The Good Son, Part III, Supernatural, Wincest
Fandom: Supernatural
Title: The Good Son, Part III
Characters/Pairing: Sam, John, Dean, implied Sam/Dean, graphic Sam/Other
Rating: NC-17, for graphic violence and sex, rape
Table: #1
Prompt: 032 Torn
Word Count: 2685
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. Third part of a larger story (probably another 1 to 2 parts) First Part Here, Second Part Here
This is my sixth ficlet for my Supernatural claim on 100_situations. Clicky for table
032 Torn
“Are you certain?”
“Yeah, he said Kendall Garrett, why?” Dean paced the room as he spoke on the phone.
“The Kendall Garrett. You really live off the grid, don’t you Dean.”
“Who the fuck is he, Claire?”
“Rich, powerful. His father got the money in oil. Garrett has quadrupled it since he took over the family business. He gives huge amounts to charity. He sits on the board of directors of several major corporations, and non profits.”
“Shit.”
“You can’t just walk in on this guy and accuse him. You don’t have any evidence.”
“In my line of work evidence doesn’t always lead to the bad guy.”
“This isn’t your line of work, Dean. It’s mine.”
Dean fairly growled into the phone and her tone softened. “Give me a few hours. I’ll see if I can feed the lead into the task force. If we can find a way to connect him to all of the men, we might be able to get a search warrant.”
“Okay, fine. But call me back as soon as you know something. We’re starting to go a little crazy here.”
“I know. I will.”
Dean closed his phone and tossed it on the bed as John came in with several bags. “Anything?”
Dean shook his head and grabbed the bag. “She’ll call.” He set the bag on the small table and started emptying it. “He’s some fucking big shot or something.”
“Money doesn’t mean he isn’t some sick fuck who kills people.”
“I know. It just makes it harder.”
“Okay, let’s get some food into us, grab a shower and regroup.”
Dean looked down at the jar of peanut butter in his hands. “Sammy’s out there somewhere counting on us, Dad.” His stomach rolled at the thought and he put the jar down before he threw it. “And here we are, fumbling around like a couple of amateurs.”
“I know.” John’s voice was uncharacteristically soft, his eyes on the dirty motel carpet. Dean couldn’t begin to guess what thoughts were percolating behind his dark eyes. “I’m going to shower first. You eat.”
Dean watched him go, then reached for the peanut butter and bread, before abandoning both and turning the computer toward him. Maybe the police had to watch themselves, but Dean didn’t. He hadn’t gotten so good at breaking and entering for nothing. All he needed was a place to start.
By the time his father was out of the shower, Dean had a list of addresses, scribbled a note and disappeared out the door.
Sam moved slowly when the pain of not moving became to great, rolling from his stomach to his side. He listened to himself breathing, a low, raspy wet sound that told him something was wrong inside.
He was breaking apart. His body, his head…his mind. He could feel the compartmentalization as he fought to hold on to himself. Something of himself hovered, in the back of his mind, strategizing, calculating. Something else whispered that it was useless, he couldn’t stand, couldn’t even sit. He was weak. He was broken.
He was torn.
In every way that mattered. His skin was torn to shreds along his shins and knees, down his back where the riding crop had laid him bare and bleeding. His slip up had earned him a beating…one that didn’t end until Sam was begging, crying, anything to make it end.
He’d been left laying on the floor. Not really unconscious, not really awake. He stared at the black of the blindfold and felt himself breathe. As long as he was breathing, he was okay…he could hold on. His eyes rolled closed and he reached inside of him for that place where Dean was…that part of his heart where he could still feel his brother and he held onto it…Some part of his head whispered his name…and kept whispering it while Sam shivered and held on.
Five addresses into the list, and Dean was getting frustrated. He’d run down the three in Palo Alto first, since they were closest. Two businesses and a frat house. Nothing. The trip to San Francisco hadn’t taken very long at 10pm, and the next two were warehouses down by the pier, and still nothing.
