Killer, Supernatural, NC-17

[phantisma]

Fandom: Supernatural
Title: Killer
Pairings/Characters: John, Dean, Sam, Pastor Jim, YED, Sam/YED, Sam/demon!Jim, Sam/demon!John (sort of)
Rating: NC-17(for violence, some sex and theme)
Word Count: 10516
Summary: At fifteen, Sam saves his brother from a werewolf who happens to be a ten year old girl. It sends him spiraling into very dark places, and when John tries to help by settling him in with Pastor Jim things go from bad to worse. The YED has plans for Sam and they don't include convelescing at a church, so he sends someone to help Sam get back on his feet.

A/Ns & Warnings: This is a very dark piece (I know, no surprise to any of you), written for sendintheklowns and gidgetgal9 as return for an unprecedented favor. This includes non-con and dub-con and a very broken Sam.




The hall is dark. Sam grips the gun in his hands through the sweat and nerves, holds it tight like it's his only lifeline, and considering the remains found scattered through the house, that could be true. He steps over intestines and gore. Somewhere ahead of him, his father and brother are hunting in the dark.

The full moon is behind him. Light spills through the broken window onto the floor of the hall. Sweat drips from his hair into his collar, despite the coolness of the night.

Howling rips the night in half. Sam's breath catches in the back of his mouth, hot like breathing in fire. He turns into the girl's room. Pink, lace, teddy bears. There's a poster on the wall with a unicorn and a rainbow.

Sam blinks, steps carefully. Dean's been here, Sam can see the signs. The curtains are torn. Sam rounds the bed and finds Dean, bleeding, barely conscious.

Sam's hands shake, the gun wobbles. He squeezes the trigger. The girl falls dead. The sound of the shot hangs in the air. She stares at him, big blue eyes accusing.

Sam sat up, shaking, sweating. The room spun around him and he reached blindly for the edge of the bed. He was going to be sick. He stumbled into the bathroom, dropping to his knees and retching into the toilet.

Feet padded in behind him, a towel held out as Sam lifted his head. "Another dream?" Dean's voice was soft, but it grated over his ears just the same, a reminder of what he'd done.

Sam nodded and wiped his face. He couldn't sleep without the dream, or others that were worse. He'd killed her. Kathy Andrews, age ten. Blue eyes, blond hair, crooked teeth that were going to need braces one day. Only now she was dead, and those teeth would be forever crooked.

Dean squatted beside him. His hand brushed over the clammy skin of Sam's face. "Hey, look at me."

He tried, blinking, forcing himself to take a deep breath, but he couldn't. He couldn't look at Dean and not see her, not see the blood on Dean's skin.

Dean's hand burned against him and Sam turned away. "You did the right thing."

Sam trembled, pulling away. How was killing a ten year old girl ever the right thing? Ever. He covered his face with his hands, but he couldn't close his eyes. Every time he did, all he could see was her face.

"Come on, let's get you back to bed."

Sam let his brother pull him up and herd him back toward the bed, but he knew he wouldn't sleep. He couldn't. Dean flopped down into the other bed, his eyes closing. He didn't understand.

How could he? Sam was the one who killed her.

Sam watched Dean sleep, listened to the wind outside the thin windows of the crappy apartment. His father was down the hall, not sleeping either. He was researching the next hunt. It had been a week.

A week since Sam had put a silver bullet into a ten year old werewolf.

Sam pulled his knees up to his chest and tried to do what they've told him to, think about other things, think about the people he'd saved by killing her, think about her family that she tore to shreds.

But it all comes back to her. To Kathy Andrews. Ten years old. A spelling bee champion and a girl scout with merit badges in cooking and horseback riding. And a silver bullet in her tiny heart because Sam had put it there.



Tea. She sits at the little table in her plastic pearls and gloves with a blonde doll and a teddy bear dressed in pink chiffon and pours tea. Her blue eyes blink up at him, at the gun in his hand.

She screams and screams and screams. Blood is everywhere, on the walls, on the curtains, all over his face.

"Sam?"

He ducked and covered his head, pulling himself further into a ball. The hand on his head is gentle, but he shrinks away.

"Sam, it's Ms. Thomas. Can you hear me?"

Ms. Thomas. Counselor. Some part of his brain recognizes the name, but he can't pull himself out of the dark hole. He can hear her asking questions, but no one answers. He doesn't know if he was supposed to answer, but he can't, he doesn't know what the words mean, can't pull them out. The words were drowning in blood.



"Your son is suffering from an acute reaction to a traumatic event, Mr. Winchester, and given what you've told me, it isn't surprising."

Sam's jaw ached from the clenching he was doing and he tried to release it. His whole body was strung tight, despite the drugs they'd given him after the paramedics picked him up at school. At least he'd slept without the dreams for a few hours.

"The kid's seen a lot, you know?" his father said, stroking a hand over his whiskered chin. His eyes were worried, watching Sam as he sat in the corner chair, legs drawn up to his chest, eyes on his knees. "This was just…he…"

"He told me he went hunting with you and his brother, and that someone died."

Sam could feel his father's eyes, but didn't look up. He was ashamed of the way he broke down. Some girl with blue eyes and blonde hair had walked past him and he couldn't find his way out of the dark and blood.

"He has an imagination. He took down a deer. It was his first."

The doctor nodded. "I thought it might be. I've seen it before. Boys go out on their first hunt, think they're ready for it. Turns out they aren't ready. The mind can play some dirty tricks."

"Sam, why don't you go sit with your brother." Sam blinked at his father, the words taking a few minutes to sink in to his brain. He nodded and unfolded himself before slipping out the door to where Dean sat impatiently in the hallway, his knee bouncing rapidly.

"What is taking so long?" Dean bounced up, but Sam didn't answer, just shoved his hands in his pockets and sank into a chair. "Sam? What did you tell him?"

"Dean, please." Sam turned away. He didn't want Dean to see him like this. They sat in the silence until the door burst open and their father filled the doorway.

"Car boys. Now."

Sam slipped silently into the back seat, made himself as small as possible, which was getting harder to do with each inch he grew. His father and Dean were talking, but he didn't notice much, not until they pulled into the apartment and the air was quiet.

"Sam, go on inside. Get some sleep. I'll be back in a few hours."

Sam nodded and slid across the seat, out of the car. He was tired. Couldn't sleep without the dreams, but he had the pills in his pocket. Maybe they would let him have a few hours of peace. Dean followed him up the stairs and into the apartment, into their bedroom.

