Set in Season 1 after Asylum, this is the darkest thing I have ever written so please heed the warnings:
Non-con/rape; violence; strong language; major Samwhump; possible OC behaviour by all characters
I wrote this for a very dear friend. I wasn't planning on posting this when I started but now that is has grown beyond 19,000 words, I figured 'what the hell'. This will not be to everyone's liking; if you don't like, please don't flame – just stop reading. If you do like it, I do hope you will comment. Phx
Fade to Black
Sam was tired. Hunting had been a bigger bitch then usual since Dean hadn't really been talking to him since what happened at Roosevelt Asylum. Not that Sam could blame him but, really, how many ways did Sam have to find, to say he was sorry? Yes, there was a grain of truth in the shit the nutso doctor had spewing from Sam's mouth, but that was all. It was like taking a drop of blood and turning it into a tsunami. Sam couldn't help but snort wearily at the irony of his choice of simile.
Right now, said older brother was out somewhere getting hammered and looking for a lay. In other words, just a regular Friday night for them.
Closing the laptop, Sam scrubbed a hand across his face and wished Dean would just talk to him instead of throwing them headlong from one hunt into another in an effort to avoid the white elephant standing in the middle of the room.
"Find us somewhere to be tomorrow." Dean had hurled at him when he'd left and he didn't mean for Sam to wait until tomorrow to look for a hunt but rather, to find them something they could go hunt tomorrow.
"Like it's ever that easy," the young man sighed out to an empty room. A full body ache, the size of Jessica, had him moving towards the bed; loneliness and grief tearing apart the places Sam tried to hide. Slipping off worn sneakers, he curled up on his side on the bed, his long arms wrapping tightly around his stomach as he tried not to think about just how bad things were. But it was near impossible.
Jessica, the love of his life, the woman he was going to marry, was dead. Burned to death on their ceiling above their bed. Because she loved him. Sam had dreamt her death in color but had been too unwilling to believe his escape from hunting hadn't been thorough.
Dean, his brother, his rock was angry/disappointed/scared? of him. And who could blame him? Where once there had been an easy camaraderie and thinly disguised affection, there was two years of lost time and strangeness.
And his father, the man who had told Sam to stay gone if he left, and would quite possibly deck Sam on sight if he even acknowledged Sam was there, was an apparition they were chasing on the tail of muted whispers and cell phone co-ordinates.
And Sam didn't know what to do. He just felt so damned lost.
Shaking slightly and feeling overwhelmed, Sam closed his eyes and tried to sleep. There was a potential black dog two states over. It was vague but just enough to give them some place to go in the morning. Dean, at least, should be pleased. Well as pleased as he ever was anymore.
The familiar sound of a V8 had Sam frowning; he hadn't expected his brother back tonight at all. And neither did Dean…
Sitting up, he pushed the hair out of his face and hoped Dean wasn't coming back in a foul mood or, even worst, hurt. Early nights for the hustling Romeo were never a good sign but when Dean shoved open the door a few moments later and strode into the room, there were no bruises or blood, only a wide, bright shit eating grin and Sam felt himself relax for the first time since he heard the name Dr. Ellicott.
"Good night?" he guessed as Dean took off his leather jacket and let it drop to the floor.
"Not bad," his brother shrugged as he moved to stand in front of Sam. "But it's about to get a whole lot better."
Before Sam could ask what he meant, a swift upper cut laid him out on the bed. A second hard punch quickly followed but it was the third that knocked him out.
Sam woke with a start. His face hurt, his head was pounding and it took a moment to remember what had happened. Dean had knocked him out! A moment later he heard his brother's soft chuckle. Struggling to move, he realized he couldn't. Dean had handcuffed him to the bed.
"Dean?" He saw his brother standing at the end of the bed watching him. He yanked at the cuffs wondering why the hell they had four pairs of handcuffs. "What the fuck?"
"Awww… c'mon, Sammy, don't be like that," Dean practically cooed as he approached Sam's side and looked down at him. "You've been dying for us to talk things out since you shot me up with rock-salt and tried to murder me, so I've decided, you're right. We need to talk."
"Like this?" Sam was pissed. He yanked at the cuffs again.
Dean shrugged, still standing over him. "Didn't want you taking off until I've had my say."
"That's it?" Sam stared at his brother in disbelief. "You think I'd do that?"
"Sure," Dean shrugged nonchalantly, "it's what you do. Things don't go Sammy's way, Sammy hits the highway."
"Once. I did that once," Sam corrected, his heart starting to pound. "And it was to go to school. It was you and Dad who made it permanent."
"What about Flagstaff?" Dean snarled. "You fucking ran away to Flagstaff and left me to deal with a very pissed off Dad. Do you have any idea how angry he was? You have no fucking idea!"
Sam blanched. His voice dropped low, a chill curling through his belly. He couldn't believe his brother was bringing that up. Was throwing that back in his face. "You know why I ran."
Dean snorted bitterly and turned away from Sam.
"I'm sorry, Dean. I am. But I had no choice," Sam tried to keep the tremble out of his voice. He swallowed hard at the memories. "You know that."
