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The Good Son, Part IV of V, Supernatural, Wincest
Fandom: Supernatural
Title: The Good Son, Part IV
Characters/Pairing: Sam, John, Dean, implied Sam/Dean, graphic Sam/Other
Rating: NC-17, for graphic violence and sex, rape
Table: #1
Prompt: 053 Wait
Word Count: 2231
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. Fourth part of a five part story.
First Part Here,
Second Part Here
Third Part Here
This is my seventh ficlet for my Supernatural claim on![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
100_situations. Clicky for table
The envelope had been delivered to the police task force, addressed to the leader, a note inside cryptic, but indicating where on the enclosed DVD to look. The pictures were included. Everything but the notebook.
Dean kept that. He hadn’t even shown it to his father.
And now they would wait. Not patiently. Patience was not a virtue common to the Winchester line. John waited by pacing up and down the hotel room, mentally reviewing every conversation he had ever had with his youngest son, listening to the accusations in the voice of his eldest.
Dean waited differently. He waited by hovering outside the headquarters of Garrett’s empire. He watched the building. He watched for Garrett. Maybe the police couldn’t touch him without evidence, but Dean could. Dean would.
His eyes swept the glass and chrome and cement and wondered if Sam was somewhere inside. He didn’t think so. He couldn’t feel him, the second heartbeat that was as common and familiar as his own. He couldn’t be sure what he would do if he actually saw Garrett…but he slowly got out of his car. His movements were fast then, across the street, up to the door…into the elevator.
Claire was waiting for him on the floor where Garrett’s office was. She stopped him and he pulled free, but she put herself in front of him again. “Don’t make me arrest you Dean,” she said, her hand on his arm. “He isn’t there. Hasn’t been all day.”
Dean’s eyes flicked her way, then to the door. “Where?”
“We’re working on that. His secretary will only say he’s gone out of town.”
“I don’t believe it.”
His body was thrumming with anger, with a rage that wasn’t being helped by her hand on his arm. “He has my brother, Claire.”
“I know. We’re searching everywhere for him…and for Sam. Give us time.”
“Time? Did you see that video?”
His jaw clenched and unclenched and her face blanched. “Yes. I saw.”
“Sam doesn’t have anymore time, Claire.” His stomach turned and he thought he might be sick. “He’s had my brother for almost a week.”
“I know, Dean. We’re doing everything we can…the best we can.”
“Your best isn’t good enough.” Dean said…his father’s words, echoed through his voice.
”I’m doing my best, sir.” Sam’s voice said from behind the shotgun that was nearly as tall as he was.
“Your best isn’t good enough then.” John repositioned the gun, pushing it tight against his son’s shoulder and bracing the little body against his hip. “Try again. Aim at the middle target.”
He helped Sam point the gun toward the makeshift target at the end of the field. Sam’s hands were shaking as he pulled the trigger, and the shot went wide. John sighed and let go. “What if your brother’s life had depended on that shot, Sam? He’d be dead.”
Sam hung his head, the better to hide the tears. “Keep working at it.”
“I’m afraid our time together has come to an end, Sam,” the voice said. Sam didn’t move, waiting.
The hand stroked over his thigh, up to his hip. “I must confess I have enjoyed this. There was a time I despaired to ever see you again.”
The touch was gentle. Sam could almost lean into it, craving the connection, the feeling of another body…almost.
“I have to take a trip. Overseas. Business.”
There was a swell of panic. Sam did lean toward the hand on his shoulder. Maybe this was sick…wrong…but the fear of being alone was stronger. “Not to worry. I will find you again.” Sam chewed at his lip, knowing better than to make a sound. The hand left him and for a moment he couldn’t breathe.
Then the hand was on his back, smoothing over the healing wounds of previous punishment, dipping down to caress ass cheeks with raised welts and burned skin.
“I want to leave you something to remember me by.”
Sam tensed. His body rocked under the tender touch. A finger moved inside, pushing, invading. “I want you to think of me every time you let him touch you here.”
It moved idly in and out. Sam breathed slowly, carefully.
“I won’t lie to you, Sam. This is going to hurt.”
The hand left him, and Sam held his breath in anticipation.
Nothing could prepare him for what came though.
He screamed around as it bit into him, his flesh burning, his thigh on fire as the pressure mounted, the weight of the world pressing into his thigh as metal, heated white-hot ate away his flesh.
Then the heat was gone, and the hand was stroking him, caressing his face and back, his chest, his stomach. Sam felt his stomach lurch under the pain, leaning forward as much as the hands and his bonds would allow, retching, his stomach spilling forth what little it contained, bile burning its way up his throat.
