The Good Son, Supernatural
Fandom: Supernatural
Title: The Good Son
Characters/Pairing: Sam, John, Dean, implied Sam/Dean, graphic Sam/Other
Rating: NC-17, for graphic violence and sex, rape
Table: #1
Prompt: 005 Son
Summary: Sam is called back to Stanford to investigate some strange disappearances, and before he could even meet up with the old friend who asked for him, Sam disappears himself, taken prisoner.
Warnings: Very, very Dark Fic. Involves torture and rape. First part of a larger story (probably 2 to 3 parts)
This is my fourth ficlet for my Supernatural claim on 100_situations. Clicky for table
The argument was the same, it was always the same. Sam stalked away from the hotel room, his face hot with anger as he replayed it in his head. His father never said the words, but the message was always clear. Why can’t you be more like Dean?
Sam kicked at the gravel of the hotel parking lot and bit his lip. After everything, all the hunting, all the searching and following cryptic clues, he was with them less than 2 hours before it started. Sam supposed that it didn’t help that they were here, the place of Sam’s worst betrayal of their father’s aspirations for his sons. It didn’t take him long to reach the campus that had been his home for those few years he’d been free.
His long legs ate the shaded streets as recalled John Winchester’s one trip to the campus. He hadn’t said it then either. And tonight Dean hadn’t spoken, and maybe that was really what was eating at Sam. His brother hadn’t disagreed, hadn’t defended him.
Not that he should expect it, after all, Dean was the good son. He was the talented thief, the con man, better with a gun, better with a punch, and way better at taking orders without question. That was something Sam had never gotten the hang of.
Sam had only come back here because an old friend had emailed him about some strange happenings on campus. Two juniors had disappeared inside three months. The police had few leads. Sam didn’t really expect it to be anything supernatural, but had agreed to come look around, just because it was Davis asking him to, and Davis was nervous. Davis was the coolest head he knew at Stanford. Sam never expected Dean to come with him, let alone that their father would show up.
He was chasing something else of course, and had ordered Sam off the disappearances within minutes of announcing his presence. That had kick-started the argument. This time Sam didn’t give in though, didn’t cave to the pressure of trying to please him, because arguing hurt less than disappointment.
He had stormed out, after only a few rounds and now found himself wishing he had at least grabbed his jacket. The campus was chill, blanketed in a light fog. He had scheduled a meeting with Davis that he was early for, but he figured he could use the time to clear his head anyway.
Sam scuffed his feet in frustration as he walked, stuffing his large hands into his jeans and hunching his shoulders over. He was still a ways from the library building where he had spent countless hours as a student, where Davis had said he’d meet him. He moved more briskly, turning his thoughts away from his father and to the little information he had been able to glean from the local papers.
Both students had come from poor families, disadvantaged backgrounds. Both were men, in their junior years, one was pre-med, the other business. They had no classes in common, lived in different off campus housing and both were last seen either out leaving the library for their homes on a night rather like this one, fogged in and hazy.
No evidence of foul play had been found, and campus security was dealing with them as though they were voluntary departures. It happened often enough. The stress of college life wasn’t for everybody.
Sam reached the stairs of the library and looked around him. It was only 8, but the fog made it seem later, muffling the distant sounds of people moving between buildings and deepening the shadows around him. It was a familiar place, a reminder of the most normal time in his life. He heard steps and turned, expecting Davis.
The fist that slammed into his face took him by surprise and he staggered backward, turning away from his assailant without seeing him, struggling as an arm circled around his throat and slowly cut off his air.
Sam pulled at the arm, but he was off balance, his feet trying to push him upright while the arm yanked him backward. The man was shorter than Sam, but used his surprise against him easily. He felt the darkness coming long before he realized he couldn’t fight it.
Dean shook his head at his father as Sam stormed out, waiting until he was gone before turning to him. “Do you have to piss him off every single time we see you?”
“He’s got to learn, Dean.”
“Yeah, well…he’s smarter than you give him credit for.”
There was angry silence between them before Dean reached for his coat. “This friend of his is important to him. I’ll see if I can catch up to him. He doesn’t think this thing is supernatural in nature. He just wants to hear what Davis has to say, so he can count it out. We’ll be back in an hour.”
Dean slipped his coat on and opened the door. John shook his head and grabbed his own coat. “I’ll come with you. My demon can wait until morning.”
Dean grinned and held the door. Together they walked toward campus. Sam had told Dean where he was supposed to meet this friend, and while Dean didn’t know the campus nearly as well as Sam, he had spent more hours there than Sam would ever know.
As they neared the library, Dean spotted a fidgety man at the base of the stairs and stopped his father with a hand on his arm. “Davis, I presume?” Dean said, looking around them. “So where’s Sam?”
John frowned. “I don’t see him.”
“Let’s see what Mr. Stanford has to say.” Dean moved forward confidently, sticking out his hand. “Davis? I’m Dean Winchester, Sam’s brother.”
Davis was slightly older than Dean, dressed in a suit and tie and very obviously uncomfortable. He took the offered hand hesitantly, his eyes moving over the fog. “Where’s Sam?”
Dean scrunched his shoulders. “I was hoping you could tell me. When we saw him last he was on his way here to meet you.”
“I was a little late, my class went long. I haven’t seen him.”
Dean beckoned his father closer. “Well, maybe he just got distracted with nostalgia and he’ll be along. Why don’t you fill us in while we wait? This is my father, John.”
“Okay, but let’s get inside. I don’t like the fog.”
Dean gestured for Davis to lead the way and shot his father a concerned look before he followed. This wasn’t like Sam, even as mad as he had been when he’d stormed out, and that made Dean very uneasy.
Burning…his lungs were burning, his throat was fire…music was pulsing at a volume that was nearly painful, surrounding him…beating at him like a physical fist pounding on his back. He shook his head, then stopped suddenly as sensation rushed in and he recognized the danger.
Headphones, tight against his head…a gag, stuffed into his mouth, pulled tight, cutting the corners of his mouth. Blinded, something tied over his eyes…but that wasn’t all. The hood was tied around his neck, covering his entire head, gag, blindfold and headphones.