He could almost believe that Garrett was clean, but for the fact that he knew he wasn’t. Couldn’t be. He was their last lead. Five days. Sam had been gone for five days and they had one fucking lead, and Dean couldn’t believe how scared he was. Werewolves and vampires he understood. He could function, knew what to do. Claire was right, serial killers were completely not his line of work.
Jimmying locks and such though, that he could do. And maybe it wasn’t legal and wouldn’t hold up in court, but in the end all that mattered was Sammy. Dean looked around him and went to work on the lock of the next address. It looked like a storage facility, corporate paper and data storage.
He figured he had about ten minutes before security figured out he’d cut the camera and opened the door, and he had better make them count. Not that he knew what he was looking for. This was more Sam’s department than his. He ran his finger along dusty boxes with boring descriptions like “Accounts Payable 2001” and “General Ledger 2003” and rounded a corner.
He skipped a few rows, and found more boring boxes. A few more rows and things took a turn for the interesting. “Stanford, 2004.” Dean paused. Pulled the box out. Opened it.
There were papers, books, neatly placed in the box. He ruffled through it and nearly put it back before his eye fell on a single word. Sam
Dean froze, his hand hovering over the envelope.
Sam
“Over here, the door’s open.”
Dean grabbed the envelope and stuffed it in his jacket before pushing the box back into place and slid into the shadows. He listened to the guards and moved through the dark, moving closer to the door as the guards moved away from it.
He breathed a sigh of relief as he cleared the door, and sprinted for the Impala, dropping the envelope on the passenger side and bringing the car roaring to life to beat it out of the area before some ambitious rent-a-cop decided to widen their search.
He got out onto 101 and looked at the envelope. With one eye on the road, Dean fumbled to open it, dumping out a DVD case, some pictures and a notebook. He cussed to himself and stepped harder on the accelerator. “Fuck.” He pulled off the road suddenly. Slamming on the brakes and dragging the pictures over where he could angle them to the overhead light, Dean took a deep breath, steeling himself.
A man knelt atop a pedestal, naked and bound. His head was down, his hair in his eyes. Dean closed his eyes and swallowed. It was enough. It wasn’t Sam, but it gave him a fair indication of what to expect when he did find him.
“Fuck.”
Dean roared back on to the road. At least now he knew.
He knew that Kendall Garrett was a dead man.
”Sam. Sammy, can you hear me?”
“Go away Dean. It hurts.”
“I know. I can make it better.”
“No.”
Sam’s face was hiding under his pillow. His eye was already black and swollen. But that wasn’t what was making him miserable. “I’m never gonna get it, Dean.”
“You will. It takes time.”
Sam rolled over and looked at his older brother, tears welling in his eyes despite his determination not to cry. He had failed. Again. “He hates me.”
Dean was busy examining the black eye. “Who?”
“Dad.”
“Dad doesn’t hate you, doofus.” Dean ruffled Sam’s hair. “You’re going to be fine. Take the aspirin Dad gave you.”
“No.”
“You said it hurts.”
“It does. It reminds me to be better next time.”
“Whatever. Stop moaning about it then.”
Sam moaned. The hands bathed him as he lay on the floor, short, harsh strokes against skin raw and screaming. The water was scalding, and his voice had failed him, his screams gone bloody and dark in his throat. Each wave of hot water over his already burning skin brought the words to mind, “Dirty Boy Sam.”
The open wounds were the worst, as those hands scrubbed his body.
“You belong to me, Sam.” The voice was angry, though it sounded much the same as always, and Sam wasn’t sure how he knew he was angry. “Your brother doesn’t want you. He left you, he’s gone. He knows you’re a bad, sick boy. He knows you belong with me.”
Sam let the words wash over him without arguing. Arguing only brought punishment. He lay still and let the hands move him, wash him, touch him in places only his brother had ever touched him. Dean…he couldn’t blame Dean…After all, Sam had left him first.
