Far From the Shore - Meant to Be 'verse - Slash, Sam/Dean-ish, Hard R
Title: Far From the Shore
Series: Some Things Are Meant to Be
Author: thelonejuliet
Characters: Sam, Dean, OFCs
Pairing: Sam/Dean, Dean/OMC (non-con)
Word Count: 4,642
Rating: Hard R (for themes more than anything)
Warnings: Angst, violence, non-con.
Spoilers: Anything already aired is fair game.
Disclaimer: Sam and Dean aren't mine. The OFCs are, but I'm not that attached, you can have them. :)
Beta: orphan_project and candygramme
Author's Note(s): This 'verse goes AU after/during In My Time of Dying.
All titles come from the song, "Some Things Are Meant to Be" from the musical, Little Women.
More Notes at the end. :)
Series/'Verse Summary: Through MANY trials and tribulations, the boys discover some things about themselves - and their destinies.
All fics found here or here!
All previous parts of the 'Meant to Be AU found here.
Chapter Summary: The brothers return to North Dakota for a hunt and find far more than they're bargaining for.
Far From the Shore
When Dean stepped out of the shower, Sam simply couldn’t stop himself from blurting out the question that had been burning his throat for the past 12 hours.
“How do you feel about going back to North Dakota? Near Forman?”
Sam held his breath, watching Dean’s body go completely rigid. The older man had stopped in the middle of buttoning up his jeans, and was staring at Sam with unchecked fear.
“North Dakota? A hunt?” croaked Dean, eyes leaving Sam to stare at the grimy carpet.
Sam let his breath out and swallowed past the huge lump in his throat. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words got caught, even though he wasn’t sure what he wanted to say. In the end, he settled for just nodding.
Suddenly all tension leaked out of Dean’s body, and he slumped into one of the rickety chairs, directly across from Sam’s position on the bed. Sam ached to reach out to him, offer some comfort. But, no, they still weren’t together again, despite Sam’s insistence, and with the subject at hand, Dean’s panic attacks were not only a possibility, but a likely occurrence. Those were never easy for Sam to handle; it just made him ache more.
“What kind?” came another rough whisper from Dean’s lips.
“Not really sure…poltergeist, maybe just a typical angry spirit,” answered Sam flatly, automatically, still searching Dean for the beginnings of an attack.
Dean nodded slightly. “Bobby?”
“Vampires in Kentucky.”
“Dad?”
“New Mexico. We’re the closest, Dean.”
Sam knew that even Dean couldn’t argue with that logic. They were the closest, having just finished up a hunt near the Western edge of Minnesota. And he would never let innocent people keep getting hurt regardless of his own internal struggles. The hunt came first, always the hunt.
After five minutes of tense silence, Sam finally spoke up again, defeated. “We don’t have to go, Dean.”
While it was true that Sam didn’t want to push his brother into something he wasn’t ready for, he really thought that Dean - both of them, actually - needed to deal with this. Simon and his cronies were in jail, but it seemed like Dean was falling farther apart everyday, breaking just a tiny bit more.
If any more cracks surfaced, there would be no going back. Dean was already so close to the point of no return…two steps closer and it would all be over. They’d both be lost to the darkness.
“It’s fine…we can go.”
Dean had spoken so softly that Sam wasn’t entirely convinced he hadn’t just imagined the words. He felt his heart clench, both at the huge step Dean was taking on the road to recovery, to finally being down with the attack, and at the prospect of being so near the men that had messed up both their lives.
“Dean, I…Are you sure?”
Dean turned his face toward Sam, eyes eerily vacant, like they were in a place altogether different from the rest of Dean’s body. He nodded stiffly. “I gotta face it sometime. And, they’re in jail, right Sam? They’re not a threat to me…they can’t be.”
Dean’s words, his tone of voice, made him sound so young, so vulnerable, that Sam’s breath caught in his throat. Even in the immediate aftermath of the attack, while Dean was lying in the hospital, even in the middle of a panic attack, he’d never looked anything less than determined to beat the odds. He’d never looked like he wasn’t the big brother, the protector, like he wasn’t really as strong as he pretended to be.
And, that hurt worse than any event over the previous four months. Sam suddenly realized that there was no big brother-little brother dynamic anymore. There was simply comfort, relief and assurance - both Winchesters needed to act as equals. Things would never be the same again.
Pushing all reservations out of his mind, he leaned forward a few inches and laid his hand atop Dean’s, where it was gripping his own leg tightly enough to turn his knuckles completely white. Dean flinched visibly at the contact, his breathing starting to become erratic, but Sam held on. He needed his brother to feel him, to know he wasn’t alone and that everything was going to be okay.
“Sammy…”
Again with the broken voice and Sam couldn’t take it anymore; he pushed himself off the bed and knelt on the floor, pulling Dean down into him. As a testament to just how scared he was, Dean clutched onto Sam like his life depended on it, burying his face in the crook of Sam’s neck, twisting his hands in the thin T-shirt.
“Dean, man…”
Sam refused to let his tears spill over - cause that wasn’t what Dean needed to see. He didn’t need to see his brother, his only tether to solid ground, breaking down over something that he hadn’t even experienced. The possibility of running into Simon again wasn’t Sam’s cross to bear, as much as he wanted to carry the burden. It was Dean’s and Dean’s alone.
Both brothers jumped apart when the lamp on the bedside table started shaking and toppled off into the floor, a loud crack ringing through the room. Sam looked at the discarded appliance, bulb gone dark, and tried to reign in his emotions.
Dean gasped beside him, having put the pieces together. “Sam, did you…was that you?”
Sam swallowed audibly and then nodded, looking over at his brother, sure that the fearful look was mirrored on his own face. “Sorry,” he muttered sheepishly.
To his great surprise, Dean’s face broke out into a small, shaky grin. “Niiiice.”
