumps, but sooner or later, someone's gonna find their balls and come looking-and we might not like it."
Sam stiffened, then nodded. Dean helped him up, and turned him back to the room, all without letting Sam's mouth loose. Talented, he thought bitterly.
Back in the ashtray-scented room, Sam sat on the uncomfortably slick comforter, his foot propped up on the room's trashcan. Apparently, adrenaline helped to mask the sensation of broken glass embedding itself in a foot. He bit his lip, and manfully struggled not to cry. This was one of the worst nights of his life, almost as bad as the night he'd watched his big brother kill his dad. And now he was stuck in a motel room with that killer, who at the moment was crouching over his foot as he carefully, almost fucking reverently, cleaned and bandaged it.
A tear escaped Sam-his control was fading fast-and dripped off his chin, darkening a little spot on his sweatpants leg. He was confused about what was happening, and exhausted with fighting fear. It was all too fucking much. He broke.
"I don't even know what happened to Jess," he howled. "Why won't you tell me what you did to her? You keep saying you aren't going to kill me, so…" he sobbed, his voice catching, and the shame of crying in front of this murderer made him cover his face. "Did you hurt her? Please, tell me."
Dean leaned back, rubbed his hands on the alcohol-soaked gauze, dropped it in the bowl of water by his knee.
"Sam...look, I never touched her, okay? As far as me and Uncle Bobby knew, you had no one." He held up his hand, even though Sam hadn't opened his mouth, and said, "I'll explain about Bobby later. We saw you, plenty of times, even if I-we-didn't always get what we were seeing. But...never saw a girlfriend. She wasn't there when I checked your place out, I didn't get a sense of her."
Dean got up, lowered Sam's foot gently to the carpet. He picked up the trashcan and walked it back to the desk. "I've got a lot to tell you, and you're not going to believe any of it. That's why I'd rather wait until we get to Missouri's first." He took the bowl to the bathroom and dumped it. Sam gingerly put weight on his foot. It wasn't bad, so he stood, and followed Dean to the bathroom while keeping as much space as possible between them.
"We're going to Missouri? Why, what's in Missouri?"
"No, we're not...Missouri the person, not the state. She's based in Kansas, where my-our-mother died."
Sam's eyes went wide with horror as he backed away from Dean. "You killed her too…"
"No, you idiot, I was fucking four years old when she died!" Dean shouted, the last bit of his patience burned off, Sam guessed. Well, excuse him for not being able to keep his terror to himself. "God! I didn't kill anyone in our family, okay? I don't give a fuck what you were told-I didn't purposely kill anyone!"
Dean reached out for him, and Sam flinched at his touch. He pushed Sam back on the bed, and Sam scrambled backwards up to the headboard, not taking his eyes off Dean for one second. He watched Dean raise his face to the ceiling, mutter something. He saw that Dean's eyes were glassy, the way his chin wobbled for a moment, and for some insane reason felt a pinprick of guilt.
"Can you just-Sam, can you just go to sleep? Just...be quiet, okay?" Dean turned away, grabbed a broken-down, old duffle bag from the other bed and slammed through the bathroom door.
"Jesus," Sam whispered. "What am I gonna do? How do I get out of this…?" His foot was raw and painful, but Dean had cleaned it gently, and pressed bandages on it as carefully as he could. Sam was confused, but beginning to believe maybe he might survive this after all...Dean did seem to care, in some way. Dean was careful with him, even though he'd kidnapped him. Right, right, kidnapped. Loving brothers probably didn't kidnap each other-he might be an only child, but he was pretty sure that was not one of the ways that siblings pranked each other….
~o0o~
Sam opened his eyes, blinking slowly and peering around.
Waking up to terror was getting old. He was somewhere he didn't know, in what looked to be the world's crummiest motel, with the hottest-and scariest-guy he'd ever seen in his life. And he was hungry enough to eat the bed he was...handcuffed to? What the everloving fuck?
"FUCK."
He automatically yanked against the restraint, and the cuffs bit in, drawing a yelp out of him. God damn it! He was cuffed to the crappy bed, he had to piss like a racehorse, and where the fuck was Dean?
