The Good Son, Part V of V, Supernatural, Wincest

[phantisma]

Fandom: Supernatural
Title: The Good Son, Part V
Characters/Pairing: Sam, John, Dean, implied Sam/Dean, graphic Sam/Other
Rating: NC-17, for graphic violence and sex, rape
Table: #1
Prompt: 091 Hosptial
Word Count: 2928
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
Fourth Part Here

This is my eight ficlet for my Supernatural claim on 100_situations. Clicky for table



The hospital seems cold to Dean. Cold. Sterile. Quiet. It makes him nervous. His stomach twists in knots as he paces outside the door to the room where Sam is…resting. Not sleeping. Dean doubts Sam is sleeping yet.

The drugs already in his system kept him from truly sleeping…kept him in as sort of half-conscious daze…Hallucinogens and sedatives. There are IVs in his arms, feeding him fluids, drugs to counteract the cocktail Garrett had fed him.

Sam’s eyes are half shut, never really opened. He’d stopped chanting Dean’s name though, and Dean could only see that as progress. He’d said so little…he seemed so frail and small and broken.

Dean paced harder, torn between staying with Sam and joining the hunt for Garrett. His father was out there, but…Dean closed his fist over his phone and turned on his heel, letting himself quietly back into the room.

Sam didn’t move as Dean pulled the chair closer, but his fingers curled around Dean’s when Dean took his hand. His wrists were bruised and scratched, his long fingers scraped. Dean knew the litany of injury; he’d spent an hour with the doctors going over them.

Both shoulders had been dislocated, and the right elbow had followed suit. There were second degree burns on his legs and buttocks. Various welts and open wounds from what they could only guess were whips. Both knees and shins were broken and scabbed from scrapping over concrete, more than once. There was evidence of rape, semen samples collected. Bruises and contusions covered almost every inch of him. There was still a chance he would need surgery to repair damage to his lungs from a broken rib and the rough handling that had included choking more than once.

Then there was the brand. Initials carved into Sam’s thigh with heated metal. KG in stylized letters like a fucking cattle brand.

Dean lowered his head to lay it on the bed next to his brother. “I’m so sorry, Sammy,” he whispered. Sam’s fingers squeezed his momentarily and Dean sighed.

The door opened and Dean looked up, standing quickly when he saw John. He let go of Sam’s hand and moved out into the hallway. “Did you find him?”

John shook his head. “He’s gone.”

“What do you mean, gone?”

John paced. “Gone. Private Jet. Gone.” Dean didn’t think he’d ever seen his father look as tired as he did at that moment. “How’s Sam?”

Dean blew out a breath he wasn’t aware he was holding and collapsed on to the bench. “He’s—God, Dad. It hurts to look at him.”

John swallowed. “I should go in—“

“No. Dad. Not yet.”

“What?” John just looked at his son and Dean shook his head.

“He isn’t ready.”

”I’m his father.”

Dean nodded. “He—he doesn’t want you to know. He’s ashamed, of what happened. Of what that sick fuck did to him. He doesn’t want you to know.”

John crumpled to the bench, doubling over and burying his face in his hands. “Does he hate me, Dean?”

“He’s afraid.”

“Nothing that bastard could do to him would make me ashamed of him.”

Dean didn’t answer, just stared at the floor. “You know?” he asked finally, after a long quiet had settled between them.

“Video.” John’s voice was dull, flat…”He…he left it, for us to find.”

Dean nodded. “Was it like the other.”

“Worse.”

His father wouldn’t meet his eyes and that told Dean more than he needed to know.


Sounds. Not the voice. Not random music at deafening volumes. Not silence. Sounds.

Sam realized that first.

There was a beeping, close, near his head. There were voices, further away. He moved and felt sheets against his skin. He moved and didn’t fall. His hands grabbed at the bed, feeling for its edges, mapping out the foundations of his new situation.

Light. There is light. He moved his head, opening his eyes with caution, his hand fluttering up to shield them from the bright white around him.