He was marooned in the darkness with no access to his surroundings. His knees ached, and he slowly realized he was kneeling on a hard surface. His body was held upright by his bound arms, pulled up over his head. His shoulders strained at the weight of his body, but the pain wasn’t unbearable…yet.
He was conscious of his breathing, harsh against the material in his mouth, dragging air through his bruised throat and into lungs still burning from their brief deprivation of air. The music was unfamiliar, the beat insistent, the words incoherent, at least to his starting to panic mind.
A hand touched him and he started, flinching away and finding the surface he knelt on was small. Too much movement and he would fall. The hand was on his back, and he realized his back was bare. The hand was cold, settling between his shoulder blades, sitting there, as if to prove that it could, and that Sam could do nothing to stop it.
Then it was gone and he was once more alone in the dark. The next touch was less gentle. It felt like leather, sliding over his back roughly before it was removed, and laid against his ass in a harsh slap.
Sam jumped away, registering the sudden realization that more than his back was bare just before he fell forward, screaming as his full body weight fell on his shoulders, and he felt the left one pop out of socket. His feet hit the ground, scraping over something that felt like concrete as his body swung. He was yelling, but couldn’t hear anything. He could almost feel his captor watching his body swing.
As he stopped moving, his attention returned to the idea that he was bound and naked, blind and deafened. That same leather implement fell against his shoulders, one after the other, and he bit his lip rather than yell out again.
He remembered the attack, and was vaguely aware of having been dragged before he completely lost consciousness. A fist slammed into his stomach and he curled as far forward as he could. He lost track shortly after that, his head swimming back toward unconsciousness.
“We shouldn’t jump to conclusions, that’s all I’m saying.” John said as he and Dean entered the hotel room.
“He’s in trouble. Don’t ask me how I know. I just do.”
“I thought Sam was the one with the visions.” John said dryly and Dean gave him a dirty look.
“I know he did a little research earlier, let’s see what’s on his computer.”
Dean opened the worn laptop and powered it up, immediately bringing up the browser’s history. There were a few newspaper articles; Davis’ email asking for help and that was about it. “Do you think Sam knew either of these boys?” John asked, leaning over his son’s shoulder to skim over the articles.
“He didn’t say. There doesn’t seem to be any connection, other than the fact that they both disappeared from campus.”
“Davis said something about thinking that they were related because of the circumstances. The fog, the fact that both boys were on financial aid, and both left behind belongings they would have taken with them if they were leaving the school.”
“I’m getting a bad feeling.” Dean said, as he scrolled down in the last article. The picture that stared back at him could have been Sam…or Sam a few years before, same unruly hair, too long from it’s last trim, boyish face that was similar enough that he might have been a long lost Winchester.
“This the business guy?”
Dean nodded. “Looks an awful lot like Sammy.”
“Are there any pictures of the other guy?”
Dean made a face as he paged through the article. “No. It was decided that he just left school.”
He looked up at his father, concern written all over his face. “What did he walk into here Dad?”
John Winchester shook his head and paced away. “I don’t know, but I suggest we find out…and find him.”
Credence Clearwater Revival. This was an improvement over the non-descript beat pounding he’d had the last time he’d found his way back to consciousness. At least he knew the words.
His body ached. His breathing was shallow to avoid the pain he instinctively knew would come if he filled his lungs with air. He was back on his knees, on the pedestal, which he supposed was better than hanging naked from his wrists.
Sam could taste blood in his mouth, feel the cloth of the gag cutting into him. His head hurt from the tightness of the gag and blindfold. The muscles in his thighs and arms burned.
Think, he told himself. He should be able to-
A hand grabbed his chin and he got the impression he was being stared at. Suddenly the music stopped.
“Welcome home, Sam,” a voice said through the headphones…loud, possessive. “I’ve waited for you.” There was a low rumbling laugh. “Well, not really. But the others meant nothing to me. You are the only one that matters.”
“Who are you?” Sam asked, around the gag, straining to hear the sound, any sound other than that voice. He knew he was speaking, he could feel it in his throat, and the taste of blood on the back of his throat as his vocal chords contracted.
The laugh again, roaring in his ears, making him cringe. “I am…the one who holds your life in my hands. But that doesn’t matter as much as who you are.” The hand was on his back again. It slid over strained muscle, up to an aching shoulder. “You are my masterpiece. Mine.” The hand gripped tightly, pain springing up under his fingers until Sam yelled into the cloth. “You belong to me.”
The hand was gone and Sam tried to sense where the body was that the voice and hand belonged to. He shifted on his knees, trying to test the limits of the pedestal, determine the means of his prison. Two hands now, on his thighs. “The pedestal is not entirely stable. I wouldn’t squirm on it too much.”
Sam stilled, though not for the sake of obedience. He wasn’t really ready to test the truth, and the agony that would accompany another tumble from the perch. The hands were rubbing his skin now, up his thighs. Sam swallowed and tried not to move away. So far all he knew was that this was one sick fuck, and he wasn’t going to give him any more reason to hit him.
“Now, this should work better than it did with those others. None of them was ready for this. You are my inspiration after all. Let me explain how this will work. Everything in your existence is now dependent upon me. You will eat and drink and piss and shit when I tell you. Your body, is mine.”
With that the hand reached through Sam’s legs to grab his cock, holding it like it was a handle or leash. “The pedestal is pressure sensitive. When you step from it, the chain is pulled higher, so that your feet will only scrape the ground. The walls are glass, so that I can watch you.”
Sam felt warm air, through the hood, hovering near his mouth. “You are so beautiful. I will be watching you for a long time.”
There was silence then. The hands left his body, the warm air was gone. Sam listened to the silence, trying to figure out anything that might help him.
”Your brother and I aren’t always going to be there, Sam. You have to learn to take care of yourself.”
“I’m trying, Dad.”
“Try harder.”
He swung the bat ineffectually, missing both Dean and his father. “The blindfold’s too tight.”