"You don't have to ride me, Dean." Sam said as he reached his bed.

"Dad told me to keep an eye on you."

"Do you have to do it so closely?" Sam kicked off his shoes and dropped onto the mattress. He sighed and pulled a hand through his hair. "Can't you just leave me alone?"

"I did leave you alone. I didn't tell Dad about the dreams and how much this has been bugging you, and you go and have a breakdown at school of all places."

Sam rolled over, his back to Dean, the better to hide the tears. "Go away Dean."

"You saved my life, Sam." Dean said quietly, sitting on the bed behind Sam. "That little girl was a monster. She was going to eat me."

"She was ten, Dean." Sam's voice shook.

"She was a werewolf." Dean countered, his hand on Sam's shoulder. "She'd already killed three people. She would have killed me."

Sam shivered, remembering the smears of blood down the hallway, girl sized hand prints painted red on the walls. "You did the right thing."

"You keep saying that." Sam pulled away from him, yanked the blanket up around him. "You keep telling me I did the right thing, but you didn't. You could have killed her Dean. You could have, but you let her tear your skin open instead."

"She was a monster, Sam."

"Go away." Because Sam knew who the monster was. He was the one who pulled the trigger. The one who took her life.



Dean's blood was everywhere, soaking into the bed. She was on top of him, her face a grotesque mask, a parody of a girl's, all distended and obscene as she licked sharp teeth and looked at him.

The gun sang out and she fell to the bed, her face transforming into something much more innocent. Beside her, Dean rose, his face a snarl of pain and hunger as he changed. Sam shot, again and again until Dean went down too. He turned to find his father coming for him, teeth sharp, his eyes feral. He raised the gun and fired until the bullets were gone and the first sharp sting of jagged claws found his skin.


The room was dark, but Sam couldn't bring himself to get up and turn on the light. He sat on the bed, staring at the floor. They didn't understand. He didn't understand.

"So, are you all settled in?" His father's voice. Sam shifted enough that his father couldn't see his face. John stepped out of the hall, closer to the bed, but not close enough to touch Sam. Not after the last time. Sam had freaked out, screamed and shut down for almost three days.

The doctors had suggested that Sam needed quiet and stability. Two things he would never get running after new hunts and training. Which brought them here.

"We'll come back once we've taken down this spirit."

Sam nodded slowly. They'd been over it. Dean and their father had argued about it like Sam wasn’t even there. They were leaving him with Pastor Jim. Part of him thought it was for the best. He was worrying them. He could see it in their eyes.

It wasn't a spirit, Sam knew that. They were trying to protect him. They were going after the wolf that turned her, the one that bit Kathy Andrews and made it so Sam had to kill her.

"You get some rest."

He said that a lot. Like rest was going to make it all better. Like somehow sleep would fix whatever was wrong in his brain.

"Jim said he'd call you when dinner was ready."

John hovered, watching Sam. They were always watching anymore. Just go, Sam thought, curling up and laying down and covering his eyes with an arm.

After a long moment his father seemed to get the message and sighed, leaving the room, leaving him.

Sam laid in the dark and listened to his footsteps. When they were gone, Sam rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling. He didn't want to close his eyes, didn't want to sleep, but he was exhausted. Sooner or later he would sleep, whether he wanted to or not.


"How are you feeling, Sam?"

Something about Jim's voice made Sam curl up inside himself even tighter…the shame cocooning around him. He shouldn't be this broken over it. Dean wouldn't be. "Fine." Sam muttered, pushing the mashed potatoes around his plate and hoping Jim wouldn't notice he wasn’t really eating.

"You know, I'm here for you, whenever you're ready to talk."

They all wanted him to talk. The doctors anyway. Dean and their father kept telling him that he couldn't, that the doctors could never know the truth. Sam shook his head. It wasn't like there was all that much to talk about anyway.

He shot her. She died.



"Sam?"

He blinked, looked up at Jim. How long had they been sitting there? He couldn't remember walking into Jim's study, couldn't think where he'd been before, or how long it had been since his father left him.

"I killed her." Sam said, his voice sounding old and tired.

Jim's face was filled with sympathy and concern. "Your father told me."

"He wasn't there." Sam remembered that. Dean was there. His father came later. When Sam was sitting amid the broken tea set and blood.

"You saved your brother's life."

Sam nodded. He remembered that too. He remembered Dean's blood, the girl's teeth, the fear. He remembered the taste of the air, the copper of the blood, the tang of the gunpowder. His hand shook.

"She was so small."

Jim stood, coming around the desk to sit beside Sam. "She was a werewolf, Sam. She would have kept killing."

Sometimes when he dreamed, she did. She killed him. Killed Dean and John and everyone. He looked down at his hands. They were clean, white, but he could still feel the blood on them. He wiped them against his jeans. "He didn't."

Dean didn't shoot. He still had his gun, but he hesitated. He saw the girl and he couldn't take the shot.

"Who?" Jim's voice was gentle, his hand touching Sam's.

Sam dragged in a deep breath and shook his head. "Dean. He didn't shoot." His head hurt. He rubbed at his temples. The headaches were getting worse, not better.


Blond hair and laughter. She is laughing, her face smeared red. Her teeth are stained with it. Her clothes re shredded, her hands extended, claws raking over flesh, ripping Dean's chest open.


Sam woke, freezing and listening. Someone was there. In the room. He opened his eyes and searched the shadows. "Pastor Jim?"

"Easy, Sam."

Jim was close, beside the bed. Sam sat up, rubbing at his eyes. "You were dreaming."

Sam nodded, squinting at Jim. Something about him felt wrong. His hand fell on Sam's shoulder. "I'm here to make you feel better."

Sam pulled away. "I'm fine."

Jim was on the bed, his hands sliding up Sam's back as Sam turned away. "Let me help you."

His eyes. They were…off. Wrong. In the wan light from the hall they seemed…dark. His hands floated over Sam's shoulders, rubbing at his back. "I'm here to help you."

Sam started to relax. This was Pastor Jim. He was safe here. "Lay down." Jim directed, his hands guiding Sam to his stomach while they continued to massage at the tense muscles. He rubbed down, all the way to the top of Sam's boxers, then under the waist band. Sam jumped, but Jim's hands were surprisingly strong, pushing him to the bed. "Jim?"

"Let me help you."

Jim's voice seemed to change. His body was pressing against Sam, his mouth on Sam's skin. Sam tried to pull away, his hands grabbing the headboard, but he couldn't move, couldn't breathe.