Dean parked the Impala and was out of the car before the engine had stopped making noise, into the door of the hotel room. “Where the hell have you-“ John stood, stopped just by the look on Dean’s face.
He fell into the chair, pulling the computer closer. His hands were shaking as he opened the DVD drawer and pulled one of the discs from the envelope. Without saying anything, he settled the disc into the player and pushed the drawer in. His finger hesitated over the key. He didn’t want to see what was on it, but he knew…they needed to make the most of the lead…needed to know.
“Dean?”
With a slow exhale, Dean pressed the key and the player started. The camera looked in on a room, in the center of which a man was bound, naked and kneeling on some sort of pedestal. There was a spotlight on him, casting the rest of the room in shadow. Movement behind the man suggested a person was there. A slapping sound made Dean, and the man in the video, jump.
“This will be easier if you obey me, Sam.”
“My name isn’t Sam.” The man raised his head, his eyes filled with fear. The slapping sound came again and he yelled out.
“From this moment on, your name is Sam.” Another slap. “Say it.”
“Sam.”
Dean clenched his jaw and turned away.
“Where did you find this?”
“A storage place in Frisco.”
“One of Garrett’s?”
Dean nodded. His stomach twisted. Somewhere out there, Sam was in this man’s place. Sam was alone with this sick, twisted bastard. He hit the pause button as the man in the shadows hit the naked man again. “I can’t…”
John’s hand was on his shoulder. “Let me.”
“No, Dad…we…”
“We have to Dean. If we’re going to find Sam.” Dean got up, wiping his hands against his jeans and John slipped into the seat. “Take a shower, get some sleep. I’ll see if there’s anything here we can use.”
“Gotcha.” Dean sat up from his not sleeping to look at his father. John’s eyes met his. “Garrett. Four hours of video, but he fucked up.”
Dean was off the bed and at his father’s side, as he pointed to the computer screen. The camera was at a different angle and there was a reflection, a small part of a face. Dean reached over his father’s shoulder to zoom in on the face until it filled the screen. “Is that Garrett?”
“Looks like.”
“Where is this place?”
“Don’t know. All I really have is that it looks like mirrored glass, and cinder blocks. The video quality isn’t the greatest.”
“We need to get this to Claire…and figure out where this Garrett guy lives.”
John looked up at Dean and Dean didn’t like what he saw in them. There was anguish there, and fear. “What?”
John’s eyes closed. His head turned away. “Sam.” He choked on the name and took a deep breath. “This is my fault.”
“Dad-“
“No Dean. I-was too hard on him.”
Dean put his hands on his hips. “You always have been.”
John was startled, opening his eyes before lurching to his feet. “He was always so soft…he needed to learn.”
“He needed you.” Dean countered. “He thinks you hate him.”
John paced away. Dean didn’t follow, just watched him. “He thinks you blame him.”
“For what?”
Dean sighed and sat in the chair John had vacated. “Everything. This.” He held up his hands to indicate the hotel room and scattered weapons. “The way we live. Mom.”
John sank onto one of the beds. His hands were shaking as the rubbed over the days of growth on his face. “I think that he…he tries to be normal, he craves normal…because it will make it all right again…somehow…and yet, he can’t stand it when you’re disappointed in him…and every time you’re here, you find something to be disappointed about.”
Dean stopped, staring at his hands. He’d never spoken to his father this way. He’d never had the nerve…but now, everything was different. It should be Sam sitting on that bed, should be him and Sam in that bed, touching each other just to feel something…holding on to one another to realize they were still alive. But it wasn’t Sam and right that moment nothing else mattered.
“Sam isn’t like us, Dad. He isn’t a soldier. He fights because he wants to be, he wants you to be proud of him. He hunts because we expect it.”
”Stop squirming Sammy.”
“Stop calling me that.”
“What? It’s you’re name.”
“Sam, my name is Sam.”
“Whatever. Stop moving around.”
“Are you done yet?”