And, just like that, the moment was over. Dean was building his defenses again and morphing back into the sarcastic big brother who hid all the pain and fear and unease. It was so normal for them that Sam was immediately comforted. Stability was key, after all.
But, the relief couldn’t cover the pain stabbing through his heart at the loss of touch.
“Well, if we wanna make North Dakota any time soon, we should get going.”
Dean didn’t leave Sam any time to change the subject back, just busied himself with packing and loading up the car. Sam, not sure what else to, followed suit, not daring to bring up Simon again.
And hoping like hell the bastard was still where he was supposed to be.
* * *
Sam shouldn’t have been surprised when Dean announced that he was going out. It wasn’t like he hadn’t announced it just about every night for the past four weeks. There was some part of Sam that freaked out, every time it happened - fear not only of what had happened last time he was alone, but also of what he was getting up to, who he was hooking up with.
But, things were different this time. They were so close to the people that had hurt them and he could see the fear shining out from behind Dean’s self-protective fortress.
He could also see the stubbornness.
So, he sighed. And nodded. And watched Dean walk out of their motel room.
After staring at the door for a good 20 minutes, hoping his brother would change his mind and come back, Sam switched on the laptop. He was thinking he could make another attempt at researching himself into oblivion.
Unfortunately, what he didn’t know? Would hurt him.
* * *
Dean smiled as he watched the redhead making eyes at him from the bar. She was hot, sleazy enough to be his type. Well. She would have been if he’d been at all interested in that sort of thing anymore. He hadn’t slept with anyone since he and Sam had joined up again and he didn’t plan on changing that. If nothing else, he remembered how he’d felt when he’d seen the evidence of Sam’s sex life.
The night that they’d rushed to their father’s aid, something had shifted. He’d woken up with Sam clinging to him, his head pounding something fierce - but he was okay. He didn’t panic at his brother’s touch; he didn’t have the urge to shove him off and get as far away and as alone as possible.
He still wasn’t ready to go back, though, not to that. There was just too much to weed through and, if he wasn’t careful, he’d get caught in the fray and drown. Since that would leave Sammy alone, well…it was better if they kept on performing this ridiculous dance around each other. Really, it was. Even if he did have to jack off every morning with his brother’s body on his mind, his brother’s name on his lips.
Quelling the need within him, he turned back to the pool table and sank the shot that would win him the game. And 400 dollars from the local riffraff, of course.
Content with his winnings, but not yet ready to go back to the motel and face Sam, Dean found himself a table in the corner and pulled his dad’s journal out of his jacket pocket. It was a few minutes before he felt the eyes on him. He shook it off, though, because he knew fear was starting to get to him. He’d been looking for Simon’s face in every passerby since they’d strolled into town.
That in itself was stupid. They were an hour south of Forman, where those yahoos were locked up for one hate crime too many. None of them had gotten off the hook and, according to Sam, they were still where they belonged. So, why should Dean worry? The past was past and, dammit, Dean Winchester did not get scared of memories.
But, when he still couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched, even 15 minutes later, he looked up, eyes seeking familiar figures in the hazy gloom of the bar. He didn’t recognize anyone in his general vicinity; there were no piercing blue eyes looming at him from a dark corner table across the room.
There was quite a crowd, though, so he couldn’t be absolutely sure. Irrational as it was, that freaked him out enough to hightail it out of the bar and back to the relative safety of the motel room. At least, with Psychic Wonder by his side, he felt like he could keep control.
He made it out to the Impala and back to the motel in one piece, but he still couldn’t get rid of the imaginary eyes on his tail. He repeatedly checked the rearview mirror and didn’t see a thing, so he just kept telling himself that it was nerves. He hated to admit it, but maybe his fear was making him see things, feel things that weren’t really there. People’s minds played tricks on them all the time and it wasn’t like Dean wasn’t human, right?
He sighed in relief as he pulled up in front of the motel room, having to park a few spots down the line because some big pick-up truck had taken his spot. But, he could see the room door, with his Sammy safely behind it, so he’d be okay. It was only a few feet. No need to panic.
No sooner had he shut the door than he was grabbed from behind, one hand over his mouth, and slammed onto the hood of the car. He grunted, the force knocking the wind from his lungs. He did his best to draw air back into his body, knowing that lack of oxygen would be his worst enemy if anxiety threatened to overtake him just then.
He struggled against his captor, his yelling muffled by the offending skin plastered to his lips. His efforts were only rewarded with more pressure. Then, the attacker spoke, a sound that chilled Dean’s blood enough to cause ice to form. It was a voice that he’d heard all too often in his dreams. And one he’d been sure he’d never have to hear again, ever.
But, here it was.
Simon.
Simon was free.
And, apparently, he was looking for a fucked-up, backward vengeance.
Dean was so shocked, adrenaline fusing his veins in a desperate attempt to help him fight, that he didn’t catch the words that were spoken. When he didn’t answer, Simon repeated himself, accenting it by pulling on Dean enough to slam him back into the cooling metal.
“I guess you didn’t hear me, ‘cause that certainly would have had a squeal coming out of your pretty mouth. I said -” Pull. Slam. “ - that you have far too pretty an ass to waste it.”
Dean knew he could fight back, that he’d more than made up for his physical weaknesses since the last time, but he was frozen to the spot. He couldn’t make his legs move, couldn’t force his arms up, couldn’t even think past Oh, God, no!
Then a picture of Sam filtered into his mind, a stolen image from one of Dean’s secret visits to Stanford, followed by a parade of snapshots from after Jess’ death. It was a Sam that was happy, smiling. It was a Sam that had shown up with increasing frequency after their first kiss.
But, more importantly, it was someone who would crumble if there were no Dean.
That fueled Dean’s anger at this man for taking him away from that. For creating a huge divide between Dean and his brother that he couldn’t even begin to cross.