"No."

"Time you stop wallowing in your guilt Sam."

Sam's ass was bare and Jim's hands were touching him, his naked skin. Sam struggled, screaming. This couldn't happen, not here, not Jim. Sam turned enough to see him, the dark blood red of his eyes. "Christo." Sam murmured.

Jim roared, his body arching up, his hand crashing down on the back of Sam's neck, plunging him into the inky dark of his dreams.


Blood. It is everywhere. The mattress is drenched with it. Sam is covered in it. He killed someone.

His body hurts, he knows that he's been raped. Tied down. Beaten. He knows and the shame rises up inside him. Shame because this blood is his, shed by his hand. The man who touched him, the man who hurt him lies dead. Sam sits up slowly, holding his stomach. He can't see past the red, the blood.



There was a sound in the room, a gurgle, a death rattle. Sam sat on the bed, his hands coated in blood. His boxers were dripping with it, the floor slick with it. He stood slowly, inching toward the end of the bed.

Pastor Jim lay on the floor, his stomach ripped open, his eyes glassy and wide. His mouth moved, but nothing more than that gurgle came out. Sam knelt beside him, horror eating through him. "J-Jim?"

It was almost two in the morning. The clock on the dresser glowed red in the dark. Sam reached for the wound, but stopped. There was nothing he could do. The air was cold and Sam shivered as Jim's hand grabbed his wrist. Memory flashed through him…Jim's hands on his body, Jim pressing him down, holding him, hurting him. Sam pulled away, not sure what was real and what was dream.

There was a thud outside the bedroom door. Sam looked up. The parish's caretaker stood staring in at them. "What did you do?"

Sam stood, holding out his bloody hands. "No, I didn't--"

"S-Sam…" Jim's face was slack, his eyes rolling back.

"I'm calling the police." The caretaker was gone, and Sam shook.

"I'm sorry." Sam ran from the room, down the back stairs and out into the night. He was nearly naked, covered in blood and he was starting to feel past the numb of finding Jim that way. His lungs constricted and he fell to the ground, rolling down a small hill and coming to a crashing halt by a creek. It was barely more than a trickle of cold water over rocks, but he leaned into it, splashing water over his skin and trying to clean himself.

They would find him if he kept trailing blood everywhere.

He turned, sitting in the water, his ass stinging as the water touched him. Obviously that wasn't a part of the dream. He was starting to feel other pains…his wrists bruised with smudges of black and purple in the shapes of fingers, the tender raw feeling made when a fist slams into an unsuspecting cheek.

Sam shivered. Somewhere in the distance he could hear sirens. He can't stay where he is. He drags himself up, onto his feet. Move. It's his father's voice in his head, commanding, demanding…the only thing that seeps through the layers of Jim's dead and he hurt me and I killed him that were building a blinding wall of grief around him. Sam picked a direction and ran.

In a nearby low-rent apartment building, he found an unlocked laundry room and forgotten clothes. Nothing really fit, but he found a pair of sweats to cover most of his legs and a shirt that wasn't too tight. It was warm and he didn't want to leave, wanted to curl up in the corner and cry until it all went away, until it was all not real.

More sirens.

Sam swallowed. By now the police had found Jim, by now they knew that Sam had done that, had killed him, ripped him open and bled him dry. By now they knew that Sam was a monster. It had started with her. He had become the same evil that his father had raised him to hunt.


"How could you do it?" Accusing fire dripping from familiar lips. It isn't his father, but Dean. "Jim loved you, trusted you."

Sam shakes his head, turning away. "He hurt me."

"No one believes you, Sam. The doctors were right, you should be in an institution for psychos, should be put down like the dog you killed."

"Dean, please." Sam pleads, reaching out for his brother. "Please…he…he raped me…"

"Liar!" Dean's face is livid, red and wild. His hand stings as it lands hard and unforgiving on Sam's face. "Sick, perverted liar."


Sam shook awake, knocking away the pile of abandoned clothes he had curled up in to try to grab some sleep. The sirens are gone. Early morning daylight is creeping in the laundry room window.

He still has no shoes, but he needs to keep moving. He stops near the trash can. His bloody boxers lie there. Jim's blood.

Pastor Jim Murphy was dead, and it was all Sam's fault.

Sam shoved more of the abandoned clothes into the trash can to hide his sin and eased out the back door, scanning around him for police or witnesses. The caretaker at the parish knew who Sam was. He would tell the police. Sam needed to get out of town and lay low, figure out what he should do.

He was maybe three blocks away from the apartment building when he thought he saw the long, sleek black lines of the Impala. He dashed into an alley, heart crashing to a stop in his chest as he waited.

Pastor Jim Murphy was dead, and it was all Sam's fault, and John Winchester was not going to be forgiving about that.

When no one came racing around the corner to grab him, beat him, kill him, Sam took a deep breath and stepped out again. He needed to get to the bus depot and get out of town. He could lift a wallet or something, or maybe hitch a ride out of town. He got to the corner of the street, and looked toward the bus station. There was a police cruiser in front of it.

In fact, there were three.

Hitching it was.

Sam turned and headed the other way, head down, eyes watching his feet move over the cracked concrete of the sidewalk. He should probably be more observant, but he couldn't look up for fear that someone would see him. He didn't look up until he was well outside of the town.

The sun was high in the sky above him, nearing noon. He heard the sound of a car approaching and turned. For a moment his heart screamed in panic as the black car approached, but it wasn't the Impala.

It didn't slow, just roared on past him.

Sam turned and kept walking.


Cold, wet rain dripped into his eyes from his bangs as he skulked in the doorway to the diner. He didn't have any money, but it had been hours, close to twenty four of them since he'd eaten.

Sam watched an older couple finish eating. She got up and headed to the ladies room, he headed for the counter to pay. That left a half a plate of fries and a partially finished burger unattended on the table. Sam moved fast, slipping quickly in the door, down the aisle past the table, swiping a handful of fries with one hand and the burger with the other.

He kept moving, heading straight out the other door and back into the ran, huddling under the side eave of the building to wolf down the food. It was dark. Sam shivered and stared out into the rain.

He was at a loss for what to do. He'd gotten as far away as he could for the night. Small towns and stormy nights were not conducive to hitch hiking, especially not with the police looking for him.