Hospital. It registered slowly. He was in a hospital.

Then he remembers. Dean. Dean had come. Dean had found him and held him, cradled him like a baby until the others came. Dean had held his hand, Dean had saved him. Again.

He’s not alone. His father is there, in the chair beside the bed, nearly asleep, his head propped up by his hand. His face was shadowy and Sam couldn’t tell if it was from the days of dark growth on his face or a haunted look in his eyes. He opened his mouth, but the words were gone. He finally managed to drag a raspy “Dad” from his torn throat and John’s head came up.

His eyes flashed to the door, then back to Sam. “Don’t try to talk, Sam. Your throat is pretty banged up.”

Sam nodded and looked around the room, his eyes asking the question his throat couldn’t.

“Yeah, Dean went to get some food.”

Sam felt himself nod.

John came to stand over him, taking Sam’s hand. There were tears in his eyes and somehow it made Sam feel vulnerable. “I was very scared.” John said in a fierce whisper. “I was afraid we wouldn’t…find you…in time.”

Sam tried to smile, but couldn’t. John’s big hands were too much like the hands…the ones that owned him…he pulled his hand away and closed his eyes. He couldn’t see the hurt in those dark eyes. He couldn’t tell him…

John turned away, and Sam grabbed his wrist. He didn’t open his eyes. “Sorry,” he croaked, knowing his father wouldn’t understand, but not wanting anything more to get in the way of saying it. I’m sorry I’m not the son you wanted. I’m sorry I’m not more like Dean. I’m sorry I failed you. Again.

But John doesn’t get to hear that and as he leaves the room, Sam doesn’t get to hear the tears that John saves for the hallway.


It’s four days before solid food, when Sam is hydrated and his throat is healing, and even then it’s only as solid as Jello and broth and ice cream.

Dean watched from across the room as Sam rolled his eyes in ecstasy as the ice cream melted in his mouth. “You look like—“ But he didn’t get to finish as the spoon tumbled out of Sam’s hand.

Sam made a face and Dean was half way to the bed when Sam picked the spoon back up. “I can feed myself, Dean.” It was said softly, but Dean felt every word. Saw the look in Sam’s eye.

“I know. I know. I just—“

Sam shook his head. “Forget it.” He struggled for another two bites, then put the spoon down in the bowl. “You want the rest?”

“You need to eat, Sam.”

“Sammy.”

“What?”

Sam cleared his throat and looked away. “Just…Sammy…for a little while. Okay?”

Dean shrugged, trying to pass it off as casual…normal. “Whatever you say, Sammy.”

He scooped out a huge spoonful of the plain vanilla ice cream and stuffed it into his mouth. “You still need to eat,” he said around the melting mouthful, emphasizing his words with the spoon, flicking ice cream over Sam’s face.

“I’m full. Really.” His voice still sounded strange to him, raspy, foreign. It didn’t hurt as much to talk though. “So…how long?”

“For what?” Dean snagged the bowl of ice cream and plopped into the chair.

“How long until you can get me out of here?”

Dean shook his head. “You can’t even walk Sammy!”

“I bet I could. They just won’t let me out of bed.”

“Dude, no. Just no. You’re staying there until they tell me you can go.”

Sam sighed and gingerly leaned back against his pillows. His back wasn’t as raw as it had been only days before and he could actually lay on it for a few minutes before he had to shift to his side. “Where’s Dad?”

“Remember that demon, the one he came here looking for?” Sam nodded. “He went off to get it. He couldn’t…” Dean looked up at his brother, trying to make the message clear in his eyes so he wouldn’t have to say it.

“He couldn’t stand to be here…with me.” Sam said softly, shifting now, rolling onto his side his back to Dean.

“No. No. Sammy.” Dean moved around the bed, putting the ice cream down on the tray. “You…should have seen him, Sammy. He’s hurting and he doesn’t know how to make it better. He doesn’t know how to make you better. So he’s doing what he does know.”