He pulled again, yanked and shook the metal bracelet. He pulled hard, until the pain made him stop. TV had told him often enough that he wouldn't be able to pull the handcuff loose. Sam remembered something involving the main character using blood as a lubricant, and slipping his hand out of the cuffs...or was it that he broke, or dislocated his thumb and then bled and then pulled loose..."Oh, fuck me."
Yeah, none of that was happening. Sure, he could pull until the metal cut, but that wasn't going to be easy to do. They were pretty well made...plus, he doubted he could break his thumb without choking to death on his own vomit, and he didn't have the first idea as to how to dislocate his thumb, but he was sure he wouldn't survive that either….
He had a hand between his legs and his lip pinned in his teeth by the time Dean came back.
"Hey, Sammy, you hungry-oh shit," he gasped and turned bright red, "Sorry for walking in on you like that" -and then smacked his forehead.
"Oh damn, man, I'm sorry!" He tossed a grease-spotted white bag on the table, and quickly unlocked the cuffs.
Sam leaped up and dashed for the bathroom, ignoring the stupid laughter coming out of Dean's fat face. He kneed the door shut, yanked his pants down and groaned loudly, pointing the stream at the back of the bowl, sighing when the urgency to empty his bladder eased. "Damn. Ugh," he moaned. Being able to finally pee had to rank right up there in the World's Top Ten Good Feelings, he thought.
"Sam? There's a toothbrush in there for you, and some toothpaste...they got little bars of soap, and the towels don't look too sketchy."
Sam saw what Dean was talking about. Took the time to brush, and to wash his face and pits and ass. He grimaced at putting the filthy t-shirt back on and looked down at the horrible sweatpants. God, he didn't want to wear them anymore. He wished he had clean clothes-and some fucking shoes--
There was a tap-tap at the door. "Okay to come in?"
"I-hold on." Sam eased the door open, peered through the narrow opening.
"Here...you probably want this stuff. And, not for nothing dude, take a real shower. You're, ah, a little sweaty and, ah, aromatic. You know?"
Sam looked down at what was poking into the doorway. A bag, with...clothes? He snatched it. "Fuck you," he muttered. A kidnapper telling him he stunk. Sam's lip quivered, the goofy part of his brain rolled over and giggled. You do stink dude, can't argue there. He giggled himself, and looked up in time to catch a hopeful eye staring at him.
"I hope this is the right stuff...I brought food too, when you get out."
He shut the door while Sam was still standing there, nodding. He looked in the bag. Oh, god. The guy had raided his closet while he was unconscious. A shiver of horror ran down Sam's back. Christ...there were a pair of sneakers, some socks, underwear...the guy had gone through his underwear drawer….
Sam flipped through the boxers folded on top of the clothes in the bag. It looked like Dean had just grabbed the first layer of stuff in his drawer, he hadn't picked and chosen. That did make him feel marginally better.
He sighed, and sat on the closed toilet, opened the bag wider. There were a few pairs of jeans balled up, a couple of t-shirts. His Stanford hoodie, the first thing he'd bought himself, a kinda lame symbol of his new-found independence. He loved the stupid thing.
"You are so fucking lame." Sam shook his head. Pulled the next item out of the bag. Hunh. One of Jess' plaid shirts, for fuck's sake. His eyes filled. She was probably scared shitless right now. The bathroom light reflected from something shiny in the bag...that small picture of his bio mom and dad. Sam ground the tears out of his eyes-no damn time to cry now-and dumped the rest of the bag onto the floor, hoping for a wallet, his cellphone, something. Nothing. Of course.
He had no options, so he did what Dean said to do, showered and put fresh clothes on. He washed his hair, worked the tangles out of his hair with a comb and the cheap conditioner the motel offered. Personally, he was stunned that there even was conditioner, soap, and shampoo in the crappy little room. He tried not to imagine how cheap and horrible all that stuff must be...pictured huge vats of crummy shampoo being siphoned into the teeny bottles. He wondered if Dean had purposely not given him shaving stuff. Maybe he was afraid that Sam would make a Bic into a weapon. If that was the case, the guy was giving him way too much credit.
"Sam! Your food's getting cold!"
Sam hurried out of the bathroom, leaving weird brain farts and his ragged clothes in the room.
continued in part b