Sam rubbed his hands down his borrowed pants. The felt sticky and dirty. He didn't look at them. He knew they would be covered with blood. They always were whenever he looked. Part of him realized he was hallucinating. A part of him knew he was losing his mind. The rest of him though…that part of him saw Kathy Andrews with a his bullet in her pretty pink dress. That part of him watched his hands rip open Pastor Jim's chest. That part of him liked the feeling of blood, the heat and copper of it.

"Hey, you okay?"

A hand touched his shoulder and Sam blinked, looking up. A young mother stood just under the eave, her daughter clinging to her hand. Big blue eyes blinked up at him.

Sam hid his hands behind his back. He nodded raggedly, not really able to make words come out of his mouth.

"You don't look so good, mister."

"Kathy, that wasn't very nice!"

Sam swallowed and stepped back. Rain dripped off the eave and down his back. No. He shook his head. She wasn't…couldn't be. He'd killed her. He knew it.

He turned away, stumbling out into the dark, hoping it would swallow him up and hide him from those blue eyes.



“Sam?”

He started, looking up from where he sat curled against the dirty brick wall of an alley somewhere in Texas. He blinked, the voice and face not coming together until the man stepped closer.

Sam pulled away, hiding his face.

“Hey, Sam, it’s okay.”

He trembled. It wasn’t okay. It would never be okay again. There was too much blood. He wiped his hands on his jeans.

“Sam, it’s Bobby.”

“Leave me alone.” Sam growled, crawling away.

“Son, we’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

“Stay away, Bobby.”

His hand fell on the back of Sam’s neck, fisting in shirt and jacket and hauling him to his feet. “Not a chance, son. Your daddy’s worried sick.”

Sam struggled, fought to get free, but Bobby held him tight. “I killed him, Bobby. I killed him.”

Bobby nodded, his eyes soft even if his face wasn’t. “I know, Son. I know.”

Bobby pulled him in, tight against him, his arms holding Sam. “We all know what happened, Sam.”

Sam shook his head. They couldn’t know. Sam wasn’t even sure. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”

Sam stumbled along with Bobby, numbly following him to a car, then a motel. Bobby started a shower and left Sam in the bathroom. Sam stared at the water. It had been a long time. Slowly he peeled off his clothes and stepped into the shower, letting the water run over him.

He stood there until the water no longer ran with dirt and mud as it flowed off him and down the drain, then just a few minutes longer. The threadbare towels hanging on the rack by the tub weren’t very useful, and the clothes Bobby had left on the counter were a strange combination of too big and too small. The sweatpants only came to his shins and the t-shirt swallowed him whole.

He opened the bathroom door just as Bobby hung up the phone. “How do you feel?”

Sam shrugged, holding his arms around his stomach. “Tired.”

Bobby nodded, gesturing to the bed. “Go on. Your daddy will be here by morning.”

Sam sat on the bed. It had been a long time since he’d slept in one…not since that night. When he woke up covered in blood. He touched the starchy sheet and tried not to feel the sticky heat on his hands.

There was a hand on his head. Sam looked up. “You’re safe now, Sam.”

Safe. Sam wasn’t even sure what that word meant. He shook his head slowly. “I killed them, Bobby.”

Something passed over Bobby’s face…fear or disgust, Sam wasn’t sure which. “Everything’s going to be okay, Sam. You did what you had to. Lay down. Get some rest.”

Sam laid down, closed his eyes. He was exhausted, but knew better than to think he’d sleep. He never slept anymore. Dozed a little from time to time, but it had been weeks since he’d slept enough to dream. The dreams were always the same anyway, and he always woke up covered in blood.

He barely felt the prick of the needle, his eyes fluttering open to Bobby’s apologetic face before the drug pulled him under.


Hands, touching, pulling, prodding him. Turning him, hurting him. Kind eyes gone dark and cold. Evil. Blood. Hot, but cooling on his hands. Those eyes staring up at him, asking him why, accusing him. Evil. The word echoes around in his head and chases him out of the dream.

Sam opened his eyes with a start, only to find the warm, yet sad eyes of his father’s staring into his. “Easy, Sam. Easy.”

“Dad?”

John nodded, his big hand touching Sam’s face. “Been looking for you for months, Sam.”

“I ran.” Sam remembered the running. The first few nights were so cold, he was so sure they would find him…the police, his father. “I killed him.”

John nodded, blinking wet eyes. “I know Son. I know what he did to you.”

Sam closed his eyes, pulling back. “No…he…I don’t know what happened. I just woke up…and there was blood…”

Rape. The word hung there in his head, the reason Jim was dead. Sam pressed his hands to his eyes. His head was pounding, images of the people he’d killed flashing through him.

“We know Sam.” His father’s voice was uncharacteristically soft. “We think there was a demon. It wasn’t Jim.”

Sam knew that. He remembered whispering “Christo” just before…before it happened.

“I’m going to take care of you now Sam.” His father’s hand was gentle, brushing through Sam’s hair. “You’re going to be fine.”



“Where’s Dean?” Sam asked when they had climbed into his father’s new black truck and Bobby had driven away.

His father stiffened a little. “He’s out west. Hunting.”

That seemed odd. “By himself?”

John started the truck and glanced at Sam. “He’s with Caleb. We had a disagreement.”

“About me.” Sam knew that was the only thing Dean would stand up to their father about.

“He didn’t like leaving you behind in the first place, and then…after what happened…” John looked away and pulled them out of the motel. “We split up to look for you.”

Sam nodded, staring down at his hands. They were still clean.

“I’ve got us a place just north of here. We’ll settle in for a while. You can get your feet under you again.”

“What about Dean?”

John’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. “He’ll come round eventually.”



The place his father got for them was a run down old farmhouse in the middle of nowhere Oklahoma. There was already an obstacle course set up in the side yard and a series of targets set up in the back.

“We tried this their way, Sam. Now we do it my way.”

Sam didn’t respond, just followed his father into the house. His way.

Which would mean training. Heavy, physical training.

And maybe he was right. Maybe he needed to get out of his head, lose the guilt in a glut of physical exhaustion. If what his father told him was true, if there had been a demon…maybe Sam wasn’t evil after all.

There were more drugs, Sam figured it out when he finished his dinner and the world spun round him. He leaned against his father as they climbed the stairs. “Just to help you sleep.” John said as Sam fell to the bed.

In the dark, Sam thought he saw something in his father’s eyes. Something that reminded him of Jim that night. Before he could say anything, the drugs lulled him into the deep black of unnatural sleep.