Sam blinked at the tears and shook his head. “I don’t need him, Dean. You’re here. That’s all that matters.”

Dean looked down at Sam, his Sammy. “I’m right here, Sammy. Always.”

They’ve never kissed, for all the nights they’ve touched and groped, they’ve never kissed, and Dean isn’t sure why, but he can’t stop himself from brushing his lips across Sam’s. His eyes close as Sam’s lips part, breathing hot air into his mouth and he presses in for more, his tongue on Sam’s lip, dipping into his mouth. And he tastes like the grainy vanilla ice cream and lime Jello and Sam…exactly what he knew Sam would taste like.

He came away with a goof smile, and brushed the hair out of Sam’s eyes. “Get some rest, doofus. I’m gonna go check in with Dad.”


The Impala was a welcome sight as Dean took over pushing Sam’s wheelchair from the admissions nurse…like home. Sam smiled as Dean stopped them beside it and locked the wheels. “Your chariot.” He smiled that goofy grin that made Sam roll his eyes.

It took a minute for him to get to his feet, pushing on the arms of the chair and shuffling his feet until he felt they would hold. As he was settling into the passenger seat of the car, the admissions nurse reappeared beside them.

“I almost forgot, Mr. Winchester, your paper work.” She handed him a stack of after care notes and prescriptions and an envelope of thick, elegant stock.

“What’s this?” He held it up and she shrugged.

“It was on top of your paperwork. It must have come for you.”

Sam stiffened, and Dean started looking around them. Sam started to open it, stopped, then shook his head and opened it.

My dearest Sam,

I couldn’t leave without saying goodbye one last time. You need not look for me. I will find you again one day. I always know how to find what is mine.

With love,
KG

Sam shook as Dean took the letter, scanned it and bolted back into the hospital. He flew through the lobby and up the admissions desk, trying to get around their security. He froze when he saw him, through the glass, behind the security door.

Garrett smiled and tipped his head in Dean’s direction, then casually turned and walked away. Dean had his phone out as he watched. “He’s here. At the fucking hospital.”

He beckoned the security guard over and told him he needed to lock down the hospital, get the cops in there to sweep the place and ran back to Sam. His face was drawn an white behind the healing bruises and dark circles from lack of sleep.

Dean shook his head and squared his jaw. “Get your feet in, Sammy. We’re leaving.”

“What about—“

“No. I’m not leaving you out here alone and vulnerable while I hunt for him. Dad’s on his way. The police are coming. Don’t you worry about Garrett. We’ll find him.” He shut the door and circled around to the driver’s side. Police cars were already pulling into the drive as he pulled out.

“Dean.”

“Sammy.”

“I’m sorry.”

Dean looked at him. “For what?”

Sam shook his head and looked away. “I—I just am. For everything.”

Dean’s hand was on his knee, just touching…letting him know he was there. Sam shook off the feeling of another hand, on his knee. “I—called for you.” Sam said, when they were blocks away from the hospital. “When he…while…” He swallowed.

Dean’s hand tightened on his knee, then he slid it up over Sam’s shoulders to pull him close. “I felt you, you know.” Dean said. “That’s how I found you.”

“I thought I was the one with the visions.”

“Maybe…but I’m the one who found you.”

“You always do.”

They were quiet then, Sam’s head on Dean’s shoulder until they pulled into the motel. “I’ll get you settled, then go get your prescriptions filled.”

“Where are we going to get the money for that?”

Dean smiled crookedly as he helped Sam out of the car. “After everything he’s done to you, I figured Mr. Garrett could do with a few less dollars on his credit accounts.”

Sam couldn’t fault him, and only let him help him into the room and into bed. “I’m really getting tired of beds,” he joked.

“You going to be okay alone?”

Sam’s face paled but he nodded. “Turn on the TV. I’ll be fine.”