“You think something that’s blinded you is going to care about your comfort?”
The music began its blaring again, cutting off all thought and Sam jumped, struggling not to fall. He adjusted to the sound, biting at the gag. He wondered how long he had been gone, if Dean and his father were looking for him yet. Leave it to Sam to storm off in anger only to fall prey to the very thing he’d been setting out to find. He could just about see the disappointment in his father’s eyes.
“Hmmm.” Dean spit out the pencil in his mouth and reached for another yearbook.
“Find something?”
“Maybe. Take a look.” He shifted the computer screen toward his father. The university library wasn’t busy yet, 9 am classes hadn’t quite gotten started and other than the nerdy librarian and a few pre-med students, they were alone. “Seems one to two male students with excellent grades, modest backgrounds and some serious student loan debt have disappeared every year since Sam started here. This guy,” Dean gestured to the picture on the computer, “was Sam’s room mate his first year. According to the records, he ‘left’ during the Christmas break and never came back.”
John flicked his gaze from the screen to the list Dean was compiling. “So…any of them ever turn up again?”
Dean shook his head. “Not that I can find. Most of them had no family, and were never reported missing.”
“Have you checked for any dead John Does?”
Dean looked up at him. “Working on it.”
“Let me know what you find.”
“Where are you going?” Dean asked as his father headed for the door.
“Check around, see if…maybe he’s back at the hotel wondering where we are.”
Dean nodded, not really believing Sammy would be found at the hotel, and knowing his father didn’t either. Something was wrong. Dean could feel it. “Just hold on Sammy. We’re trying.”
The music was gone. Sam had no recollection of when it had stopped, or how long it had been silent. He wasn’t asleep…he couldn’t sleep, not when any movement could send him careening off his perch, ripping his arms out of his shoulders as he went. He just wasn’t very aware of anything outside himself.
Time was something without meaning. His mouth was dry, his jaw ached from the gag. His head hurt from the noise and his body…he didn’t want to think about. He had to pee, bad enough he would be running for the nearest bathroom if he was able. His stomach rumbled. How long had he been there?
“Twenty four hours,” the voice rang in his ears, as if it knew what he was thinking. “Your father checked you out of the hotel this morning. He and your brother looked for you around campus for a while, but they’re gone now.”
Sam didn’t move, not outwardly anyway. His heart thumped louder, faster. They wouldn’t leave him. They would find him.
“Your father thinks you’ve left them for good this time. Said you should have stayed gone.”
No. No. It repeated in his head vehemently, but he knows there’s some truth. John Winchester had never understood his youngest son’s predilection for normal, for a life other than the one they had known. They had fought about it before, just like they had before Sam had stormed away. And Dean…Dean was the good son, the one who did what Daddy ordered, without question. If John said leave, Dean would go.
Sam shook his head to express his denial of his captor’s words and heard the laughter.
“They won’t be coming for you.” The hand stroked down his back, almost like he was being petted. “This will be so much easier if you don’t fight me, Sam. I want to take care of you.”
Sam shivered under the touch, his mind rebelling. “I figured by now you’d be ready for a little relief.”
The hand left him and his arms fell heavily in front of him, the pull of them above his head released and nearly upsetting him. He steadied himself, pressing his bound hands against the pedestal and redistributing his weight.
“Are you hungry, Sam?”
Sam hesitated, because, hell yes, he was hungry, but he wasn’t about to admit it. This was where all the training came in, whether or not he had ever been good enough for John Winchester, he had to be good enough now. He shook his head cautiously.
He could feel him, moving…around, near. Sam felt his breathing change. If he could just anticipate-“Thirsty?” Again he shook his head. He knew his captor was there, just behind him, so close he could feel the static electricity from his clothing.
“I can hear your stomach rumbling, Sam,” the voice said. The body moved, Sam lost the feel for it. The voice though was as close, as intimate as ever. “It’s time for you to pee, Sam. Step down from the pedestal.”
He didn’t move, though his bladder cried out for relief and his arms hung loose in front of him. He couldn’t…The hand was back, grabbing him by the throat and pulling and he lurched forward, trying to get his feet under him before he fell, and only barely succeeding. His legs were rubbery and numb, and he stumbled as he was led a few steps away. “Stand here.”
The hand left his throat, moved south, holding his cock, aiming it. “Pee.”
Sam swallowed hard. Surely this wasn’t-“Do as I say, Sam, or there will be consequences.” There was a harsh edge to the voice that was different, and Sam felt himself flush from head to toe. To be so helpless…so full of need for something so simple…it was humiliating. “I know that you need to, I’ve been watching you,” the voice cajoled…the hand pulled a little and Sam couldn’t stop himself.
He peed into the dark, hearing nothing but the insidious voice murmuring into his ears, calling him a good boy, while the other hand, the one not holding his dick like he was a 3 year old being potty trained, rubbed down his back. As the flow ebbed, Sam sagged, feeling the relief flood through his aching body.
He was alone again, the hands and voice silent. He turned, trying to place himself in a room he couldn’t see, to find an enemy he couldn’t hear. “You have ten minutes. I suggest you make them count.”
Dean had nightmares, sick, twisted visions of demons and warlocks tormenting his brother, attacking him while he was captive and weak. Sam’s voice chased him back to consciousness, “Help me Dean.”
Dean sat up off his stack of books and papers, pulling at the paper stuck to his cheek, irritated. A quick check of the library clock said it was noon. There had been no sleep through the night, only research and weapons inventory and hunting. Hunting for Sam.
Dean’s only break from the books had come shortly after his father had left, to hunt down the two spots on campus he knew Sam sometimes went to be alone. If he was wrong, and Sammy was just pissed, he knew he would have found him there. But his brother wasn’t hiding in the loft of the campus chapel, nor was he hunkered down in the bowels of the law library. Ask anyone, and Sam had never even been there.
He sorted through his notes, shaking his head. In total there seemed to be 9 men missing, all of them boasting physical similarities to his baby brother, all of them smart, on their way to successful lives, after having come from nowhere. Five of them, like Sam, had fought hard to get in. All of them stood at least 5’11”…which meant that whoever or whatever had taken them was a big son of a bitch. He knew Sam wouldn’t go down without a fight…and more than the rest, Sam really knew how to fight.