The mornings were the hardest, pulling himself out of the drug induced sleep and finding his way down to breakfast without letting the nightmares drag him back. He concentrated on the little things, on getting dressed and tying his shoes, on stretching out his muscles and drinking the bottle of water his father put on the table.

He shut down his mind and focused on running, jumping, hiding, fighting, shooting…whatever was put in front of him. It was easier. If he focused hard enough he could forget.

School would be starting soon, but his father showed no signs of expecting him to go. Sam wasn’t sure if he was relieved or disturbed. He stepped out of the shower after a morning work out that had lasted well into afternoon, his body achy, head sore in that pre-headache way.

There were voices. Sam stopped in the hallway between the bathroom and his room, a towel clasped around his waste. His father’s voice sounded strange, strained.

“If we push him too fast, he’ll fall apart.”

The other man’s voice was low, and Sam couldn’t really make out the words. “I realize that, but I know what I’m doing.”

Sam eased down the stairs, his stomach cold and still inside him. They were in the living room. Sam paused, peering around the corner. His father blocked the other man from his sight.

“He isn’t ready.”

Sam took a deep breath and stepped into the room. “Ready for what?”

Both men turned to look at him and Sam felt the color drain from his face. He took a step back. He was familiar, but Sam didn’t know him. He smiled. “Hello Sam.”

Sam held up a hand, looked to his father for reassurance. “I don’t know you.”

“I’m a friend…of your father’s.”

Sam looked from him to his father. “What aren’t I ready for?”

John took a step toward him, his hands up in a placating gesture. “There’s a hunt…a pack of werewolves. I said you weren’t ready.”

Sam took a deep breath. He wasn’t. Not for that.

“You can’t keep hiding from it.” The new guy was beside his father now. “From who you are.”

“No.” Sam shook his head and turned away.

“You have a destiny, Sam.” He was closer now. Too close, his breath hot on Sam’s skin. “It’s my job to help you reach it.” His hand touched Sam’s shoulder, burning, intimate and wrong.

Sam shivered and pulled away. “No.”

The man licked his lips, following. “You’re a killer, Sam.” It was whispered, low. So low Sam couldn’t be sure he actually said it, that it wasn’t just his brain accusing him.

“No.” Sam covered his ears and turned, but the man was there, right there and he grabbed Sam, shaking him. The towel fell and Sam stood there naked between them, his father and this man, his head buzzing. “No.”

“You want to kill me right now.” The man’s eyes shifted, filled with an odd yellow. “You want to reach inside me and pull out my intestines. What’s stopping you?”

“NO!” Sam screamed and yanked his body away, only to crash into his father. Arms folded around him, held him while the man with yellow eyes moved closer, his hands touching Sam’s skin.

“You did it before…when I was inside Pastor Jim. When I made him touch you.” The man’s hands were on Sam’s cock, stroking it. “That boy in the alley in Oklahoma. He wanted you. I hardly had to make him do anything.”

Sam struggled, but his father held him. His father. “Please, Dad…” His father’s eyes were filled with black and Sam could feel his body, feel his arousal pressing against his back. “No…please…”

The yellow eyed man smiled. “Oh yes, Sam. Welcome to your destiny.”

His mouth was sour, possessive. His tongue invaded Sam’s mouth with an intensity that swarmed over him. Sam’s hands clawed at him, at them, but there was no escaping, there was only this, trapped between them.

Teeth raked over his neck, chin, nipping at his collar bone, and his Adam’s apple. Fingers pressed into flesh, pinching, puling, touching, stroking. “This is who you are.” His father’s voice whispered to him. “Surrender and it will feel so good, Sammy.”

He was on the floor, his father under him, holding him while the other man forced himself into Sam. Tears burned at the corners of his eyes, his heart thundering inside him. “Kill him.”

Sam yelled out, his hands flailing as the man thrust hard and deep, his come filling Sam in a burst of heat. Sam’s hand finally found his throat, his fingers digging into skin, breaking through as though it were merely paper. The man laughed, his head thrown back, his mouth open as inky black smoke spewed out of him.

Sam’s breath heaved through his chest, his body still held tight against his father’s as the man fell to the floor, his blood painting Sam, coating his legs, his cock. His father shifted, his hands cradling Sam to him, rolling them to their sides, whispering to him that he did good, he did the right thing.

His hand closed around Sam’s cock, sticky, hard. Sam closed his eyes and fought the arousal, but as his father’s hand stroked him, he came, leaving streaks of milky white in the puddle of red beneath him.

He was vaguely aware of his father getting him up, back to the bathroom, of being held in the shower, washed. There was a towel, and then he was being laid down in the bed, his father’s body spooned in behind his, his father’s cock still hard and pressed against his ass.

John’s voice whispered to him, his fingers petted over Sam’s skin. Only this wasn’t his father. Sam knew it now. Knew it when those fingers slid inside him, when his cock slid into him where the other man’s had been, when he told Sam over and over that everything was fine, that he was a good soldier.

He didn’t speak, couldn’t find words. Not even when the man who wasn’t his father finished and slipped the needle into Sam’s thigh. Sam closed his eyes and surrendered to the drug, to the pain. Sleep and dream and start all over in the morning.


Dean’s eyes hurl insults and accusations, his voice cracks as he begs Sam to stop, to come back.

“Killer.” Whispers in a hundred voices, a little girl, his father, Pastor Jim, some boy Sam doesn’t remember, some man with yellow eyes.

“Killer.” Sam whispers it back, holding his stomach, bending over, giving in.


Sam’s hand shook, the gun unsteady, heavy and uncertain. The woman screamed, her voice inhumane, filled with rage. “Shoot.” His father’s voice called.

She was a werewolf, protecting her young. Two kids in full transformation, blood smeared across their faces and hands from the feast that lay in remnants of a once human body around them.

She had blue eyes. Sam shook all the harder. His father was too far away to be much help, only Sam could do this. He squeezed the trigger, the shot echoing around them.

She stopped, frozen, her face stunned, slowly reverting to human as she toppled over. The two children screeched, lunging at Sam and he fired four more shots, dropping them both beside her.

“Better.” His father came up at a jog, slinging an arm around Sam’s shoulders. “You hesitated though.”

Sam nodded. He knew what that meant. There would be punishment. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Do better.”

Sam relinquished the gun and followed him to the truck.

“How are the dreams?”

Sam didn’t always know how to act when he was like this. He glanced sidelong at him. Sometimes, in the sunlight, Sam could see him…who he really was. “I don’t know. Better I guess.”