“It’s a tie, Sam. A fucking bow tie. What do I know about tying them?”
“I should have gotten the clip on.”
“Here, let me.” Big hands took over, deftly tying the soft material, arranging it just so. Sam was eye to eye with John now, after a growth spurt that didn’t seem to be coming to an end. “You look good, Sam.”
“Thanks Dad.”
“You armed?”
“It’s the prom, Dad, not a ghost hunt.”
“Can’t be too careful.”
“He’s gut a gun at the ankle, Dad, and a blade in his jacket.”
John nodded. “Have a good time.”
“Keys?” Sam looked at Dean and Dean’s eyebrow arched.
“If you get so much as a scratch-“
“I won’t.” Dean tossed him the keys and Sam left to pick up his date, turning down the Led Zepplin that came screaming through the radio, but not turning it off. It was almost like taking Dean along for the ride, made him less nervous about his date…though he’d never have admitted that to Dean.
Led Zepplin rocked through his body and Sam struggled to breath. The pedestal rocked as he sought balance and his legs cramped. His shoulders throbbed from injury and the strain of their position. He mouthed the words to the song, concentrating on them, as if they were a connection to his sanity.
Though, to be honest, he wasn’t entirely certain about the sanity thing. If he was to be honest with himself, he wasn’t really sure about much of anything anymore, beyond one thing. His name was Sam.
That was one thing the voice didn’t let him forget. His name was Sam and he belonged to-No, he didn’t-He swallowed against the gag and shook his head. No. He was not going to admit that. Not even in his head.
His notion of self wasn’t quite that far gone…yet. Though he wasn’t sure how long it would last. He had no idea how long…when it started…it could have been months for all he knew. No, not that long. Weeks maybe. The voice had stopped telling him. Maybe that was just as well. It made it easier not thinking about the time…about how long they had left him there…and whether or not they were ever going to come for him.
Maybe they never would. Maybe he would die here, beaten to death…strangled. Maybe all they would find when they came was his body, torn apart and left to bleed.
Next Part here
Title: The Good Son, Part III
Characters/Pairing: Sam, John, Dean, implied Sam/Dean, graphic Sam/Other
Rating: NC-17, for graphic violence and sex, rape
Table: #1
Prompt: 032 Torn
Word Count: 2685
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. Third part of a larger story (probably another 1 to 2 parts) First Part Here, Second Part Here
This is my sixth ficlet for my Supernatural claim on 100_situations. Clicky for table
032 Torn
“Are you certain?”
“Yeah, he said Kendall Garrett, why?” Dean paced the room as he spoke on the phone.
“The Kendall Garrett. You really live off the grid, don’t you Dean.”
“Who the fuck is he, Claire?”
“Rich, powerful. His father got the money in oil. Garrett has quadrupled it since he took over the family business. He gives huge amounts to charity. He sits on the board of directors of several major corporations, and non profits.”
“Shit.”
“You can’t just walk in on this guy and accuse him. You don’t have any evidence.”
“In my line of work evidence doesn’t always lead to the bad guy.”
“This isn’t your line of work, Dean. It’s mine.”
Dean fairly growled into the phone and her tone softened. “Give me a few hours. I’ll see if I can feed the lead into the task force. If we can find a way to connect him to all of the men, we might be able to get a search warrant.”
“Okay, fine. But call me back as soon as you know something. We’re starting to go a little crazy here.”
“I know. I will.”
Dean closed his phone and tossed it on the bed as John came in with several bags. “Anything?”
Dean shook his head and grabbed the bag. “She’ll call.” He set the bag on the small table and started emptying it. “He’s some fucking big shot or something.”
“Money doesn’t mean he isn’t some sick fuck who kills people.”
“I know. It just makes it harder.”
“Okay, let’s get some food into us, grab a shower and regroup.”
Dean looked down at the jar of peanut butter in his hands. “Sammy’s out there somewhere counting on us, Dad.” His stomach rolled at the thought and he put the jar down before he threw it. “And here we are, fumbling around like a couple of amateurs.”