Dean rubbed a hand over his face and stretched. He reached for the computer, noticing he had received an email from a contact with the local police. He opened it, scanning quickly through the preliminary stuff. His face paled as he reached the attachments, and he fumbled for his cell phone, quickly thumbing buttons to call his father. “Where are you?”
“About ten minutes away from the library.”
“Make it five.”
“You found something.”
“You could say that.”
A few minutes later, John entered the library, moving quickly for his son who was now pacing beside the table strewn with books and papers. “What?”
Dean gestured toward the computer and John sat to look. “Between 3 weeks and 6 months after each disappearance, a mutilated body has shown up somewhere nearby. Two in San Jose, three in Oakland, four in San Francisco. So mutilated they couldn’t be identified. Not even through dental records.”
John looked up at Dean. “That doesn’t mean they are the missing men.”
Dean stopped pacing. “Did you see the pictures, Dad? This thing has Sam.”
“We don’t know that it’s a thing at all.” John said, though he paled when he scrolled down to the picture of the first body. “Why wouldn’t anyone have put this all together before now?”
Dean shrugged and went back to pacing. “They’re too spread out, time wise maybe? They’re never found near campus, or in the same place twice.”
“Okay, let’s assume you’re right and these 9 John Does are our missing college students. That says that our minimum window is 3 weeks.”
Dean looked like he might be sick. “Three weeks? Did you read those reports? The bodies had wounds consistent with torture…weeks of torture…scars and healing wounds and fresh wounds. Three weeks? Sam…” He choked on the name and walked away.
“Where are you going?”
“To get us some research help. This is a college, right?”
Sam had walked the confines of the room, as much as his bindings allowed. He couldn’t find a door, it must have been in the one wall he couldn’t reach. Three paces from the pedestal to the closest wall, four paces along that wall to the next. Five paces to the limit of his leash. Ten paces to the next wall. Four paces back to the first wall.
It was easy to get disoriented, to lose himself in the dark. The last wall was glass, sleek and cool under his fingers. The other two were more like cement or cinder block. The floor was cement, cold, rough. He guessed it was a basement of some sort…then again, not many buildings in the earthquake zone had basements.
He felt someone come into the room and froze. “Very good, Sam. Please return to the pedestal.”
Sam hesitated, but found his way back to it, his hands resting on its surface. Hands arranged him, pulling his hips back, leaning him forward slightly, moving his legs a little further apart. “Stay.”
Sam might have said something, but for the gag in his mouth. Something warm and wet flowed down his back, and the hand followed it. A cloth moved over his skin, scrubbing lightly as it cleaned first his back and neck, then down his arms. “Such a dirty boy you are Sam. I like my things clean, orderly…neat.” More water, squeezed so that it ran down his ass and legs. The cloth moved over his skin, passing between his ass cheeks before sliding over his thighs.
Sam wanted to pull away, to move. It was horrifying that he could stand there and take this. That he hadn’t found a way free yet. The hand circled his cock, the cloth adding a touch of roughness as it cleaned each and every inch of him, stroking up and down his dick repeatedly.
“Mine,” the voice said into his brain and it repeated, rolling around inside him, drawing him further away from coherent thought. The wash cloth left him. His sense of balance was off, a wave of vertigo threatening to topple him to the ground. He wondered briefly if there was some sort of drug in the water, a hallucinogen to relax him.
Something thicker than water was on his skin now, an oil he realized as the hands moved through it, over his back and shoulders, pushing into muscles sore and tight from his imprisonment, and despite everything, his body responded. Muscles unknotted. Relaxed.
He realized belatedly that the voice was speaking…not that it was really saying much. Soft words of encouragement as hands slowly moved lower, applying pressure in all the right places. Sam didn’t even really recognize the first few swipes over his ass cheeks. He floated on the pleasure that contrasted the pain he had become familiar with.
The finger moved deftly, between his cheeks, sliding up toward his hole, teasing it lightly. Sam tensed, sensing a change, fearing the worst. This was not-It pushed inside and Sam bolted, pulling away, knocking the pedestal away, moving…then he felt his arms snap up, over his head, pulling him off his feet, sending him reeling, swinging, until the hands caught his feet and pulled him down. There was a slap across his face, only barely muffled by the hood, stinging.
As his feet touched the floor, they were knocked away and he landed on his knees, his face pulled down to the floor. A booted foot on his neck encouraged him to hold still as the hands released him. Leather slapped against him, seven smacks of something long and thin that stung and he could feel welts rising on his ass and lower back. “Mine,” the voice said again and an entire finger pressed inside him without preamble.
Sam shook beneath the boot, wanting to pull away despite the pain of punishment. This was something he never…only Dean had ever touched him…and that was always a heated thing, hurried, frantic, a response to danger and the thrill of the hunt. This was…slow.
The finger slowly fucked his ass, sliding on massage oil…gentle almost…working in and out, easing him open. It was far more intimate than anything Sam had ever had, even with Dean, maybe especially with Dean. He squirmed as a second finger was added, still moving slowly.
This was rape, his mind yelled at him. “I am going to fuck you now Sam. If you move I will hurt you.”
Sam started screaming into the gag before the boot was even fully off his neck. It started simply as a hearty “No” that the cloth in his mouth turned into a long, pronounced “Oh…”
Then there was a cock invading where only Dean’s had ever been, so unlike Dean’s…smaller, but thicker, slow, methodically moving deeper into him. Sam screamed a litany of curses that were lost to the gag and the concrete. The dick fucked him slowly, and it was as if his entire world reduced to that sensation, that one touch. When it was joined by a constant pulling on his own cock, Sam’s screams lost all sense of being words, punctuated by grunts and his mind closing to coherent thought…because here he was being raped and he was going to come.
He was…and he did…falling into a dark abyss where he could only whisper “I’m sorry I’m not a good son” to an image of his father, over and over again.