At least the dreams didn’t seem to overwhelm him as much. The voices seemed quieter.

“The headaches?”

Sam felt himself wince. They’d been getting bad. “They hurt.”

His father’s face smiled, a low chuckle filling the truck. “Pain does.”

They were almost to the place they’d bedded down in the last few nights. It was little more than a shed, cold and dark, no running water or electricity. The truck pulled in the long dirt drive, kicking up dust that wouldn’t settle until long after they were inside.

“You’re not my father.” Sam said it quietly, not looking at him.

“No. I’m not,” he agreed, no anger or malice in his voice.

“Is he…is he alive?”

Sam could feel his eyes. He worked hard to not wilt under the stare. “I don’t know.”

“What about Dean?”

He sighed heavily. “Does it matter?”

Sam closed his eyes. It mattered. Because Dean mattered. “Yeah. It does.”

“Last I knew, he was fine.”

The truck rocked, the door creaked open and slammed closed. Sam’s door opened and his father’s hand closed around his wrist. “You ready?”

Sam didn’t have to answer, it wouldn’t matter. The beating would be fast and efficient, and when it was over he’d be locked up in the dark. Punishment to make sure he learned.



And he learned. Do as he’s told. Don’t hesitate. Don’t resist.

It wasn’t a lot different than being with his father, other than the absence of Dean, the constant buffer between Sam and the world, between Sam and his father. If Dean were there, Sam would maybe find the will to hold on to something outside the destiny they claimed for him.

They.

The man who looked like John Winchester and the man with yellow eyes. He wore different faces when he came, but he showed up, watched Sam train, taught him lessons on destiny. Taught Sam about power and submission, about the feeling of that power flowing through him and what is was like when it was taken away.

Sam learned.

The first time they brought him a whore, he resisted, but he learned. She felt like sin on his skin, under his fingers, on his cock…she screamed and thrashed and put on a show for him, but Sam knew it was all a show, just like he knew that when it was over Yellow-Eyes would do the same to him, just to remind Sam of what his place was.

The first time he pulled a demon out of its human host, it knocked him on his ass for two days with pain that lanced through his head and into his back and left him curled in a fetal position on the floor of the bathroom.

The first time he summoned one back again, Sam threw up until he had nothing left in his stomach and the muscles in his side burned.

The killing wasn’t so bad. Not anymore. They told him stories at first to make it easier.

He didn’t believe them. It wasn’t important. They pointed, Sam pulled the trigger. They sent him, Sam went. The gifts came easier after a while. He could see things. Stuff that hadn’t happened yet, stuff that would happen. He knew people’s thoughts, could find them in the dark. He could smell their fear, taste the revulsion as he touched them. The headaches weren’t as bad, the nightmares vanished.

The only thing that remained was a distant thought, a voice in his head that told him he was good, that he was not what they wanted him to be. On some level he knew it was Dean’s voice, but he didn’t let himself dwell on that. If he did, they would know.

They were making him a warrior, a leader for some end-game scheme that would see Yellow Eyes unseat whoever held the reins in hell now, and bring it screaming to earth, a killer of men and demons alike. Sam knew what they wanted…but Sam was starting to understand what he was becoming too.

It all came clear on a bright morning in late April when Yellow Eyes sent him against a rival, a demon with eyes of deep, blood red and a true form that Sam could barely stand to look at. Sam held out his hand and he could feel it…the ancient evil that squatted inside the pretty body of some girl, cold, slimy. It snarled at him and as it felt him, felt his hand grip tight around it, felt the pull of his power, it was afraid.

He held it there, in his hand, all inky and smoke and barely there, yet caught in the grip of power that was uniquely his. He had it by the throat and it was squealing in terror. At first he didn’t understand why, it could always crawl back out of hell again.

Unless. Sam looked at it, past the smoke and ash and inky black, into the cold center of its being. It was like plucking a guitar string. Simple. He plucked and it died. Gone.

That was when he knew.

He knew what he had to do.

It isn’t easy to hide from them. He never slept alone, never spent more than a few minutes a day without the fake John beside him, inside him, moving him, training him.

It isn’t easy to find a way to manipulate them. He had to let them think they had beaten him, that he had accepted his place. Not without a struggle, the more they gave him of power, the more he had to test the limits. It was expected.

Some nights when it came time for the fucking, he fought back, never to the point of getting punished, but enough for them to know he was feeling his power. They wanted him to rise up one day and lead an army, he had to show fight.

He brought home girls…and sometimes boys. Toyed with them because he knew that the man who looked like his father hated sharing him. He always paid for it later, but enjoyed it while he could

All the while he was looking. For a car, for a voice.
He cHeHe


Then one night it was the old man and him after a long run up the east coast, chasing down some wayward son of the Yellow Eyed man. The bar was an old dive, the kind that had changed hands a half dozen times, but never names or tables or the kinds of beer they kept on tap.

The old man wandered off after some leggy blonde, leaving Sam at the bar, eyeing the room for something. He was hungry, and his intel told him he might just get lucky.

There. At the pool table in the back. He looked like someone Sam had nearly forgotten and then remembered in a jolt as dark blonde hair and striking green eyes caught his attention. He hadn’t seen the car, but he had been gone almost three years. Anything could have happened. Sam grabbed two beers and moved in, watching the cagey movement as the man in his sights hustled an unsuspecting construction worker.

As the game finished, Sam held out the beer. “Nice hustle.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The hand closed around the beer just the same. Sam waited, eyes down, hair haphazardly in his face. He almost held his breath.

He was rewarded with a sharp intake of air as the connection was made. “Sam?”

The voice was barely a whisper, Dean’s eyes wide, his face white. Sam lifted his head, smiled. “Hey, Dean.” He glanced over his shoulder, tracing out the old man, making sure he was in deep with the blonde. He needed room to maneuver, needed Dean to forgive him, even though he knew Dean never would…not if he knew. “I…can we…” He gestured for the back door.

Dean was already half way to it, dropping his beer on a table, reaching back for Sam when he wasn’t nearly fast enough. “Sam? My god, Sam?”

Before the door was closed, Dean was grabbing him, pulling him into a hug, his body tight and tense against Sam’s. “Holy fuck, we’ve looked everywhere for you.”

“Not everywhere.” Sam said, not meaning for it to come out sounding like an accusation and knowing that it did. Dean just pulled him tighter. “Kinda need to breathe.”

“Sorry.” Dean released him, only to pull him in tight once more. “Damn it’s good to see you.”