“I know.” John’s voice was uncharacteristically soft, his eyes on the dirty motel carpet. Dean couldn’t begin to guess what thoughts were percolating behind his dark eyes. “I’m going to shower first. You eat.”
Dean watched him go, then reached for the peanut butter and bread, before abandoning both and turning the computer toward him. Maybe the police had to watch themselves, but Dean didn’t. He hadn’t gotten so good at breaking and entering for nothing. All he needed was a place to start.
By the time his father was out of the shower, Dean had a list of addresses, scribbled a note and disappeared out the door.
Sam moved slowly when the pain of not moving became to great, rolling from his stomach to his side. He listened to himself breathing, a low, raspy wet sound that told him something was wrong inside.
He was breaking apart. His body, his head…his mind. He could feel the compartmentalization as he fought to hold on to himself. Something of himself hovered, in the back of his mind, strategizing, calculating. Something else whispered that it was useless, he couldn’t stand, couldn’t even sit. He was weak. He was broken.
He was torn.
In every way that mattered. His skin was torn to shreds along his shins and knees, down his back where the riding crop had laid him bare and bleeding. His slip up had earned him a beating…one that didn’t end until Sam was begging, crying, anything to make it end.
He’d been left laying on the floor. Not really unconscious, not really awake. He stared at the black of the blindfold and felt himself breathe. As long as he was breathing, he was okay…he could hold on. His eyes rolled closed and he reached inside of him for that place where Dean was…that part of his heart where he could still feel his brother and he held onto it…Some part of his head whispered his name…and kept whispering it while Sam shivered and held on.
Five addresses into the list, and Dean was getting frustrated. He’d run down the three in Palo Alto first, since they were closest. Two businesses and a frat house. Nothing. The trip to San Francisco hadn’t taken very long at 10pm, and the next two were warehouses down by the pier, and still nothing.
He could almost believe that Garrett was clean, but for the fact that he knew he wasn’t. Couldn’t be. He was their last lead. Five days. Sam had been gone for five days and they had one fucking lead, and Dean couldn’t believe how scared he was. Werewolves and vampires he understood. He could function, knew what to do. Claire was right, serial killers were completely not his line of work.
Jimmying locks and such though, that he could do. And maybe it wasn’t legal and wouldn’t hold up in court, but in the end all that mattered was Sammy. Dean looked around him and went to work on the lock of the next address. It looked like a storage facility, corporate paper and data storage.
He figured he had about ten minutes before security figured out he’d cut the camera and opened the door, and he had better make them count. Not that he knew what he was looking for. This was more Sam’s department than his. He ran his finger along dusty boxes with boring descriptions like “Accounts Payable 2001” and “General Ledger 2003” and rounded a corner.
He skipped a few rows, and found more boring boxes. A few more rows and things took a turn for the interesting. “Stanford, 2004.” Dean paused. Pulled the box out. Opened it.
There were papers, books, neatly placed in the box. He ruffled through it and nearly put it back before his eye fell on a single word. Sam
Dean froze, his hand hovering over the envelope.
Sam
“Over here, the door’s open.”
Dean grabbed the envelope and stuffed it in his jacket before pushing the box back into place and slid into the shadows. He listened to the guards and moved through the dark, moving closer to the door as the guards moved away from it.
He breathed a sigh of relief as he cleared the door, and sprinted for the Impala, dropping the envelope on the passenger side and bringing the car roaring to life to beat it out of the area before some ambitious rent-a-cop decided to widen their search.
He got out onto 101 and looked at the envelope. With one eye on the road, Dean fumbled to open it, dumping out a DVD case, some pictures and a notebook. He cussed to himself and stepped harder on the accelerator. “Fuck.” He pulled off the road suddenly. Slamming on the brakes and dragging the pictures over where he could angle them to the overhead light, Dean took a deep breath, steeling himself.