The pedestal fell away and his shoulders jerked him down, turning him, away from the hands, away from everything but the pain. He felt blood in this throat as he yelled, as the hands chased after him, as the cock plunged into him and the voice whispered, “Something to remember me by.”
Dean waited longer than he thought he could, contained only by Claire’s voice, her reason as the task force searched…but as the words came over the radio, he peeled out of the driveway, away from the chrome and glass tower where Garrett held court. He flew through the shaded, quiet streets that pretended they knew nothing about the violence, ignoring her words.
His hand had the cell phone open as he hit the road, heading back toward the campus, toward the address the voice on the police radio had broadcast. His father picked up the phone and he stated the address, nothing else. He hung up before his father could even respond.
“Dean.” Claire’s hand was gripping his hand, but he wouldn’t look at her. He could only drive, his brother’s name on his tongue.
It had been a hard kill. Both of them were busted up, both of them were angry. There were no words, just angry silence that led to hard stares and thrown medical supplies. Sam had grabbed Dean…or maybe Dean grabbed Sam. Either way they had pulled and pushed and grabbed until Dean was against the wall, with Sam’s hand around his cock and Dean was yelling incoherently.
He pushed and Sam ended up on the bed, sprawled out in nothing but his boxers and Dean was anything but gentle as he fell on top of him, taking his brother’s cock in his mouth and swirling his tongue around it.
It was over quickly. Dean got up and went back to dressing his wounds. Sam got up and took a shower. The silence wasn’t angry anymore, and that was somehow more important than what they had just done.
He was alone. He knew it. He could feel it. The voice was gone. Replaced by music…too loud, too confining…The gag cut into the corners of his mouth, tied tight across his neck, the knot burning against a cut.
Dean.
He rolled the name around in his head. Dean would come.
Dean was gone. The voice told him so.
Somehow he knew. Dean. Dean would come.
Even if the voice in his head told him Dean was gone. Dean always came for him. Even though Sam knew he didn’t deserve it.
The building was abandoned when Garrett Industries had provided a new, state of the art science building that was actually on campus. The old labs and classrooms had been slated to be converted into offices, but construction hadn’t started.
Claire slapped her phone shut as Dean stopped the car. “They’re on the way. We should wait—“
“Fuck that.” Dean was out of the car and opening his trunk, pulling out his shotgun and loading it.
“Dean—“
“Don’t. Don’t tell me to wait. If I had waited for backup last year Claire, it would have been your niece I was plugging with silver, alongside that good for nothing hick.”
She didn’t say anything more as he pushed past her. Dean circled the building, before settling on a glass door covered in paper from the inside. He cracked the door with the butt of the gun and glass shattered.
The building was dark, only the vague daylight that filtered through grimy windows gave him light enough to navigate over the debris left behind when it was vacated. He moved on instinct, chasing the feeling of Sam.
There was a vague hum in the air, like the sound of lights…of electricity. He followed it down a long corridor of doors and stopped in front of an open one near the end. A desk light was lit, in an office with no windows, casting a pool of light around a desk. Dean moved slowly inside, his gun held ready.
The desk was scattered with papers, cut up pictures. A notebook sat in its center, very similar to the notebook Dean had found with the DVD. His hand rested on the notebook. He knew what he would find. He had looked at the other one. It was filled with notes, pictures. Comments about the “subject’s” response to various punishments. “Where are you Sammy?”
“Dean.”
He turned, not sure if he’d actually heard anything. “Sammy?” He moved back into the hall. He could hear the sounds of other people working their way into the building.
“Dean!” His father’s voice.
“Over here!” He yelled it over his shoulder, moving cautiously toward a white door. He pushed it open, and lights came on. It was like a control room, with video equipment, a console that looked like a mixing board for a rock band. He reached out to touch the closest monitor and it came to life, flickering a minute until the image stopped him cold.
“Sam.”
Sam. Alone, bleeding. Gagged. Bound. Blindfolded.
Dean couldn’t breathe. His body seized up.
‘Dean.” It was like a whisper in his gut and he turned, reached for another control. The wall in front of him lowered to reveal glass…a room…Sam.
Dean was out of the control room and pounding against the adjacent door. Finally he gave up and aimed the shotgun, blowing the knob and its lock and kicking in the door all at once. Sam didn’t move, didn’t even flinch
He took a step closer, lowering the shotgun. “Sam?”
His brother sat atop the pedestal, his knees drawn up to his chest, his arms bound above his head. Dean stopped beside him, one hand ghosting over the marked skin of his back before he swallowed hard and touched Sam’s head.