Sam smiled. “You too. I’ve been looking for you.”

“Me? You’ve been looking for me?”

“It hasn’t been easy, Dean. I’m not…” He licked his lips and looked over his shoulder. “I’m not alone…and I’m not…there’s someone who…keeps me…” He shook his head. He didn’t want Dean to know any of that. He just wanted out. He wanted Dean to help him out. “It doesn’t matter. I found you.”

“Are you in some kind of trouble, Sammy?”

Sam nodded. “You could say that…I mean…they’ve made me…do things.” He shivered. He couldn’t seem to stop his mouth. “They told me I was a killer…and a freak…and they…”

“Who Sam? Who?” Dean was already heading fast and hard into protective big brother mode, and Sam had forgotten how overwhelming that could be.

“Demons…Dean.” He shook his head. Obviously Dean could still make him tell him everything, whether he wanted to or not. “They made me think one of them was Dad. He’s in there…he’s going to come looking for me.”

“Come on.” Dean’s hand was on his arm, pulling him away from the bar, back into the shadows behind the bar.

“Where?”

“To get Dad, and together, we’re going to kick some demon ass.”

“Dad? Dad’s here?”

Dean nodded. “Back at the motel.”

Sam could feel the way Dean’s thoughts raced on ahead of them, a mental inventory of their supplies, calculations on the amount of holy water they had, where the rosaries were. “Dean. Dean, wait.” Sam pulled his arm free. “Just wait.”

“Wait? Sam, I’ve been trying to find you for three years. You freak the fuck out, go all psycho on me, then some damn demon climbs up inside Pastor Jim and you run away and no one can find you. Now you’re telling me you’ve been with demons and you want me to wait?”

“It isn’t that simple Dean.” Sam pulled his hands through his hair. “I just…I need a minute.”

“For what?” Dean rounded on him, grabbing his arms.

“I didn’t think this through. He’s gonna…” Sam shook his head. He could feel him already, looking for Sam. “You have to go, Dean.”

“I’m not going anywhere without you.”

“You don’t understand. He’s going to make me…I’m…” Fuck. This was not how this was supposed to work.

“Tell me what’s going on.”

“I…I’ve killed people, Dean. Not…not just demons and werewolves. People.” Fuck. That look right there, wide eyed horror. “He’ll make me kill you too.”

“Make you? How? How does someone make you kill, Sam?”

”You’re a killer Sammy.”

Sam closed his eyes. “Maybe…maybe it’s just what I am.”

Dean shook him. “Snap out of it Sam.”

“They…came for me. Said I belonged to them.”

“No.” Dean hugged him again. “You belong with us, with me and Dad.”

“If I didn’t do what I was told, I was punished, beaten.” He dropped his eyes. “Raped.”

He could feel the fury building up inside his brother. “What?”

“It started with Pastor Jim…but it didn’t end there.” Sam reached out for him. “The man with yellow eyes…I think he killed Mom…did something to me when I was a baby…made me…like this.”

Dean let go of him, probably disgusted. Sam wouldn’t blame him. “I…just wanted to see you. Know you were okay.” He should go back, keep the demon away from his brother.

“Dad’s going to freak the fuck out if I tell him I saw you and didn’t bring you home. He nearly killed himself trying to find you after we figured out what happened at Pastor Jim’s.” Dean shook his head. “Let’s go see him. We can figure this out together.”

Sam wanted to, though he wasn’t sure he could face his real father…not after everything the fake one had done to him, with him…not when Sam had come to crave the tender moments between them, the way he caressed Sam’s hip while they fucked.

“Sam?” They turned together as the man who looked like John Winchester approached.

Sam let Dean push him behind him as Dean pulled out a gun. “That’s not going to kill a demon, Dean.”

“Why does he look like Dad?”

“I told you…he made me think he was.”

Sam could see him now for what he really was, had for some time. Dean held the gun up. Behind him, Sam readied himself. “Maybe I can slow him down.” Dean said through clenched teeth.

He pulled the trigger and their father’s face laughed at them. “Maybe I can do more.” Sam said through clenched teeth as he reached for the cord. He saw the look in its eyes as it realized, felt the furor of fear and anger.

Dean nailed it between the eyes and Sam plucked the cord. It fell with a thud and Dean shook his head. “What happened?”

Sam shrugged. “We got lucky?”

“No one’s that lucky.”

Dean turned to look at Sam. “What did you do?”

“I…it’s…I don’t know, Dean. I can just…do things.”

Their father’s body melted away, leaving little more than a slick of blood and gore. Sam staggered a little, dropping to one knee and holding his head as pain lanced through him. Yellow Eyes knew.

He knew what Sam had done. “He’s coming.” Sam gasped out, holding his head.

All of Dean’s anger and fear fell away as he surged into protective mode. “Okay, let’s get you inside.” Dean hauled him to his feet, dragging and half-carrying Sam toward a motel door. Lightening flashed across the sky and lights flickered. He was coming fast.

They fell through the door, crashing onto the bed nearest it. Dean kicked the door shut as they went down.

“Dean!”

“Dad, door. Demon on our asses.”

Sam rolled into the mattress, hiding his face, holding his head as Dean extricated himself from his brother and the bed. Together, Dean and their father secured the door with a thick line of salt, but Sam knew that wouldn’t hold out Yellow Eyes. He was older even than that Red Eyed demon Sam killed first. Not much on this earth could stop him.

In fact, Sam wasn’t even sure he could.

He felt his father’s eyes and looked up, blinking. These weren’t the cold, lifeless eyes of the demon that had trained him.

“Sam?”

He sat up slowly, curling his legs under him. He nodded slowly, his eyes wide, glancing to Dean. John looked at Dean, then back at Sam.

“What’s going on?”

“According to Sam, demons. That yellow eyed son of a bitch that killed mom.” Dean ground out between clenched teeth. “He’s had Sam all this time.”

The door rattled, the lights flickering. Sam tried to make himself smaller. John stared at him. Sam looked away. Suddenly Dean was between them. “You need to focus on the demon right now, Dad. Sam’s been through a lot.”

The door burst open and there he was, furious. The meat suit of whatever victim he’d found this time was big, its face contorted in rage. “You’ve been a very bad boy, Samuel.”

It stepped right over the line of salt. Dean lifted his gun, but went flying across the room, breaking the bathroom door as he fell. Yellow Eyes cocked his head at John. “Well, well, if this doesn’t bring back memories.”

His father’s eyes widened as he realized, as he remembered. “You should be real proud of our boy here.”