Dean managed to maneuver his legs enough to bring one foot up and slam it down into Simon’s. Simon’s grip loosened as the man let out a pained yelp and stumbled back. Dean took the advantage and shoved the other man backwards, whipping around to face his attacker.
He was little shocked at what he saw, unprepared for such a drastic change in Simon’s appearance. Prison hadn’t been good to him - like it was ever good for anybody, but still. Simon had lost a lot of weight, slimmed down to a mere shadow of what he’d been. He didn’t look like he should have the strength that he possessed. The blond hair was longer, curling down towards his shoulders, and a scruffy beard had formed across the no-longer youthful face. It wasn’t the same face, essentially not even the same man who had haunted Dean’s dreams.
But, his eyes? They still contained that burning hatred for all things different. And, they had a new, crazy look to them. Simon was the new Manson.
Dean barely had enough time to take in everything before there were more hands on him. Great. One of Manson’s followers had gotten out, too.
Make that two.
The three men dragged Dean around the side of the motel as he fought to remember which ones they were, if they’d shown any weaknesses before that would be of use to him now, as he tried to get over his shock for a second time.
How the hell had these assholes gotten free?
As if they were reading his mind, one of them - tall, scrawny, big ears, blond hair…Scott? - said, “It pays to have money, even in a small town.”
Dean had a second to see how truly fucked-up the situation was before he was slammed into rough brick…
…and a hand snaked around to undo his belt buckle.
His nightmares, his brain’s projection of what could have happened, were suddenly coming to life. These yahoos were going to r - no. He wasn’t going to say the word. If he said it, even to himself, it would be true and real and ugly. And, just…no. It wasn’t happening.
Even as that hand popped the button and yanked down his jeans, he was still denying it.
Oh, God, Sammy.
* * *
After a couple hours of no Dean, Sam wasn’t really worried. It wasn’t anything new. But, his thoughts had once again turned to Simon. He couldn’t shake the feeling that they weren’t finished dealing with him, not quite.
On a whim, he brought up the newspaper for Forman and its surrounding communities. He’d checked it before, multiple times since the trial that had done away with Dean’s attackers; he wanted to make sure that they stayed where they were meant to be. And, just like every other time, there wasn’t any breaking news, any new information.
But, still, he couldn’t get rid of the fear gnawing at the edge of his consciousness. Something wasn’t right. He felt like there was something he’d overlooked, right there, just out of reach.
So, he hit search on the corner of the newspaper’s website, typed in Simon Hoffman. The very first headline that Sam clicked on was the one covering the trial. The next few were along the same lines, explaining the charges, carrying the outcry of the community that these guys hadn’t been prosecuted sooner.
Then he saw a link that stopped his heart cold.
Basher and Friends Set Free
But, how? When? Why hadn’t he noticed it before?
In the blink of an eye, Sam was up and across the room, shrugging on his jacket. He opened the door and stopped cold when he saw a pickup truck where the Impala was supposed to sit. It wasn’t the non-vacated parking spot that worried him; it was the surfacing of a memory where that truck wasn’t as beat-up, when it gleamed under fluorescent parking lot lighting and helped illuminate his brother’s life draining out of him.
His heart began to race even faster, attempting to pound out of his chest in a desperate plea for attention. Dean, it was shouting at him. Dean was in trouble.
He saw the Impala, parked a little ways down, at the exact same time he heard an impossible thing. Dean was speaking to him. But, from where? Sam spun in every direction, trying to find his brother.
The three words repeated themselves - Oh, God, Sammy.
Dean was nowhere in sight, so how…Oh. Another ability? Well, it’s not like this one was doing him much good. What was the use of hearing Dean’s thoughts if he couldn’t direct them to give him the information he needed. Why the hell weren’t the visions coming when he so desperately needed one?
Then another sound filtered through the haze of panic. Laughter. Someone was laughing, loudly. More than one person.
Without even thinking it through, Sam took off in the direction of the sound, off around to the back of the motel. The sight that greeted him effectively erased any semblance of fear, instead filling him with anger so profound and so deep that he was suddenly seeing everything through a red fog.
He’s not certain about what happened after that, how it all came about. He felt like he was separated from his body, a mere bystander, watching as he stalked toward the three men surrounding his brother.
He recognized them, all of them, every last detail. There was Scott, the bastard that had cried for his mother at the trial. And, Chris, the one who had leered at Sam like he was some piece of meat to toy with later.
Then there was Simon. Simon, the crazed freak who had shown no remorse as the cops led him away. The asshole who had looked at Dean and laughed as he heard his sentence being read by the judge. Simon, who was sliding home in Dean’s ass and holding a knife to his throat.
Dean looked over to him from his position, plastered to the wall of the motel. His eyes were so full of fear and guilt that Sam’s anger went deeper. These guys had no right to make Dean feel like that, unworthy. Lord knows he had enough issues of his own without some backwater homophobes adding something to the mix.
Dean must have made some move to alert the attackers to Sam’s presence because all movement and taunting suddenly stilled. Sam had four sets of eyes on him, unchecked terror pouring out of three of them.
Chris, the stockier of the three rednecks, went flying backwards. His head made contact with the brick and he slid down the wall in an unconscious heap, blood trickling slowly down his neck.
Scott somehow realized what was happening and took off for the woods, trying to put as much distance between him and Sam as possible. He’d only taken a handful of steps, though, when Sam stopped him. Scott was left with no control over his own actions and turned around slowly to stare at Sam, eyes the only things that showed any semblance of life. Sam cocked his head to the side and Scott raised the switchblade in his hand, flicking it open. Without so much as a breath of hesitation, he plunged the dirty blade into his stomach. Sam relinquished control and the man fell over, whimpering with pain and the realization that his life was swiftly coming to an end.