Warm.
That was good. He found the headphones next, and pulled them slowly off, grimacing as the sound of Glenn Campbell screamed out of them. He dropped them, keeping one hand on Sam’s head. “Sam?” He said it softly, and Sam twitched.
“It’s okay. I’m here.” He worked at the knotted gag, but it was too tight. His knife came out of his pocket and he worked at cutting it. “Sammy? Can you hear me?”
Finally he got the gag cut loose and he circled around to the front of his brother. “Sammy?”
Dean. Sam could hear him…feel him. He was close, he was…A hand on his head. Not the hand,…not the one…smaller…familiar.
“Sammy?” Not Sam. Sammy. Dean’s Sammy. Not…not Sam, not his…
He can’t stop the tears. He feels the blindfold go and closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to see. Doesn’t want anyone to see. He shakes is head no, as hands caress his face, wipe away the tears.
“Dean!”
“Down here Dad!”
“No!” It isn’t really a word…half croaked from a raw throat, half mouthed in terror. “No…Dad…can’t…” Not that. He couldn’t take the disappointment. The failure. “Dean. Please.”
There’s something draped over him, covering him and Dean’s face is close by his. “I’m going to get you down, Sammy. Just hold on.”
He panics when the hands are gone, enough to open one eye. The room is bright and he squints, blinks and ends up closing it again. “Dean?” He can barely hear himself.
“Right here, Sammy. Hold on.”
There is a popping sound and Sam’s hands fall from above him, crashing down into his knees and sending him hurtling off the pedestal…but the landing isn’t as hard as he remembers and arms close around him, pulling him tight against a warm body, holding him as he starts to shake.
“Dean.” John is in the doorway, but Dean holds up his hand.
“I’ve got him. Find Garrett.” John looks torn, but nods. “Just save some for me.”
Dean doesn’t wait to see if John has left, just gathers Sam closer to him. Its awkward trying to hold him in his lap, as tall as he is, but Sam clings to him, his body shaking as sobs racked through him and Dean doesn’t know where to put his hands where it won’t cause him more pain.
But none of that is as important as knowing that Sammy was in his arms…that he’d found him. He settled for stroking his brother’s hair, whispering to him and rocking them while the waited for the task force and the ambulance, and for someone to find that fucking son-of-a-bitch so that Dean could kill him.
Last Part Here
Title: The Good Son, Part IV
Characters/Pairing: Sam, John, Dean, implied Sam/Dean, graphic Sam/Other
Rating: NC-17, for graphic violence and sex, rape
Table: #1
Prompt: 053 Wait
Word Count: 2231
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. Fourth part of a five part story.
First Part Here,
Second Part Here
Third Part Here
This is my seventh ficlet for my Supernatural claim on
100_situations. Clicky for tableThe envelope had been delivered to the police task force, addressed to the leader, a note inside cryptic, but indicating where on the enclosed DVD to look. The pictures were included. Everything but the notebook.
Dean kept that. He hadn’t even shown it to his father.
And now they would wait. Not patiently. Patience was not a virtue common to the Winchester line. John waited by pacing up and down the hotel room, mentally reviewing every conversation he had ever had with his youngest son, listening to the accusations in the voice of his eldest.
Dean waited differently. He waited by hovering outside the headquarters of Garrett’s empire. He watched the building. He watched for Garrett. Maybe the police couldn’t touch him without evidence, but Dean could. Dean would.
His eyes swept the glass and chrome and cement and wondered if Sam was somewhere inside. He didn’t think so. He couldn’t feel him, the second heartbeat that was as common and familiar as his own. He couldn’t be sure what he would do if he actually saw Garrett…but he slowly got out of his car. His movements were fast then, across the street, up to the door…into the elevator.
Claire was waiting for him on the floor where Garrett’s office was. She stopped him and he pulled free, but she put herself in front of him again. “Don’t make me arrest you Dean,” she said, her hand on his arm. “He isn’t there. Hasn’t been all day.”
Dean’s eyes flicked her way, then to the door. “Where?”
“We’re working on that. His secretary will only say he’s gone out of town.”
“I don’t believe it.”
His body was thrumming with anger, with a rage that wasn’t being helped by her hand on his arm. “He has my brother, Claire.”
“I know. We’re searching everywhere for him…and for Sam. Give us time.”
“Time? Did you see that video?”
His jaw clenched and unclenched and her face blanched. “Yes. I saw.”
“Sam doesn’t have anymore time, Claire.” His stomach turned and he thought he might be sick. “He’s had my brother for almost a week.”