Second Part Here
Title: The Good Son
Characters/Pairing: Sam, John, Dean, implied Sam/Dean, graphic Sam/Other
Rating: NC-17, for graphic violence and sex, rape
Table: #1
Prompt: 005 Son
Summary: Sam is called back to Stanford to investigate some strange disappearances, and before he could even meet up with the old friend who asked for him, Sam disappears himself, taken prisoner.
Warnings: Very, very Dark Fic. Involves torture and rape. First part of a larger story (probably 2 to 3 parts)
This is my fourth ficlet for my Supernatural claim on 100_situations. Clicky for table
The argument was the same, it was always the same. Sam stalked away from the hotel room, his face hot with anger as he replayed it in his head. His father never said the words, but the message was always clear. Why can’t you be more like Dean?
Sam kicked at the gravel of the hotel parking lot and bit his lip. After everything, all the hunting, all the searching and following cryptic clues, he was with them less than 2 hours before it started. Sam supposed that it didn’t help that they were here, the place of Sam’s worst betrayal of their father’s aspirations for his sons. It didn’t take him long to reach the campus that had been his home for those few years he’d been free.
His long legs ate the shaded streets as recalled John Winchester’s one trip to the campus. He hadn’t said it then either. And tonight Dean hadn’t spoken, and maybe that was really what was eating at Sam. His brother hadn’t disagreed, hadn’t defended him.
Not that he should expect it, after all, Dean was the good son. He was the talented thief, the con man, better with a gun, better with a punch, and way better at taking orders without question. That was something Sam had never gotten the hang of.
Sam had only come back here because an old friend had emailed him about some strange happenings on campus. Two juniors had disappeared inside three months. The police had few leads. Sam didn’t really expect it to be anything supernatural, but had agreed to come look around, just because it was Davis asking him to, and Davis was nervous. Davis was the coolest head he knew at Stanford. Sam never expected Dean to come with him, let alone that their father would show up.
He was chasing something else of course, and had ordered Sam off the disappearances within minutes of announcing his presence. That had kick-started the argument. This time Sam didn’t give in though, didn’t cave to the pressure of trying to please him, because arguing hurt less than disappointment.
He had stormed out, after only a few rounds and now found himself wishing he had at least grabbed his jacket. The campus was chill, blanketed in a light fog. He had scheduled a meeting with Davis that he was early for, but he figured he could use the time to clear his head anyway.
Sam scuffed his feet in frustration as he walked, stuffing his large hands into his jeans and hunching his shoulders over. He was still a ways from the library building where he had spent countless hours as a student, where Davis had said he’d meet him. He moved more briskly, turning his thoughts away from his father and to the little information he had been able to glean from the local papers.
Both students had come from poor families, disadvantaged backgrounds. Both were men, in their junior years, one was pre-med, the other business. They had no classes in common, lived in different off campus housing and both were last seen either out leaving the library for their homes on a night rather like this one, fogged in and hazy.
No evidence of foul play had been found, and campus security was dealing with them as though they were voluntary departures. It happened often enough. The stress of college life wasn’t for everybody.
Sam reached the stairs of the library and looked around him. It was only 8, but the fog made it seem later, muffling the distant sounds of people moving between buildings and deepening the shadows around him. It was a familiar place, a reminder of the most normal time in his life. He heard steps and turned, expecting Davis.
The fist that slammed into his face took him by surprise and he staggered backward, turning away from his assailant without seeing him, struggling as an arm circled around his throat and slowly cut off his air.
Sam pulled at the arm, but he was off balance, his feet trying to push him upright while the arm yanked him backward. The man was shorter than Sam, but used his surprise against him easily. He felt the darkness coming long before he realized he couldn’t fight it.
Dean shook his head at his father as Sam stormed out, waiting until he was gone before turning to him. “Do you have to piss him off every single time we see you?”
“He’s got to learn, Dean.”
“Yeah, well…he’s smarter than you give him credit for.”
There was angry silence between them before Dean reached for his coat. “This friend of his is important to him. I’ll see if I can catch up to him. He doesn’t think this thing is supernatural in nature. He just wants to hear what Davis has to say, so he can count it out. We’ll be back in an hour.”
Dean slipped his coat on and opened the door. John shook his head and grabbed his own coat. “I’ll come with you. My demon can wait until morning.”
Dean grinned and held the door. Together they walked toward campus. Sam had told Dean where he was supposed to meet this friend, and while Dean didn’t know the campus nearly as well as Sam, he had spent more hours there than Sam would ever know.
As they neared the library, Dean spotted a fidgety man at the base of the stairs and stopped his father with a hand on his arm. “Davis, I presume?” Dean said, looking around them. “So where’s Sam?”
John frowned. “I don’t see him.”
“Let’s see what Mr. Stanford has to say.” Dean moved forward confidently, sticking out his hand. “Davis? I’m Dean Winchester, Sam’s brother.”
Davis was slightly older than Dean, dressed in a suit and tie and very obviously uncomfortable. He took the offered hand hesitantly, his eyes moving over the fog. “Where’s Sam?”
Dean scrunched his shoulders. “I was hoping you could tell me. When we saw him last he was on his way here to meet you.”
“I was a little late, my class went long. I haven’t seen him.”
Dean beckoned his father closer. “Well, maybe he just got distracted with nostalgia and he’ll be along. Why don’t you fill us in while we wait? This is my father, John.”
“Okay, but let’s get inside. I don’t like the fog.”
Dean gestured for Davis to lead the way and shot his father a concerned look before he followed. This wasn’t like Sam, even as mad as he had been when he’d stormed out, and that made Dean very uneasy.
Burning…his lungs were burning, his throat was fire…music was pulsing at a volume that was nearly painful, surrounding him…beating at him like a physical fist pounding on his back. He shook his head, then stopped suddenly as sensation rushed in and he recognized the danger.
Headphones, tight against his head…a gag, stuffed into his mouth, pulled tight, cutting the corners of his mouth. Blinded, something tied over his eyes…but that wasn’t all. The hood was tied around his neck, covering his entire head, gag, blindfold and headphones.