Simon was the only one left. And, the crazy bastard wasn’t relenting. As soon as he knew that he had Sam’s attention focused solely on him, he resumed the raping of his brother. Dean was biting down on his jacket sleeve, tears leaking out from beneath clenched eyelids. With every painful thrust, he grunted into the material and the muscles in his forearms strained, trying to keep his hips from smacking into the wall.
Simon was smiling now, grinning cheekily over at Sam with childish glee. “See, I couldn’t let this one go, Sammy, m’boy. He’s too pretty. Pretty shouldn’t be kept at arms distance, nu-uh. That’s what I learned in prison.”
“You stupid bastard,” Sam growled in response, voice low enough to vibrate through his body.
Two steps and Sam was there, face to face with this monster. Half a second later, Simon was toppling over from the force of Sam’s fist. In the process, he was pulled out of Dean, who was caught by Sam and gently lowered to the ground to rest against the wall with Chris.
Simon, stupid as he obviously was, was back on his feet quickly, apparently learning more than how to rape someone in prison. Sam couldn’t help but chuckle as Simon tried to rush and tackle him. He was halted by another swift punch to the face and staggered backward. He still didn’t stop, though, taking another step toward Sam, knife out to the ready.
Dean made a broken noise off to the side, and Sam whipped his head around to see why. He realized his mistake too late as he was pushed to the ground, cheek pounding from Simon’s fist and blood trickling out of a gouge on his arm from Simon’s knife. Before he could get his bearings back, Simon was straddling his waist and had landed another blow to Sam’s temple. The force of the punch sent his head reeling back into the blacktop and caused stars to pop along the edges of his vision.
Dean was moving, he could see it out of the corner of his eye, but he couldn’t focus because Simon chose that moment to get up and kick him in the stomach. All wind was forced out of him and he curled himself into the fetal position. Before he had a chance to get his breath back, Simon was yanking on his hair, pulling him to a standing position, knife, already stained with Sam’s blood, to his throat.
Just as he felt the cold metal begin to slice through his skin, Simon made a choked sound and released Sam so suddenly that he fell to the ground, knife clattering away. Sam drew large amounts of cool air into his lungs as he turned around to see what had happened.
Dean, fully dressed again, had Simon flat on his back and was standing astride his hips, gun pointing down at his chest. Sam couldn’t have said anything even if he’d wanted to, couldn’t stop his brother because he knew that he would have done the exact same thing. Simon wasn’t walking away tonight. He wasn’t going to be set free with a few bruises just to hurt them, or someone else, again.
Simon wasn’t going anywhere but hell.
When the shot rang out, Sam didn’t even flinch. Clutching his wounded arm, he forced himself to stand and got to Dean just as his brother began to collapse. Together, they made their way back to their room, leaning on each other for support. They were safely behind locked doors when the first sirens began to sound in the distance.
Once the door was locked and re-salted, Sam moved to sit next to Dean at the table, where he was gingerly feeling around the damage on his face. Every time he shifted in his chair, he grimaced and Sam felt the anger flare up again.
“Dean,” he whispered, reaching over with his uninjured hand. He could feel the side of his face beginning to swell and the pain in his arm was terrible, but nothing mattered more than Dean at that moment. “Are you…okay? I mean…”
Dean looked up as Sam’s hand covered his on the table and he turned it, without flinching at the sudden touch, linking their fingers together. Sam’s heart, which had been pounding at an alarming rate, suddenly began stuttering to a halt. For the first time in over four months, Sam was looking at his brother. Not just his brother in physical appearance, but actually looking at the brother he once knew. There was a renewed fire behind eyes that had too-long been dull. There was life evident in every structure, every muscle fiber, every freckle. With Simon where he belonged, Dean was free. He was finally free after so many months of torment. He didn’t have to live in constant fear.
“I think I will be, Sammy.” Dean spoke softly, almost as if he were trying to keep a secret.
Sam knew that there would be repercussions from the ordeal. Dean had not only killed a man, but he’d been raped - and how could you ever be okay with that? But, Dean Winchester was a complex man and dealt with things in ways that no one else could understand. The nightmares weren’t going to stop; they would get worse before they got better. But, eventually, Dean would overcome. They were Winchesters, dammit. And Winchesters did not give up.
“Dean, it’s okay…if you’re not.” Sam knew it had to be said. “I mean…ra -”
Dean lifted his other hand to cut him off. “Don’t. Just…don’t say it out loud like that.”
“But, Dean -”
“No, Sammy. I mean it. I’m not okay. Not now, I’m not. There is adrenaline lighting a fire in my veins right now and that’ll wear off and I’ll come down and I’ll hit the ground hard. But, right now, in the immediate aftermath, I’m dealing. And I know how to deal with this. I’ve been having nightmares about this for so long, about him. In a way…I’ve already dealt with it.
“And, I will be all right.”
Dean squeezed Sam’s fingers and Sam looked down to where they were joined. Maybe, for once, he should listen to what his brother was saying. Maybe he should hear the words and take them for what they were instead of psychoanalyzing and creating problems in his head that might not be there.
If Dean said he was fine, then he was fine. And, if it turned out he wasn’t, then Sam would be there to catch him and build him back up. Sam would always be there to make the pain go away.
Sam was there, for better or for worse.
“We will be all right, Sammy.”
Sam looked back up at Dean, who was giving him a tiny smile. He nodded. “Okay, Dean.”
“Yeah?” Sam nodded again.
“Good. Let’s get ourselves patched up.”
***************
Well, guys, what did you think? I'm not sure how I feel about it, so I need feedback.
And I am SO sorry this took me so long. It really killed me to write, as I'm sure you can see why. Hopefully, the next part won't be as bad, though I'm afraid it's probably going to be the last.