“I know, Dean. We’re doing everything we can…the best we can.”
“Your best isn’t good enough.” Dean said…his father’s words, echoed through his voice.
”I’m doing my best, sir.” Sam’s voice said from behind the shotgun that was nearly as tall as he was.
“Your best isn’t good enough then.” John repositioned the gun, pushing it tight against his son’s shoulder and bracing the little body against his hip. “Try again. Aim at the middle target.”
He helped Sam point the gun toward the makeshift target at the end of the field. Sam’s hands were shaking as he pulled the trigger, and the shot went wide. John sighed and let go. “What if your brother’s life had depended on that shot, Sam? He’d be dead.”
Sam hung his head, the better to hide the tears. “Keep working at it.”
“I’m afraid our time together has come to an end, Sam,” the voice said. Sam didn’t move, waiting.
The hand stroked over his thigh, up to his hip. “I must confess I have enjoyed this. There was a time I despaired to ever see you again.”
The touch was gentle. Sam could almost lean into it, craving the connection, the feeling of another body…almost.
“I have to take a trip. Overseas. Business.”
There was a swell of panic. Sam did lean toward the hand on his shoulder. Maybe this was sick…wrong…but the fear of being alone was stronger. “Not to worry. I will find you again.” Sam chewed at his lip, knowing better than to make a sound. The hand left him and for a moment he couldn’t breathe.
Then the hand was on his back, smoothing over the healing wounds of previous punishment, dipping down to caress ass cheeks with raised welts and burned skin.
“I want to leave you something to remember me by.”
Sam tensed. His body rocked under the tender touch. A finger moved inside, pushing, invading. “I want you to think of me every time you let him touch you here.”
It moved idly in and out. Sam breathed slowly, carefully.
“I won’t lie to you, Sam. This is going to hurt.”
The hand left him, and Sam held his breath in anticipation.
Nothing could prepare him for what came though.
He screamed around as it bit into him, his flesh burning, his thigh on fire as the pressure mounted, the weight of the world pressing into his thigh as metal, heated white-hot ate away his flesh.
Then the heat was gone, and the hand was stroking him, caressing his face and back, his chest, his stomach. Sam felt his stomach lurch under the pain, leaning forward as much as the hands and his bonds would allow, retching, his stomach spilling forth what little it contained, bile burning its way up his throat.
The pedestal fell away and his shoulders jerked him down, turning him, away from the hands, away from everything but the pain. He felt blood in this throat as he yelled, as the hands chased after him, as the cock plunged into him and the voice whispered, “Something to remember me by.”
Dean waited longer than he thought he could, contained only by Claire’s voice, her reason as the task force searched…but as the words came over the radio, he peeled out of the driveway, away from the chrome and glass tower where Garrett held court. He flew through the shaded, quiet streets that pretended they knew nothing about the violence, ignoring her words.
His hand had the cell phone open as he hit the road, heading back toward the campus, toward the address the voice on the police radio had broadcast. His father picked up the phone and he stated the address, nothing else. He hung up before his father could even respond.
“Dean.” Claire’s hand was gripping his hand, but he wouldn’t look at her. He could only drive, his brother’s name on his tongue.
It had been a hard kill. Both of them were busted up, both of them were angry. There were no words, just angry silence that led to hard stares and thrown medical supplies. Sam had grabbed Dean…or maybe Dean grabbed Sam. Either way they had pulled and pushed and grabbed until Dean was against the wall, with Sam’s hand around his cock and Dean was yelling incoherently.
He pushed and Sam ended up on the bed, sprawled out in nothing but his boxers and Dean was anything but gentle as he fell on top of him, taking his brother’s cock in his mouth and swirling his tongue around it.
It was over quickly. Dean got up and went back to dressing his wounds. Sam got up and took a shower. The silence wasn’t angry anymore, and that was somehow more important than what they had just done.
He was alone. He knew it. He could feel it. The voice was gone. Replaced by music…too loud, too confining…The gag cut into the corners of his mouth, tied tight across his neck, the knot burning against a cut.
Dean.
He rolled the name around in his head. Dean would come.
Dean was gone. The voice told him so.
Somehow he knew. Dean. Dean would come.
Even if the voice in his head told him Dean was gone. Dean always came for him. Even though Sam knew he didn’t deserve it.
The building was abandoned when Garrett Industries had provided a new, state of the art science building that was actually on campus. The old labs and classrooms had been slated to be converted into offices, but construction hadn’t started.
Claire slapped her phone shut as Dean stopped the car. “They’re on the way. We should wait—“
“Fuck that.” Dean was out of the car and opening his trunk, pulling out his shotgun and loading it.