He was marooned in the darkness with no access to his surroundings. His knees ached, and he slowly realized he was kneeling on a hard surface. His body was held upright by his bound arms, pulled up over his head. His shoulders strained at the weight of his body, but the pain wasn’t unbearable…yet.
He was conscious of his breathing, harsh against the material in his mouth, dragging air through his bruised throat and into lungs still burning from their brief deprivation of air. The music was unfamiliar, the beat insistent, the words incoherent, at least to his starting to panic mind.
A hand touched him and he started, flinching away and finding the surface he knelt on was small. Too much movement and he would fall. The hand was on his back, and he realized his back was bare. The hand was cold, settling between his shoulder blades, sitting there, as if to prove that it could, and that Sam could do nothing to stop it.
Then it was gone and he was once more alone in the dark. The next touch was less gentle. It felt like leather, sliding over his back roughly before it was removed, and laid against his ass in a harsh slap.
Sam jumped away, registering the sudden realization that more than his back was bare just before he fell forward, screaming as his full body weight fell on his shoulders, and he felt the left one pop out of socket. His feet hit the ground, scraping over something that felt like concrete as his body swung. He was yelling, but couldn’t hear anything. He could almost feel his captor watching his body swing.
As he stopped moving, his attention returned to the idea that he was bound and naked, blind and deafened. That same leather implement fell against his shoulders, one after the other, and he bit his lip rather than yell out again.
He remembered the attack, and was vaguely aware of having been dragged before he completely lost consciousness. A fist slammed into his stomach and he curled as far forward as he could. He lost track shortly after that, his head swimming back toward unconsciousness.
“We shouldn’t jump to conclusions, that’s all I’m saying.” John said as he and Dean entered the hotel room.
“He’s in trouble. Don’t ask me how I know. I just do.”
“I thought Sam was the one with the visions.” John said dryly and Dean gave him a dirty look.
“I know he did a little research earlier, let’s see what’s on his computer.”
Dean opened the worn laptop and powered it up, immediately bringing up the browser’s history. There were a few newspaper articles; Davis’ email asking for help and that was about it. “Do you think Sam knew either of these boys?” John asked, leaning over his son’s shoulder to skim over the articles.
“He didn’t say. There doesn’t seem to be any connection, other than the fact that they both disappeared from campus.”
“Davis said something about thinking that they were related because of the circumstances. The fog, the fact that both boys were on financial aid, and both left behind belongings they would have taken with them if they were leaving the school.”
“I’m getting a bad feeling.” Dean said, as he scrolled down in the last article. The picture that stared back at him could have been Sam…or Sam a few years before, same unruly hair, too long from it’s last trim, boyish face that was similar enough that he might have been a long lost Winchester.
“This the business guy?”
Dean nodded. “Looks an awful lot like Sammy.”
“Are there any pictures of the other guy?”
Dean made a face as he paged through the article. “No. It was decided that he just left school.”
He looked up at his father, concern written all over his face. “What did he walk into here Dad?”
John Winchester shook his head and paced away. “I don’t know, but I suggest we find out…and find him.”
Credence Clearwater Revival. This was an improvement over the non-descript beat pounding he’d had the last time he’d found his way back to consciousness. At least he knew the words.
His body ached. His breathing was shallow to avoid the pain he instinctively knew would come if he filled his lungs with air. He was back on his knees, on the pedestal, which he supposed was better than hanging naked from his wrists.
Sam could taste blood in his mouth, feel the cloth of the gag cutting into him. His head hurt from the tightness of the gag and blindfold. The muscles in his thighs and arms burned.
Think, he told himself. He should be able to-
A hand grabbed his chin and he got the impression he was being stared at. Suddenly the music stopped.
“Welcome home, Sam,” a voice said through the headphones…loud, possessive. “I’ve waited for you.” There was a low rumbling laugh. “Well, not really. But the others meant nothing to me. You are the only one that matters.”
“Who are you?” Sam asked, around the gag, straining to hear the sound, any sound other than that voice. He knew he was speaking, he could feel it in his throat, and the taste of blood on the back of his throat as his vocal chords contracted.
The laugh again, roaring in his ears, making him cringe. “I am…the one who holds your life in my hands. But that doesn’t matter as much as who you are.” The hand was on his back again. It slid over strained muscle, up to an aching shoulder. “You are my masterpiece. Mine.” The hand gripped tightly, pain springing up under his fingers until Sam yelled into the cloth. “You belong to me.”
The hand was gone and Sam tried to sense where the body was that the voice and hand belonged to. He shifted on his knees, trying to test the limits of the pedestal, determine the means of his prison. Two hands now, on his thighs. “The pedestal is not entirely stable. I wouldn’t squirm on it too much.”
Sam stilled, though not for the sake of obedience. He wasn’t really ready to test the truth, and the agony that would accompany another tumble from the perch. The hands were rubbing his skin now, up his thighs. Sam swallowed and tried not to move away. So far all he knew was that this was one sick fuck, and he wasn’t going to give him any more reason to hit him.
“Now, this should work better than it did with those others. None of them was ready for this. You are my inspiration after all. Let me explain how this will work. Everything in your existence is now dependent upon me. You will eat and drink and piss and shit when I tell you. Your body, is mine.”
With that the hand reached through Sam’s legs to grab his cock, holding it like it was a handle or leash. “The pedestal is pressure sensitive. When you step from it, the chain is pulled higher, so that your feet will only scrape the ground. The walls are glass, so that I can watch you.”
Sam felt warm air, through the hood, hovering near his mouth. “You are so beautiful. I will be watching you for a long time.”
There was silence then. The hands left his body, the warm air was gone. Sam listened to the silence, trying to figure out anything that might help him.
”Your brother and I aren’t always going to be there, Sam. You have to learn to take care of yourself.”
“I’m trying, Dad.”
“Try harder.”
He swung the bat ineffectually, missing both Dean and his father. “The blindfold’s too tight.”
“You think something that’s blinded you is going to care about your comfort?”