I want to thank all of you who have kept up with this 'verse. I really do love and I'm so happy you were/are here to share it with me. *hugs*
Now, onto the feedback! :)
_
Series: Some Things Are Meant to Be
Author: thelonejuliet
Characters: Sam, Dean, OFCs
Pairing: Sam/Dean, Dean/OMC (non-con)
Word Count: 4,642
Rating: Hard R (for themes more than anything)
Warnings: Angst, violence, non-con.
Spoilers: Anything already aired is fair game.
Disclaimer: Sam and Dean aren't mine. The OFCs are, but I'm not that attached, you can have them. :)
Beta: orphan_project and candygramme
Author's Note(s): This 'verse goes AU after/during In My Time of Dying.
All titles come from the song, "Some Things Are Meant to Be" from the musical, Little Women.
More Notes at the end. :)
Series/'Verse Summary: Through MANY trials and tribulations, the boys discover some things about themselves - and their destinies.
All fics found here or here!
All previous parts of the 'Meant to Be AU found here.
Chapter Summary: The brothers return to North Dakota for a hunt and find far more than they're bargaining for.
Far From the Shore
When Dean stepped out of the shower, Sam simply couldn’t stop himself from blurting out the question that had been burning his throat for the past 12 hours.
“How do you feel about going back to North Dakota? Near Forman?”
Sam held his breath, watching Dean’s body go completely rigid. The older man had stopped in the middle of buttoning up his jeans, and was staring at Sam with unchecked fear.
“North Dakota? A hunt?” croaked Dean, eyes leaving Sam to stare at the grimy carpet.
Sam let his breath out and swallowed past the huge lump in his throat. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words got caught, even though he wasn’t sure what he wanted to say. In the end, he settled for just nodding.
Suddenly all tension leaked out of Dean’s body, and he slumped into one of the rickety chairs, directly across from Sam’s position on the bed. Sam ached to reach out to him, offer some comfort. But, no, they still weren’t together again, despite Sam’s insistence, and with the subject at hand, Dean’s panic attacks were not only a possibility, but a likely occurrence. Those were never easy for Sam to handle; it just made him ache more.
“What kind?” came another rough whisper from Dean’s lips.
“Not really sure…poltergeist, maybe just a typical angry spirit,” answered Sam flatly, automatically, still searching Dean for the beginnings of an attack.
Dean nodded slightly. “Bobby?”
“Vampires in Kentucky.”
“Dad?”
“New Mexico. We’re the closest, Dean.”
Sam knew that even Dean couldn’t argue with that logic. They were the closest, having just finished up a hunt near the Western edge of Minnesota. And he would never let innocent people keep getting hurt regardless of his own internal struggles. The hunt came first, always the hunt.
After five minutes of tense silence, Sam finally spoke up again, defeated. “We don’t have to go, Dean.”
While it was true that Sam didn’t want to push his brother into something he wasn’t ready for, he really thought that Dean - both of them, actually - needed to deal with this. Simon and his cronies were in jail, but it seemed like Dean was falling farther apart everyday, breaking just a tiny bit more.
If any more cracks surfaced, there would be no going back. Dean was already so close to the point of no return…two steps closer and it would all be over. They’d both be lost to the darkness.
“It’s fine…we can go.”
Dean had spoken so softly that Sam wasn’t entirely convinced he hadn’t just imagined the words. He felt his heart clench, both at the huge step Dean was taking on the road to recovery, to finally being down with the attack, and at the prospect of being so near the men that had messed up both their lives.
“Dean, I…Are you sure?”
Dean turned his face toward Sam, eyes eerily vacant, like they were in a place altogether different from the rest of Dean’s body. He nodded stiffly. “I gotta face it sometime. And, they’re in jail, right Sam? They’re not a threat to me…they can’t be.”
Dean’s words, his tone of voice, made him sound so young, so vulnerable, that Sam’s breath caught in his throat. Even in the immediate aftermath of the attack, while Dean was lying in the hospital, even in the middle of a panic attack, he’d never looked anything less than determined to beat the odds. He’d never looked like he wasn’t the big brother, the protector, like he wasn’t really as strong as he pretended to be.
And, that hurt worse than any event over the previous four months. Sam suddenly realized that there was no big brother-little brother dynamic anymore. There was simply comfort, relief and assurance - both Winchesters needed to act as equals. Things would never be the same again.
Pushing all reservations out of his mind, he leaned forward a few inches and laid his hand atop Dean’s, where it was gripping his own leg tightly enough to turn his knuckles completely white. Dean flinched visibly at the contact, his breathing starting to become erratic, but Sam held on. He needed his brother to feel him, to know he wasn’t alone and that everything was going to be okay.
“Sammy…”
Again with the broken voice and Sam couldn’t take it anymore; he pushed himself off the bed and knelt on the floor, pulling Dean down into him. As a testament to just how scared he was, Dean clutched onto Sam like his life depended on it, burying his face in the crook of Sam’s neck, twisting his hands in the thin T-shirt.
“Dean, man…”
Sam refused to let his tears spill over - cause that wasn’t what Dean needed to see. He didn’t need to see his brother, his only tether to solid ground, breaking down over something that he hadn’t even experienced. The possibility of running into Simon again wasn’t Sam’s cross to bear, as much as he wanted to carry the burden. It was Dean’s and Dean’s alone.
Both brothers jumped apart when the lamp on the bedside table started shaking and toppled off into the floor, a loud crack ringing through the room. Sam looked at the discarded appliance, bulb gone dark, and tried to reign in his emotions.
Dean gasped beside him, having put the pieces together. “Sam, did you…was that you?”
Sam swallowed audibly and then nodded, looking over at his brother, sure that the fearful look was mirrored on his own face. “Sorry,” he muttered sheepishly.
To his great surprise, Dean’s face broke out into a small, shaky grin. “Niiiice.”