The noise of the TV drowned the silence and Sam did his best to be comfortable in the room, on the bed. He slid his hand down his legs, coming to a stop just over the mark. He couldn’t feel it, not through the sweat pants and bandages, but he knew it was there. It would always be there. Like the voice in his head. Like the feeling of that hand on him, inside him. He knew it would never go away. Somehow he knew it wasn’t over. Maybe it never would be.


John hesitated outside the room. He didn’t know how to tell Sam that the bastard had gotten away. He didn’t know how to tell him everything else he needed to tell him either.

He unlocked the door and slipped inside. Sam appeared to be asleep, the TV on too loud, his face slack and his breathing shallow. Sleep seemed like a good idea. John sank to a seat and watched Sam. He wanted to say he was sorry. He wanted to see the look in Sam’s eyes for him that he saw when he looked at Dean. Like he needed him there. Like he wanted him there.

After a long moment, Sam stirred. “Dad?”

“Hey, Sam. You okay?”

Sam nodded, rubbing his eyes with one hand. John’s eyes caught on the bruises still circling his wrist. “What time is it?”

John shook his head. “After 6. You hungry?”

Sam made a face he couldn’t interpret. “No. Where’s Dean?”

“He’s…”

“Hunting.” Sam finished for him.

John nodded and got up to come closer. “For Garrett.” Sam said and John nodded.

Sam shook his head. “He won’t find him. He’s gone.”

John stood there staring at him. Finally Sam looked up, a half smile belaying the anguish in his eyes. “It’s okay, Dad. He…I’m okay.”

“I—what I said—before—“

Sam shook his head, shifted, trying to find a more comfortable way to lay on the lumpy mattress. “No. You were right. I’m not…I never will be Dean.”

“I never said that.” John’s voice dripped with hurt.

“No, but I felt it. I’m sorry I couldn’t…I can’t.”

John fell to one knee beside the bed and took Sam’s hand, squeezing it to make sure he had Sam’s attention. “Never apologize for that Sam. Never. I’m the one who owes you an apology.”

Sam smiled again, this time it almost made it to his eyes. “So we’re a sorry bunch all together then.”

John’s head dipped and rested on the mattress. “Yeah, I guess we are.”


Three states and two months later, Sam woke from a nightmare, shaking and calling for Dean, who was there, beside him instantly. This was what had become normal, the hand holding, the whispered reassurances. The hunts have been few and far between. And Dean hasn’t touched him…not the way he used to and Sam isn’t sure of himself.

He reached out for Dean, caressing his face with his eyes closed. “I just want…” But he isn’t sure what he just wants. Normal…but he has no idea anymore what normal is. This. This thing, this wrong, twisted thing. “You came for me,” he whispered into Dean’s mouth, kissing him with something like passion, something alive. He needs alive. He needs to feel something outside the fear.

“Sammy.” Dean whispered and Sam shuddered. His hands flutter over Sam’s body, down to the growing hardness.

“No…I want…” Sam pushed him back, kissing his chest, down to his stomach. His hands pushed away the boxers that covered Dean’s own cock, nearly hard, and Sam’s breath brings it straight up.

“Sammy…” They haven’t ever done this. It’s like the kissing. But it’s intimate, and has no connotations Sam can’t handle right now. It’s Dean, his breathing hissing as Sam takes him in his mouth. It’s Dean, mewling in pleasure as Sam scraped his teeth over sensitive skin. It’s Dean bucking up into him as his orgasm builds.

It’s something he can have that isn’t all fucked up by a psychotic serial killer. It’s fucked up in its own special way and Sam feels a little like he’s reclaimed a piece of his life. “Mine,” he whispered as he crawls his way up to his brother’s face to kiss him.

Dean stroked his face, ignoring the tears streaming down his face. “Yes, Sammy. Always.”

Sam drifts back to sleep in Dean’s arms. He isn’t the good son. He isn’t normal. He’s Sam Winchester, and this…this is his.


Continued in the Five Part Series "Where it Hurts