The music began its blaring again, cutting off all thought and Sam jumped, struggling not to fall. He adjusted to the sound, biting at the gag. He wondered how long he had been gone, if Dean and his father were looking for him yet. Leave it to Sam to storm off in anger only to fall prey to the very thing he’d been setting out to find. He could just about see the disappointment in his father’s eyes.
“Hmmm.” Dean spit out the pencil in his mouth and reached for another yearbook.
“Find something?”
“Maybe. Take a look.” He shifted the computer screen toward his father. The university library wasn’t busy yet, 9 am classes hadn’t quite gotten started and other than the nerdy librarian and a few pre-med students, they were alone. “Seems one to two male students with excellent grades, modest backgrounds and some serious student loan debt have disappeared every year since Sam started here. This guy,” Dean gestured to the picture on the computer, “was Sam’s room mate his first year. According to the records, he ‘left’ during the Christmas break and never came back.”
John flicked his gaze from the screen to the list Dean was compiling. “So…any of them ever turn up again?”
Dean shook his head. “Not that I can find. Most of them had no family, and were never reported missing.”
“Have you checked for any dead John Does?”
Dean looked up at him. “Working on it.”
“Let me know what you find.”
“Where are you going?” Dean asked as his father headed for the door.
“Check around, see if…maybe he’s back at the hotel wondering where we are.”
Dean nodded, not really believing Sammy would be found at the hotel, and knowing his father didn’t either. Something was wrong. Dean could feel it. “Just hold on Sammy. We’re trying.”
The music was gone. Sam had no recollection of when it had stopped, or how long it had been silent. He wasn’t asleep…he couldn’t sleep, not when any movement could send him careening off his perch, ripping his arms out of his shoulders as he went. He just wasn’t very aware of anything outside himself.
Time was something without meaning. His mouth was dry, his jaw ached from the gag. His head hurt from the noise and his body…he didn’t want to think about. He had to pee, bad enough he would be running for the nearest bathroom if he was able. His stomach rumbled. How long had he been there?
“Twenty four hours,” the voice rang in his ears, as if it knew what he was thinking. “Your father checked you out of the hotel this morning. He and your brother looked for you around campus for a while, but they’re gone now.”
Sam didn’t move, not outwardly anyway. His heart thumped louder, faster. They wouldn’t leave him. They would find him.
“Your father thinks you’ve left them for good this time. Said you should have stayed gone.”
No. No. It repeated in his head vehemently, but he knows there’s some truth. John Winchester had never understood his youngest son’s predilection for normal, for a life other than the one they had known. They had fought about it before, just like they had before Sam had stormed away. And Dean…Dean was the good son, the one who did what Daddy ordered, without question. If John said leave, Dean would go.
Sam shook his head to express his denial of his captor’s words and heard the laughter.
“They won’t be coming for you.” The hand stroked down his back, almost like he was being petted. “This will be so much easier if you don’t fight me, Sam. I want to take care of you.”
Sam shivered under the touch, his mind rebelling. “I figured by now you’d be ready for a little relief.”
The hand left him and his arms fell heavily in front of him, the pull of them above his head released and nearly upsetting him. He steadied himself, pressing his bound hands against the pedestal and redistributing his weight.
“Are you hungry, Sam?”
Sam hesitated, because, hell yes, he was hungry, but he wasn’t about to admit it. This was where all the training came in, whether or not he had ever been good enough for John Winchester, he had to be good enough now. He shook his head cautiously.
He could feel him, moving…around, near. Sam felt his breathing change. If he could just anticipate-“Thirsty?” Again he shook his head. He knew his captor was there, just behind him, so close he could feel the static electricity from his clothing.
“I can hear your stomach rumbling, Sam,” the voice said. The body moved, Sam lost the feel for it. The voice though was as close, as intimate as ever. “It’s time for you to pee, Sam. Step down from the pedestal.”
He didn’t move, though his bladder cried out for relief and his arms hung loose in front of him. He couldn’t…The hand was back, grabbing him by the throat and pulling and he lurched forward, trying to get his feet under him before he fell, and only barely succeeding. His legs were rubbery and numb, and he stumbled as he was led a few steps away. “Stand here.”
The hand left his throat, moved south, holding his cock, aiming it. “Pee.”
Sam swallowed hard. Surely this wasn’t-“Do as I say, Sam, or there will be consequences.” There was a harsh edge to the voice that was different, and Sam felt himself flush from head to toe. To be so helpless…so full of need for something so simple…it was humiliating. “I know that you need to, I’ve been watching you,” the voice cajoled…the hand pulled a little and Sam couldn’t stop himself.
He peed into the dark, hearing nothing but the insidious voice murmuring into his ears, calling him a good boy, while the other hand, the one not holding his dick like he was a 3 year old being potty trained, rubbed down his back. As the flow ebbed, Sam sagged, feeling the relief flood through his aching body.
He was alone again, the hands and voice silent. He turned, trying to place himself in a room he couldn’t see, to find an enemy he couldn’t hear. “You have ten minutes. I suggest you make them count.”
Dean had nightmares, sick, twisted visions of demons and warlocks tormenting his brother, attacking him while he was captive and weak. Sam’s voice chased him back to consciousness, “Help me Dean.”
Dean sat up off his stack of books and papers, pulling at the paper stuck to his cheek, irritated. A quick check of the library clock said it was noon. There had been no sleep through the night, only research and weapons inventory and hunting. Hunting for Sam.
Dean’s only break from the books had come shortly after his father had left, to hunt down the two spots on campus he knew Sam sometimes went to be alone. If he was wrong, and Sammy was just pissed, he knew he would have found him there. But his brother wasn’t hiding in the loft of the campus chapel, nor was he hunkered down in the bowels of the law library. Ask anyone, and Sam had never even been there.
He sorted through his notes, shaking his head. In total there seemed to be 9 men missing, all of them boasting physical similarities to his baby brother, all of them smart, on their way to successful lives, after having come from nowhere. Five of them, like Sam, had fought hard to get in. All of them stood at least 5’11”…which meant that whoever or whatever had taken them was a big son of a bitch. He knew Sam wouldn’t go down without a fight…and more than the rest, Sam really knew how to fight.