And, just like that, the moment was over. Dean was building his defenses again and morphing back into the sarcastic big brother who hid all the pain and fear and unease. It was so normal for them that Sam was immediately comforted. Stability was key, after all.
But, the relief couldn’t cover the pain stabbing through his heart at the loss of touch.
“Well, if we wanna make North Dakota any time soon, we should get going.”
Dean didn’t leave Sam any time to change the subject back, just busied himself with packing and loading up the car. Sam, not sure what else to, followed suit, not daring to bring up Simon again.
And hoping like hell the bastard was still where he was supposed to be.
* * *
Sam shouldn’t have been surprised when Dean announced that he was going out. It wasn’t like he hadn’t announced it just about every night for the past four weeks. There was some part of Sam that freaked out, every time it happened - fear not only of what had happened last time he was alone, but also of what he was getting up to, who he was hooking up with.
But, things were different this time. They were so close to the people that had hurt them and he could see the fear shining out from behind Dean’s self-protective fortress.
He could also see the stubbornness.
So, he sighed. And nodded. And watched Dean walk out of their motel room.
After staring at the door for a good 20 minutes, hoping his brother would change his mind and come back, Sam switched on the laptop. He was thinking he could make another attempt at researching himself into oblivion.
Unfortunately, what he didn’t know? Would hurt him.
* * *
Dean smiled as he watched the redhead making eyes at him from the bar. She was hot, sleazy enough to be his type. Well. She would have been if he’d been at all interested in that sort of thing anymore. He hadn’t slept with anyone since he and Sam had joined up again and he didn’t plan on changing that. If nothing else, he remembered how he’d felt when he’d seen the evidence of Sam’s sex life.
The night that they’d rushed to their father’s aid, something had shifted. He’d woken up with Sam clinging to him, his head pounding something fierce - but he was okay. He didn’t panic at his brother’s touch; he didn’t have the urge to shove him off and get as far away and as alone as possible.
He still wasn’t ready to go back, though, not to that. There was just too much to weed through and, if he wasn’t careful, he’d get caught in the fray and drown. Since that would leave Sammy alone, well…it was better if they kept on performing this ridiculous dance around each other. Really, it was. Even if he did have to jack off every morning with his brother’s body on his mind, his brother’s name on his lips.
Quelling the need within him, he turned back to the pool table and sank the shot that would win him the game. And 400 dollars from the local riffraff, of course.
Content with his winnings, but not yet ready to go back to the motel and face Sam, Dean found himself a table in the corner and pulled his dad’s journal out of his jacket pocket. It was a few minutes before he felt the eyes on him. He shook it off, though, because he knew fear was starting to get to him. He’d been looking for Simon’s face in every passerby since they’d strolled into town.
That in itself was stupid. They were an hour south of Forman, where those yahoos were locked up for one hate crime too many. None of them had gotten off the hook and, according to Sam, they were still where they belonged. So, why should Dean worry? The past was past and, dammit, Dean Winchester did not get scared of memories.
But, when he still couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched, even 15 minutes later, he looked up, eyes seeking familiar figures in the hazy gloom of the bar. He didn’t recognize anyone in his general vicinity; there were no piercing blue eyes looming at him from a dark corner table across the room.
There was quite a crowd, though, so he couldn’t be absolutely sure. Irrational as it was, that freaked him out enough to hightail it out of the bar and back to the relative safety of the motel room. At least, with Psychic Wonder by his side, he felt like he could keep control.
He made it out to the Impala and back to the motel in one piece, but he still couldn’t get rid of the imaginary eyes on his tail. He repeatedly checked the rearview mirror and didn’t see a thing, so he just kept telling himself that it was nerves. He hated to admit it, but maybe his fear was making him see things, feel things that weren’t really there. People’s minds played tricks on them all the time and it wasn’t like Dean wasn’t human, right?
He sighed in relief as he pulled up in front of the motel room, having to park a few spots down the line because some big pick-up truck had taken his spot. But, he could see the room door, with his Sammy safely behind it, so he’d be okay. It was only a few feet. No need to panic.
No sooner had he shut the door than he was grabbed from behind, one hand over his mouth, and slammed onto the hood of the car. He grunted, the force knocking the wind from his lungs. He did his best to draw air back into his body, knowing that lack of oxygen would be his worst enemy if anxiety threatened to overtake him just then.
He struggled against his captor, his yelling muffled by the offending skin plastered to his lips. His efforts were only rewarded with more pressure. Then, the attacker spoke, a sound that chilled Dean’s blood enough to cause ice to form. It was a voice that he’d heard all too often in his dreams. And one he’d been sure he’d never have to hear again, ever.
But, here it was.
Simon.
Simon was free.
And, apparently, he was looking for a fucked-up, backward vengeance.
Dean was so shocked, adrenaline fusing his veins in a desperate attempt to help him fight, that he didn’t catch the words that were spoken. When he didn’t answer, Simon repeated himself, accenting it by pulling on Dean enough to slam him back into the cooling metal.
“I guess you didn’t hear me, ‘cause that certainly would have had a squeal coming out of your pretty mouth. I said -” Pull. Slam. “ - that you have far too pretty an ass to waste it.”
Dean knew he could fight back, that he’d more than made up for his physical weaknesses since the last time, but he was frozen to the spot. He couldn’t make his legs move, couldn’t force his arms up, couldn’t even think past Oh, God, no!
Then a picture of Sam filtered into his mind, a stolen image from one of Dean’s secret visits to Stanford, followed by a parade of snapshots from after Jess’ death. It was a Sam that was happy, smiling. It was a Sam that had shown up with increasing frequency after their first kiss.
But, more importantly, it was someone who would crumble if there were no Dean.
That fueled Dean’s anger at this man for taking him away from that. For creating a huge divide between Dean and his brother that he couldn’t even begin to cross.