Sam felt the invisible hand at his throat, lifting him from the bed. “He’s become quite the little soldier. Had to break him of all that moral programming you pounded into his head…but that thing with the werewolf was a beautiful place to start.”

John roared in anger, rushing forward only to be stopped by an invisible force that lifted him up, off his feet, until he was flat against the ceiling. “Look familiar Sammy?” Yellow eyes asked, squeezing Sam’s throat. “Should I kill him the way I killed Mommy?”

He turned full on Sam then. “Or maybe I should make you do it.” His face was a snarl as he pulled Sam close. “Are you ready for that, little soldier?” His hand closed around Sam’s cock, through his jeans. “Does that make you hard, Sammy? Killing the old man?”

“Why not? I already killed the other one.” Sam growled. He stared, searched for the cord that would end this.

It raised an eyebrow. “You keep trying, Sammy.”

“Sam!” Dean was on his feet again, a different gun in his hand. Above them, John struggled against the ceiling, his stomach starting to bleed. “You son of a bitch!” Dean pulled the trigger and the bullet sang out as it crossed the room, only to fall to the floor six inches shy of its target.

Yellow eyes laughed, pulling Sam in closer. “Such passion, Sammy. Maybe you’d like me better dressed up in big brother’s meat?”

”You’re a killer, Sam.”

“Maybe I should just kill you instead.” Sam said, fighting against the hold on him.

Dean made an odd gurgling sound. Sam looked to find his face red, his hands clutching at his throat. “I should have killed them a long time ago. You belong to me, Samuel.”

They were dying, and once again it was going to be his fault. Sam closed his eyes. He didn’t want to see. Didn’t want to be the one, the last thing they saw. He’d done this. He was exactly what Yellow Eyes said he was. A killer.

Fine. If that’s how it was going to be.

Sam reached inside of him, felt the stirrings of that power, the gifts that had filled him with the blood the demon had fed him, let the shame and rage and fear well up inside him. It gave him strength. Yellow Eyes was busy concentrating on Dean and their father.

Sam’s hands moved. Slowly at first, but eventually they had Yellow Eyes by the throat. He squeezed, gasping for air himself as he pulled at the demon inside the body. If he could get him out, maybe then he’d find the right string.

His father’s body slammed into the ground. Dean’s fell onto the bed. It was down to this. Sam struggled against the hold on his own throat, against the bindings of power starting to squeeze the life out of him.

“You wanted me to kill.” Sam gasped as his thumbs broke through the skin of the man’s throat and blood spurted out over them. “You taught me how.”

Through the hole in his throat the smoke started, greasy black stuttering out, pulling back in, almost like some grotesque sex act. Sam pulled, yanked, fought until finally he felt the invisible hands loosening. His feet hit the floor and he rode the body to the ground, wrestling with the demon, holding onto its slippery form and trying to find the thread, the cord of life that would send it into oblivion.

He was tiring rapidly, his head bursting with pain, his entire body on fire. He was going to lose. But he would make sure Dean was safe.

There. He saw it, reached for it, got one mental finger on it, then he felt as though he’d been kicked in the groin, falling over backwards, sprawling on the floor as it screamed away into the night.

He heard Dean’s voice, felt his hands, but the dark was too great. He fell into it, into the pool of fire and pain.



“You’re a killer, Sam.” It’s whispered, low. So low Sam can’t be sure it is actually said, that it isn’t just his brain accusing him.

“No.” Sam covers his ears and turns, but they’re there, right there, all around him. Faces covered in blood. His father’s face, the girl whose name he’s long since forgotten, Pastor Jim, men and women.

“This is who you are.” His father’s voice whispers to him. “Surrender and it will feel so good, Sammy.”

The blood rises around him. Covers him. Drowns him. “This is who you are.”

A killer.



The car wasn’t moving. Sam could smell the leather of the seats. It was an oddly warm smell, comforting. His stomach churned, his head pounding like he’d had a hell of a drunk the night before.

Dean was behind the wheel. His father in the passenger seat. They sat, waiting, though Sam wasn’t sure what for.

He opened his eyes, groaning as the light pierce through him and he covered them with a hand. He could feel them. Anxious, nursing their wounds, uncertain of him. Dean had told their father what Sam had told him.

John Winchester knew what his son had become.

Slowly Sam sat up. ”Kill them.”

“Dean?”

“Lay down, Sam. Go back to sleep.”

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

Dean didn’t exactly look at him, but Sam felt his eyes all the same. “He’s right, you know.” Sam looked at the back of his father’s head. “I’m a monster Dean.”

“No.” Dean’s voice was quiet, but insistent.

“If I were anyone but your brother, you’d hunt me down.”

“But you are my brother. And none of this is your fault. They did this to you.”

Sam nodded, closing his eyes and sinking back into the seat. It was true, but it didn’t change much. “Give me a gun.” He said it to John, not Dean. Dean never would.

“What?” It was the first thing John had said.

“I’m not going to make you do it.” Sam held out his hand. “I’m the killer. Let me do what I’ve been trained to do.”

“No.” Dean shook his head, opening the door of the car and climbing out. He yanked the back door open, pulling Sam out. “You listen to me. No one is killing anyone.”

“Dean.” John was up and out of the car.

“No. Just…stop. Both of you.”

John came around the car. Sam turned to him. “I’m a fucking monster, Dad.”

“You’re my son.” John kept coming, his arms circling around Sam, hugging him tightly. Sam gasped at the warmth, the familiar. “And I love you.”

He held on long after Sam expected he would let go, end it. Put a bullet in Sam’s brain and salt and burn the body. There was a struggle inside him, Sam could feel it. “Let us help you.” John whispered.

He couldn’t know that Pastor Jim had whispered those words just before the world tilted upside down. Sam shivered. He could feel those hands, the way his body pressed against Sam’s. He couldn’t move, couldn’t fight.

Sam dragged in a staggered breath. “Dad…”

“I love you.”

Dean’s arms wrapped around him from behind. “I love you too Sam.”

He hadn’t heard those words in a long time. It wasn’t enough. Sam knew it. But they held him, bodies tight, arms warm, words whispered. “Let us love you again.” John murmured. “Let us help you remember who you are.”

Sam blinked at the tears. He knew who he was. Who he became that night he pulled the trigger and killed a blonde haired, blue eyed girl to save his brother. Still, he nodded into his father’s shoulder.

Maybe it was their turn to try to save him. Even if it was only from himself.