A man knelt atop a pedestal, naked and bound. His head was down, his hair in his eyes. Dean closed his eyes and swallowed. It was enough. It wasn’t Sam, but it gave him a fair indication of what to expect when he did find him.
“Fuck.”
Dean roared back on to the road. At least now he knew.
He knew that Kendall Garrett was a dead man.
”Sam. Sammy, can you hear me?”
“Go away Dean. It hurts.”
“I know. I can make it better.”
“No.”
Sam’s face was hiding under his pillow. His eye was already black and swollen. But that wasn’t what was making him miserable. “I’m never gonna get it, Dean.”
“You will. It takes time.”
Sam rolled over and looked at his older brother, tears welling in his eyes despite his determination not to cry. He had failed. Again. “He hates me.”
Dean was busy examining the black eye. “Who?”
“Dad.”
“Dad doesn’t hate you, doofus.” Dean ruffled Sam’s hair. “You’re going to be fine. Take the aspirin Dad gave you.”
“No.”
“You said it hurts.”
“It does. It reminds me to be better next time.”
“Whatever. Stop moaning about it then.”
Sam moaned. The hands bathed him as he lay on the floor, short, harsh strokes against skin raw and screaming. The water was scalding, and his voice had failed him, his screams gone bloody and dark in his throat. Each wave of hot water over his already burning skin brought the words to mind, “Dirty Boy Sam.”
The open wounds were the worst, as those hands scrubbed his body.
“You belong to me, Sam.” The voice was angry, though it sounded much the same as always, and Sam wasn’t sure how he knew he was angry. “Your brother doesn’t want you. He left you, he’s gone. He knows you’re a bad, sick boy. He knows you belong with me.”
Sam let the words wash over him without arguing. Arguing only brought punishment. He lay still and let the hands move him, wash him, touch him in places only his brother had ever touched him. Dean…he couldn’t blame Dean…After all, Sam had left him first.
Dean parked the Impala and was out of the car before the engine had stopped making noise, into the door of the hotel room. “Where the hell have you-“ John stood, stopped just by the look on Dean’s face.
He fell into the chair, pulling the computer closer. His hands were shaking as he opened the DVD drawer and pulled one of the discs from the envelope. Without saying anything, he settled the disc into the player and pushed the drawer in. His finger hesitated over the key. He didn’t want to see what was on it, but he knew…they needed to make the most of the lead…needed to know.
“Dean?”
With a slow exhale, Dean pressed the key and the player started. The camera looked in on a room, in the center of which a man was bound, naked and kneeling on some sort of pedestal. There was a spotlight on him, casting the rest of the room in shadow. Movement behind the man suggested a person was there. A slapping sound made Dean, and the man in the video, jump.
“This will be easier if you obey me, Sam.”
“My name isn’t Sam.” The man raised his head, his eyes filled with fear. The slapping sound came again and he yelled out.
“From this moment on, your name is Sam.” Another slap. “Say it.”
“Sam.”
Dean clenched his jaw and turned away.
“Where did you find this?”
“A storage place in Frisco.”
“One of Garrett’s?”
Dean nodded. His stomach twisted. Somewhere out there, Sam was in this man’s place. Sam was alone with this sick, twisted bastard. He hit the pause button as the man in the shadows hit the naked man again. “I can’t…”
John’s hand was on his shoulder. “Let me.”
“No, Dad…we…”
“We have to Dean. If we’re going to find Sam.” Dean got up, wiping his hands against his jeans and John slipped into the seat. “Take a shower, get some sleep. I’ll see if there’s anything here we can use.”
“Gotcha.” Dean sat up from his not sleeping to look at his father. John’s eyes met his. “Garrett. Four hours of video, but he fucked up.”
Dean was off the bed and at his father’s side, as he pointed to the computer screen. The camera was at a different angle and there was a reflection, a small part of a face. Dean reached over his father’s shoulder to zoom in on the face until it filled the screen. “Is that Garrett?”