“Dean—“
“Don’t. Don’t tell me to wait. If I had waited for backup last year Claire, it would have been your niece I was plugging with silver, alongside that good for nothing hick.”
She didn’t say anything more as he pushed past her. Dean circled the building, before settling on a glass door covered in paper from the inside. He cracked the door with the butt of the gun and glass shattered.
The building was dark, only the vague daylight that filtered through grimy windows gave him light enough to navigate over the debris left behind when it was vacated. He moved on instinct, chasing the feeling of Sam.
There was a vague hum in the air, like the sound of lights…of electricity. He followed it down a long corridor of doors and stopped in front of an open one near the end. A desk light was lit, in an office with no windows, casting a pool of light around a desk. Dean moved slowly inside, his gun held ready.
The desk was scattered with papers, cut up pictures. A notebook sat in its center, very similar to the notebook Dean had found with the DVD. His hand rested on the notebook. He knew what he would find. He had looked at the other one. It was filled with notes, pictures. Comments about the “subject’s” response to various punishments. “Where are you Sammy?”
“Dean.”
He turned, not sure if he’d actually heard anything. “Sammy?” He moved back into the hall. He could hear the sounds of other people working their way into the building.
“Dean!” His father’s voice.
“Over here!” He yelled it over his shoulder, moving cautiously toward a white door. He pushed it open, and lights came on. It was like a control room, with video equipment, a console that looked like a mixing board for a rock band. He reached out to touch the closest monitor and it came to life, flickering a minute until the image stopped him cold.
“Sam.”
Sam. Alone, bleeding. Gagged. Bound. Blindfolded.
Dean couldn’t breathe. His body seized up.
‘Dean.” It was like a whisper in his gut and he turned, reached for another control. The wall in front of him lowered to reveal glass…a room…Sam.
Dean was out of the control room and pounding against the adjacent door. Finally he gave up and aimed the shotgun, blowing the knob and its lock and kicking in the door all at once. Sam didn’t move, didn’t even flinch
He took a step closer, lowering the shotgun. “Sam?”
His brother sat atop the pedestal, his knees drawn up to his chest, his arms bound above his head. Dean stopped beside him, one hand ghosting over the marked skin of his back before he swallowed hard and touched Sam’s head.
Warm.
That was good. He found the headphones next, and pulled them slowly off, grimacing as the sound of Glenn Campbell screamed out of them. He dropped them, keeping one hand on Sam’s head. “Sam?” He said it softly, and Sam twitched.
“It’s okay. I’m here.” He worked at the knotted gag, but it was too tight. His knife came out of his pocket and he worked at cutting it. “Sammy? Can you hear me?”
Finally he got the gag cut loose and he circled around to the front of his brother. “Sammy?”
Dean. Sam could hear him…feel him. He was close, he was…A hand on his head. Not the hand,…not the one…smaller…familiar.
“Sammy?” Not Sam. Sammy. Dean’s Sammy. Not…not Sam, not his…
He can’t stop the tears. He feels the blindfold go and closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to see. Doesn’t want anyone to see. He shakes is head no, as hands caress his face, wipe away the tears.
“Dean!”
“Down here Dad!”
“No!” It isn’t really a word…half croaked from a raw throat, half mouthed in terror. “No…Dad…can’t…” Not that. He couldn’t take the disappointment. The failure. “Dean. Please.”
There’s something draped over him, covering him and Dean’s face is close by his. “I’m going to get you down, Sammy. Just hold on.”
He panics when the hands are gone, enough to open one eye. The room is bright and he squints, blinks and ends up closing it again. “Dean?” He can barely hear himself.
“Right here, Sammy. Hold on.”
There is a popping sound and Sam’s hands fall from above him, crashing down into his knees and sending him hurtling off the pedestal…but the landing isn’t as hard as he remembers and arms close around him, pulling him tight against a warm body, holding him as he starts to shake.
“Dean.” John is in the doorway, but Dean holds up his hand.
“I’ve got him. Find Garrett.” John looks torn, but nods. “Just save some for me.”
Dean doesn’t wait to see if John has left, just gathers Sam closer to him. Its awkward trying to hold him in his lap, as tall as he is, but Sam clings to him, his body shaking as sobs racked through him and Dean doesn’t know where to put his hands where it won’t cause him more pain.
But none of that is as important as knowing that Sammy was in his arms…that he’d found him. He settled for stroking his brother’s hair, whispering to him and rocking them while the waited for the task force and the ambulance, and for someone to find that fucking son-of-a-bitch so that Dean could kill him.
Last Part Here