Dean managed to maneuver his legs enough to bring one foot up and slam it down into Simon’s. Simon’s grip loosened as the man let out a pained yelp and stumbled back. Dean took the advantage and shoved the other man backwards, whipping around to face his attacker.
He was little shocked at what he saw, unprepared for such a drastic change in Simon’s appearance. Prison hadn’t been good to him - like it was ever good for anybody, but still. Simon had lost a lot of weight, slimmed down to a mere shadow of what he’d been. He didn’t look like he should have the strength that he possessed. The blond hair was longer, curling down towards his shoulders, and a scruffy beard had formed across the no-longer youthful face. It wasn’t the same face, essentially not even the same man who had haunted Dean’s dreams.
But, his eyes? They still contained that burning hatred for all things different. And, they had a new, crazy look to them. Simon was the new Manson.
Dean barely had enough time to take in everything before there were more hands on him. Great. One of Manson’s followers had gotten out, too.
Make that two.
The three men dragged Dean around the side of the motel as he fought to remember which ones they were, if they’d shown any weaknesses before that would be of use to him now, as he tried to get over his shock for a second time.
How the hell had these assholes gotten free?
As if they were reading his mind, one of them - tall, scrawny, big ears, blond hair…Scott? - said, “It pays to have money, even in a small town.”
Dean had a second to see how truly fucked-up the situation was before he was slammed into rough brick…
…and a hand snaked around to undo his belt buckle.
His nightmares, his brain’s projection of what could have happened, were suddenly coming to life. These yahoos were going to r - no. He wasn’t going to say the word. If he said it, even to himself, it would be true and real and ugly. And, just…no. It wasn’t happening.
Even as that hand popped the button and yanked down his jeans, he was still denying it.
Oh, God, Sammy.
* * *
After a couple hours of no Dean, Sam wasn’t really worried. It wasn’t anything new. But, his thoughts had once again turned to Simon. He couldn’t shake the feeling that they weren’t finished dealing with him, not quite.
On a whim, he brought up the newspaper for Forman and its surrounding communities. He’d checked it before, multiple times since the trial that had done away with Dean’s attackers; he wanted to make sure that they stayed where they were meant to be. And, just like every other time, there wasn’t any breaking news, any new information.
But, still, he couldn’t get rid of the fear gnawing at the edge of his consciousness. Something wasn’t right. He felt like there was something he’d overlooked, right there, just out of reach.
So, he hit search on the corner of the newspaper’s website, typed in Simon Hoffman. The very first headline that Sam clicked on was the one covering the trial. The next few were along the same lines, explaining the charges, carrying the outcry of the community that these guys hadn’t been prosecuted sooner.
Then he saw a link that stopped his heart cold.
Basher and Friends Set Free
But, how? When? Why hadn’t he noticed it before?
In the blink of an eye, Sam was up and across the room, shrugging on his jacket. He opened the door and stopped cold when he saw a pickup truck where the Impala was supposed to sit. It wasn’t the non-vacated parking spot that worried him; it was the surfacing of a memory where that truck wasn’t as beat-up, when it gleamed under fluorescent parking lot lighting and helped illuminate his brother’s life draining out of him.
His heart began to race even faster, attempting to pound out of his chest in a desperate plea for attention. Dean, it was shouting at him. Dean was in trouble.
He saw the Impala, parked a little ways down, at the exact same time he heard an impossible thing. Dean was speaking to him. But, from where? Sam spun in every direction, trying to find his brother.
The three words repeated themselves - Oh, God, Sammy.
Dean was nowhere in sight, so how…Oh. Another ability? Well, it’s not like this one was doing him much good. What was the use of hearing Dean’s thoughts if he couldn’t direct them to give him the information he needed. Why the hell weren’t the visions coming when he so desperately needed one?
Then another sound filtered through the haze of panic. Laughter. Someone was laughing, loudly. More than one person.
Without even thinking it through, Sam took off in the direction of the sound, off around to the back of the motel. The sight that greeted him effectively erased any semblance of fear, instead filling him with anger so profound and so deep that he was suddenly seeing everything through a red fog.
He’s not certain about what happened after that, how it all came about. He felt like he was separated from his body, a mere bystander, watching as he stalked toward the three men surrounding his brother.
He recognized them, all of them, every last detail. There was Scott, the bastard that had cried for his mother at the trial. And, Chris, the one who had leered at Sam like he was some piece of meat to toy with later.
Then there was Simon. Simon, the crazed freak who had shown no remorse as the cops led him away. The asshole who had looked at Dean and laughed as he heard his sentence being read by the judge. Simon, who was sliding home in Dean’s ass and holding a knife to his throat.
Dean looked over to him from his position, plastered to the wall of the motel. His eyes were so full of fear and guilt that Sam’s anger went deeper. These guys had no right to make Dean feel like that, unworthy. Lord knows he had enough issues of his own without some backwater homophobes adding something to the mix.
Dean must have made some move to alert the attackers to Sam’s presence because all movement and taunting suddenly stilled. Sam had four sets of eyes on him, unchecked terror pouring out of three of them.
Chris, the stockier of the three rednecks, went flying backwards. His head made contact with the brick and he slid down the wall in an unconscious heap, blood trickling slowly down his neck.
Scott somehow realized what was happening and took off for the woods, trying to put as much distance between him and Sam as possible. He’d only taken a handful of steps, though, when Sam stopped him. Scott was left with no control over his own actions and turned around slowly to stare at Sam, eyes the only things that showed any semblance of life. Sam cocked his head to the side and Scott raised the switchblade in his hand, flicking it open. Without so much as a breath of hesitation, he plunged the dirty blade into his stomach. Sam relinquished control and the man fell over, whimpering with pain and the realization that his life was swiftly coming to an end.