When Dean turned back around, his jaw was clenched tight. His face black with fury and something else that Sam couldn't put a name to but it sent a tendril of fear through his body. "What I know is that you were being a pussy and ran away. You should have told me or Dad and we would have dealt with it. Instead you took off, I was worried and Dad? He was furious."
"My history teacher threatened to call social services if I didn't blow him!" Sam yelled. "I had no choice!"
"You could have blown him, Sam! You could have fucking, for once in your pathetic life, done something for this family – made one god-damned sacrifice – but no, you kicked him in the nuts and took off!"
Hot tears burned Sam's eyes as his chest heaved for air.
"You should have just dropped to your fucking knees, wrapped your lips around his cock and given him the best blow job of your life." Dean reached out and grabbed Sam's face, holding his chin tight. "It's what you should have done."
Sam was shocked. "Wh-what?"
Dean lowered his face towards Sam. He licked his lips, his gaze roving over Sam's face. "You heard me, you ungrateful little prick." And then before Sam could say anything, his brother kissed him. Chapped, lips, their skin so hot they burned, smashed against Sam's mouth, a thick wet tongue forcing past Sam's lips. The taste of alcohol and Dean and oh my God, my brother is kissing me, had him gagging as he tried to get away but Dean just held his face more tightly for another moment thoroughly plundering Sam's mouth before finally letting him go.
Gasping Sam stared at his brother. "D-Dean? What the… what the hell?"
Hovering above him, Dean slowly licked his own lips. "Hmmm…" he grinned lecherously. "You taste good."
"Dean?" Sam repeated, his eyes wide, his body trembling.
"Sorry, Sammy," the apology didn't meet his eyes. "But I've been wanting to do that for a long time… well ever since you told me about that asshole coming on to you. And well," he shrugged callously and indicated Sam lying spread-eagled on the bed. "This was just too good a chance to miss."
"Uncuff me," Sam demanded, needing to get to his feet and face his brother, still in shock that Dean had kissed him.
"I don't think so," Dean tilted his head to the side as if seriously considering Sam. "I kinda like you like this. It's a good look for you, Sammy." He glanced away for a second, reaching for something on the other bed. "I've taken your crap for years – it's time you took mine."
"Wh-" Sam's words were stifled when, in one fluid movement, Dean grabbed a cleaning rag and stuffed it in Sam's mouth.
"Ah. There. Much better. Perfect in fact." Dean appraised the gag then frowned as Sam shook his head, desperately trying to get the dirty cloth out of his mouth. "Hey, enough of that. I could have used my dirty underwear, you know."
Walking away from Sam, he came back a moment later with a bungee cord, wrapped it around the back of Sam's head and used it to keep the gag in place. "I was wrong before – this is perfect. Now we can talk."
Sam glared at him. Un-fucking-believable. His brother was drunk and being an asshole. It reminded him of once when they were kids and Sam had been getting on Dean's nerves about something, Sam couldn't even remember what now, Dean had hog-tied him with shoelaces and gagged him until some stupid show he was watching was over. Dean was usually a great big brother but there times – like now, a little voice in the back of his head screamed – when Dean could be an ass.
He wasn't worried yet. Not even when Dean tossed his own pillow aside and retrieved his favourite knife. Sam should have been worried. But he wasn't. Yet.
"You know," Dean stared at the sharp blade as he stood between the two beds and spoke to Sam. His voice was pleasantly conversational. "All my life, Dad gave me one main directive 'watch out for Sammy'. Nothing else. It was always 'watch out for Sammy'. Never, 'Dean, be careful' or 'Dean, take care of yourself' or even 'Dean, are you bleeding to death?' No, it was always 'Dean, watch out for Sammy," Sam's eyes tracked Dean as his brother moved to the end of Sam's bed again. "So I did. And I have to say it was the most thankless, unappreciated shit task ever. You were always so God-damned needy. Every new school it was the same, I had to go and kick ass because you were pissing people off. And things haven't changed much. I thought they would, what with you having a girlfriend and all. I figured you might have grown a set by now, but apparently not." Dean was standing at the end of the bed and watching him. Sam felt something unpleasant crawl across his skin. He wasn't ready to name it yet. "Nothing has changed, has it? Seems like every week I'm back to needing to save your ass. And what do I get for all my trouble? A chest full of rock-salt and a casket, if there'd been any bullets in that gun, from an ungrateful, pathetic, piss pour excuse for a little brother… and I'm tired of it."
Sam swallowed hard. Did his brother really feel this way? Sure Dean had been drinking but he wasn't that drunk. Was he? And even if he was, like Sam's own episode under the influence of the deranged doctor, there would be some truth in all this, even if only a small bit of truth.
"I want something back. Something for me. Something for all the trouble you've caused me." Dean moved to stand beside Sam. He lowered the knife to Sam's shirt –
Sam held his breath, feeling the sharp blade against his breastbone, only the thin material of his shirt protecting his skin. Fear startled Goosebumps across his flesh as he tried to control his breathing, wondering what the hell his brother was doing.
And then Dean sliced the first button off.
"One down," he taunted, his gaze raking down Sam's shirt, "nine more to go…"