“Looks like.”
“Where is this place?”
“Don’t know. All I really have is that it looks like mirrored glass, and cinder blocks. The video quality isn’t the greatest.”
“We need to get this to Claire…and figure out where this Garrett guy lives.”
John looked up at Dean and Dean didn’t like what he saw in them. There was anguish there, and fear. “What?”
John’s eyes closed. His head turned away. “Sam.” He choked on the name and took a deep breath. “This is my fault.”
“Dad-“
“No Dean. I-was too hard on him.”
Dean put his hands on his hips. “You always have been.”
John was startled, opening his eyes before lurching to his feet. “He was always so soft…he needed to learn.”
“He needed you.” Dean countered. “He thinks you hate him.”
John paced away. Dean didn’t follow, just watched him. “He thinks you blame him.”
“For what?”
Dean sighed and sat in the chair John had vacated. “Everything. This.” He held up his hands to indicate the hotel room and scattered weapons. “The way we live. Mom.”
John sank onto one of the beds. His hands were shaking as the rubbed over the days of growth on his face. “I think that he…he tries to be normal, he craves normal…because it will make it all right again…somehow…and yet, he can’t stand it when you’re disappointed in him…and every time you’re here, you find something to be disappointed about.”
Dean stopped, staring at his hands. He’d never spoken to his father this way. He’d never had the nerve…but now, everything was different. It should be Sam sitting on that bed, should be him and Sam in that bed, touching each other just to feel something…holding on to one another to realize they were still alive. But it wasn’t Sam and right that moment nothing else mattered.
“Sam isn’t like us, Dad. He isn’t a soldier. He fights because he wants to be, he wants you to be proud of him. He hunts because we expect it.”
”Stop squirming Sammy.”
“Stop calling me that.”
“What? It’s you’re name.”
“Sam, my name is Sam.”
“Whatever. Stop moving around.”
“Are you done yet?”
“It’s a tie, Sam. A fucking bow tie. What do I know about tying them?”
“I should have gotten the clip on.”
“Here, let me.” Big hands took over, deftly tying the soft material, arranging it just so. Sam was eye to eye with John now, after a growth spurt that didn’t seem to be coming to an end. “You look good, Sam.”
“Thanks Dad.”
“You armed?”
“It’s the prom, Dad, not a ghost hunt.”
“Can’t be too careful.”
“He’s gut a gun at the ankle, Dad, and a blade in his jacket.”
John nodded. “Have a good time.”
“Keys?” Sam looked at Dean and Dean’s eyebrow arched.
“If you get so much as a scratch-“
“I won’t.” Dean tossed him the keys and Sam left to pick up his date, turning down the Led Zepplin that came screaming through the radio, but not turning it off. It was almost like taking Dean along for the ride, made him less nervous about his date…though he’d never have admitted that to Dean.
Led Zepplin rocked through his body and Sam struggled to breath. The pedestal rocked as he sought balance and his legs cramped. His shoulders throbbed from injury and the strain of their position. He mouthed the words to the song, concentrating on them, as if they were a connection to his sanity.
Though, to be honest, he wasn’t entirely certain about the sanity thing. If he was to be honest with himself, he wasn’t really sure about much of anything anymore, beyond one thing. His name was Sam.
That was one thing the voice didn’t let him forget. His name was Sam and he belonged to-No, he didn’t-He swallowed against the gag and shook his head. No. He was not going to admit that. Not even in his head.
His notion of self wasn’t quite that far gone…yet. Though he wasn’t sure how long it would last. He had no idea how long…when it started…it could have been months for all he knew. No, not that long. Weeks maybe. The voice had stopped telling him. Maybe that was just as well. It made it easier not thinking about the time…about how long they had left him there…and whether or not they were ever going to come for him.
Maybe they never would. Maybe he would die here, beaten to death…strangled. Maybe all they would find when they came was his body, torn apart and left to bleed.
Next Part here