Simon was the only one left. And, the crazy bastard wasn’t relenting. As soon as he knew that he had Sam’s attention focused solely on him, he resumed the raping of his brother. Dean was biting down on his jacket sleeve, tears leaking out from beneath clenched eyelids. With every painful thrust, he grunted into the material and the muscles in his forearms strained, trying to keep his hips from smacking into the wall.
Simon was smiling now, grinning cheekily over at Sam with childish glee. “See, I couldn’t let this one go, Sammy, m’boy. He’s too pretty. Pretty shouldn’t be kept at arms distance, nu-uh. That’s what I learned in prison.”
“You stupid bastard,” Sam growled in response, voice low enough to vibrate through his body.
Two steps and Sam was there, face to face with this monster. Half a second later, Simon was toppling over from the force of Sam’s fist. In the process, he was pulled out of Dean, who was caught by Sam and gently lowered to the ground to rest against the wall with Chris.
Simon, stupid as he obviously was, was back on his feet quickly, apparently learning more than how to rape someone in prison. Sam couldn’t help but chuckle as Simon tried to rush and tackle him. He was halted by another swift punch to the face and staggered backward. He still didn’t stop, though, taking another step toward Sam, knife out to the ready.
Dean made a broken noise off to the side, and Sam whipped his head around to see why. He realized his mistake too late as he was pushed to the ground, cheek pounding from Simon’s fist and blood trickling out of a gouge on his arm from Simon’s knife. Before he could get his bearings back, Simon was straddling his waist and had landed another blow to Sam’s temple. The force of the punch sent his head reeling back into the blacktop and caused stars to pop along the edges of his vision.
Dean was moving, he could see it out of the corner of his eye, but he couldn’t focus because Simon chose that moment to get up and kick him in the stomach. All wind was forced out of him and he curled himself into the fetal position. Before he had a chance to get his breath back, Simon was yanking on his hair, pulling him to a standing position, knife, already stained with Sam’s blood, to his throat.
Just as he felt the cold metal begin to slice through his skin, Simon made a choked sound and released Sam so suddenly that he fell to the ground, knife clattering away. Sam drew large amounts of cool air into his lungs as he turned around to see what had happened.
Dean, fully dressed again, had Simon flat on his back and was standing astride his hips, gun pointing down at his chest. Sam couldn’t have said anything even if he’d wanted to, couldn’t stop his brother because he knew that he would have done the exact same thing. Simon wasn’t walking away tonight. He wasn’t going to be set free with a few bruises just to hurt them, or someone else, again.
Simon wasn’t going anywhere but hell.
When the shot rang out, Sam didn’t even flinch. Clutching his wounded arm, he forced himself to stand and got to Dean just as his brother began to collapse. Together, they made their way back to their room, leaning on each other for support. They were safely behind locked doors when the first sirens began to sound in the distance.
Once the door was locked and re-salted, Sam moved to sit next to Dean at the table, where he was gingerly feeling around the damage on his face. Every time he shifted in his chair, he grimaced and Sam felt the anger flare up again.
“Dean,” he whispered, reaching over with his uninjured hand. He could feel the side of his face beginning to swell and the pain in his arm was terrible, but nothing mattered more than Dean at that moment. “Are you…okay? I mean…”
Dean looked up as Sam’s hand covered his on the table and he turned it, without flinching at the sudden touch, linking their fingers together. Sam’s heart, which had been pounding at an alarming rate, suddenly began stuttering to a halt. For the first time in over four months, Sam was looking at his brother. Not just his brother in physical appearance, but actually looking at the brother he once knew. There was a renewed fire behind eyes that had too-long been dull. There was life evident in every structure, every muscle fiber, every freckle. With Simon where he belonged, Dean was free. He was finally free after so many months of torment. He didn’t have to live in constant fear.
“I think I will be, Sammy.” Dean spoke softly, almost as if he were trying to keep a secret.
Sam knew that there would be repercussions from the ordeal. Dean had not only killed a man, but he’d been raped - and how could you ever be okay with that? But, Dean Winchester was a complex man and dealt with things in ways that no one else could understand. The nightmares weren’t going to stop; they would get worse before they got better. But, eventually, Dean would overcome. They were Winchesters, dammit. And Winchesters did not give up.
“Dean, it’s okay…if you’re not.” Sam knew it had to be said. “I mean…ra -”
Dean lifted his other hand to cut him off. “Don’t. Just…don’t say it out loud like that.”
“But, Dean -”
“No, Sammy. I mean it. I’m not okay. Not now, I’m not. There is adrenaline lighting a fire in my veins right now and that’ll wear off and I’ll come down and I’ll hit the ground hard. But, right now, in the immediate aftermath, I’m dealing. And I know how to deal with this. I’ve been having nightmares about this for so long, about him. In a way…I’ve already dealt with it.
“And, I will be all right.”
Dean squeezed Sam’s fingers and Sam looked down to where they were joined. Maybe, for once, he should listen to what his brother was saying. Maybe he should hear the words and take them for what they were instead of psychoanalyzing and creating problems in his head that might not be there.
If Dean said he was fine, then he was fine. And, if it turned out he wasn’t, then Sam would be there to catch him and build him back up. Sam would always be there to make the pain go away.
Sam was there, for better or for worse.
“We will be all right, Sammy.”
Sam looked back up at Dean, who was giving him a tiny smile. He nodded. “Okay, Dean.”
“Yeah?” Sam nodded again.
“Good. Let’s get ourselves patched up.”
***************
Well, guys, what did you think? I'm not sure how I feel about it, so I need feedback.
And I am SO sorry this took me so long. It really killed me to write, as I'm sure you can see why. Hopefully, the next part won't be as bad, though I'm afraid it's probably going to be the last.
I want to thank all of you who have kept up with this 'verse. I really do love and I'm so happy you were/are here to share it with me. *hugs*
Now, onto the feedback! :)
_