Dean rubbed a hand over his face and stretched. He reached for the computer, noticing he had received an email from a contact with the local police. He opened it, scanning quickly through the preliminary stuff. His face paled as he reached the attachments, and he fumbled for his cell phone, quickly thumbing buttons to call his father. “Where are you?”
“About ten minutes away from the library.”
“Make it five.”
“You found something.”
“You could say that.”
A few minutes later, John entered the library, moving quickly for his son who was now pacing beside the table strewn with books and papers. “What?”
Dean gestured toward the computer and John sat to look. “Between 3 weeks and 6 months after each disappearance, a mutilated body has shown up somewhere nearby. Two in San Jose, three in Oakland, four in San Francisco. So mutilated they couldn’t be identified. Not even through dental records.”
John looked up at Dean. “That doesn’t mean they are the missing men.”
Dean stopped pacing. “Did you see the pictures, Dad? This thing has Sam.”
“We don’t know that it’s a thing at all.” John said, though he paled when he scrolled down to the picture of the first body. “Why wouldn’t anyone have put this all together before now?”
Dean shrugged and went back to pacing. “They’re too spread out, time wise maybe? They’re never found near campus, or in the same place twice.”
“Okay, let’s assume you’re right and these 9 John Does are our missing college students. That says that our minimum window is 3 weeks.”
Dean looked like he might be sick. “Three weeks? Did you read those reports? The bodies had wounds consistent with torture…weeks of torture…scars and healing wounds and fresh wounds. Three weeks? Sam…” He choked on the name and walked away.
“Where are you going?”
“To get us some research help. This is a college, right?”
Sam had walked the confines of the room, as much as his bindings allowed. He couldn’t find a door, it must have been in the one wall he couldn’t reach. Three paces from the pedestal to the closest wall, four paces along that wall to the next. Five paces to the limit of his leash. Ten paces to the next wall. Four paces back to the first wall.
It was easy to get disoriented, to lose himself in the dark. The last wall was glass, sleek and cool under his fingers. The other two were more like cement or cinder block. The floor was cement, cold, rough. He guessed it was a basement of some sort…then again, not many buildings in the earthquake zone had basements.
He felt someone come into the room and froze. “Very good, Sam. Please return to the pedestal.”
Sam hesitated, but found his way back to it, his hands resting on its surface. Hands arranged him, pulling his hips back, leaning him forward slightly, moving his legs a little further apart. “Stay.”
Sam might have said something, but for the gag in his mouth. Something warm and wet flowed down his back, and the hand followed it. A cloth moved over his skin, scrubbing lightly as it cleaned first his back and neck, then down his arms. “Such a dirty boy you are Sam. I like my things clean, orderly…neat.” More water, squeezed so that it ran down his ass and legs. The cloth moved over his skin, passing between his ass cheeks before sliding over his thighs.
Sam wanted to pull away, to move. It was horrifying that he could stand there and take this. That he hadn’t found a way free yet. The hand circled his cock, the cloth adding a touch of roughness as it cleaned each and every inch of him, stroking up and down his dick repeatedly.
“Mine,” the voice said into his brain and it repeated, rolling around inside him, drawing him further away from coherent thought. The wash cloth left him. His sense of balance was off, a wave of vertigo threatening to topple him to the ground. He wondered briefly if there was some sort of drug in the water, a hallucinogen to relax him.
Something thicker than water was on his skin now, an oil he realized as the hands moved through it, over his back and shoulders, pushing into muscles sore and tight from his imprisonment, and despite everything, his body responded. Muscles unknotted. Relaxed.
He realized belatedly that the voice was speaking…not that it was really saying much. Soft words of encouragement as hands slowly moved lower, applying pressure in all the right places. Sam didn’t even really recognize the first few swipes over his ass cheeks. He floated on the pleasure that contrasted the pain he had become familiar with.
The finger moved deftly, between his cheeks, sliding up toward his hole, teasing it lightly. Sam tensed, sensing a change, fearing the worst. This was not-It pushed inside and Sam bolted, pulling away, knocking the pedestal away, moving…then he felt his arms snap up, over his head, pulling him off his feet, sending him reeling, swinging, until the hands caught his feet and pulled him down. There was a slap across his face, only barely muffled by the hood, stinging.
As his feet touched the floor, they were knocked away and he landed on his knees, his face pulled down to the floor. A booted foot on his neck encouraged him to hold still as the hands released him. Leather slapped against him, seven smacks of something long and thin that stung and he could feel welts rising on his ass and lower back. “Mine,” the voice said again and an entire finger pressed inside him without preamble.
Sam shook beneath the boot, wanting to pull away despite the pain of punishment. This was something he never…only Dean had ever touched him…and that was always a heated thing, hurried, frantic, a response to danger and the thrill of the hunt. This was…slow.
The finger slowly fucked his ass, sliding on massage oil…gentle almost…working in and out, easing him open. It was far more intimate than anything Sam had ever had, even with Dean, maybe especially with Dean. He squirmed as a second finger was added, still moving slowly.
This was rape, his mind yelled at him. “I am going to fuck you now Sam. If you move I will hurt you.”
Sam started screaming into the gag before the boot was even fully off his neck. It started simply as a hearty “No” that the cloth in his mouth turned into a long, pronounced “Oh…”
Then there was a cock invading where only Dean’s had ever been, so unlike Dean’s…smaller, but thicker, slow, methodically moving deeper into him. Sam screamed a litany of curses that were lost to the gag and the concrete. The dick fucked him slowly, and it was as if his entire world reduced to that sensation, that one touch. When it was joined by a constant pulling on his own cock, Sam’s screams lost all sense of being words, punctuated by grunts and his mind closing to coherent thought…because here he was being raped and he was going to come.
He was…and he did…falling into a dark abyss where he could only whisper “I’m sorry I’m not a good son” to an image of his father, over and over again.
Second Part Here