Till I Have Wrest and Wrecked You
Till I Have Wrest and Wrecked You
Summary: He understands that they thought he wasn't human. What he can't wrap his head around is the possibility that they might have been right. Sequel to Sammy in Captivity
A/N: This week has gone from terrible to incredible! I've been a recipient of the amazing generosity of Supernatural fans around the world and I can't say thank you enough, so I got my butt into gear and finished this story that I've been tweaking for the last forever because what better way to say thanks than with fic?
This is a sequel to Sammy in Captivity so that should be read first. Warnings for language and trauma, I guess. Let me know what you think.
XXX
Sam doesn't look up when Dean pushes the bedroom door open, though he does wonder vaguely if his brother knocked. Had he been so lost in his thoughts? He didn't hear a knock but Dean's knocked all the other times he's come into the bedroom, even though it's his bedroom too. Before he... got taken, Dean never knocked, just barged into bedrooms and bathrooms alike. Knocking is new and probably a sign of how fucked up Dean thinks he is.
“Hey kid,” Dean says quietly, like a normal volume might break him. Sam's not sure he likes this quiet, door-knocking Dean, but he's not stupid enough to not know that his brother went through his own ordeal while he was gone and if Dean wants to talk softly and respect his privacy, well, Sam's not going to stop him.
Dean settles himself down on the edge of the bed beside Sam. “I, uh, I got you some reading material.”
Sam glances over to get a look at whatever Dean's fiddling with in my lap. He's not interested in reading anything. It's hard enough trying to understand what's happened in real life without adding fiction into the mix. He figures he'll take whatever book Dean has and say thanks and then just put it on the nightstand and leave it there, but Dean doesn't have a book. He's holding a thin white pamphlet, stiff paper folded into three sections. It's the little black letters printed in capitals across the top that make Sam catch his breath.
His stomach squirms uneasily. He wishes he still had his hair to hide behind. He feels exposed, naked without it and thinking about it reminds him of all the times those people stripped him down, how humiliating and terrifying it was, and he really wants to just forget that it ever happened, not be reminded of it every day.
It's only been a week since Dean tucked him into the Impala's passenger seat and sped him away from the facility. Jason would probably be able to tell him how long it's been to the second but Jason's not here and he can't bring himself to ask Dad what happened to him. He's worried that he might not like the answer. (All he knows is that it's been long enough for him to miss the strange red drug, long enough for his skin to start crawling with longing and his insides twist with shame because he shouldn't want anything from those people.)
“I'm not...” he starts and has to stop to clear his suddenly dry throat. “I don't need... that. I'm just thinking.”
The problem is that he doesn't understand, or maybe it's that he understands too much, because he gets it, on some level. Those people used him as a lab rat, acted like he was one of the monsters Dad hunts, drugged him and tested him and made the future play out in his head like a TV set with crappy reception.
He understands that they thought he wasn't human. What he can't wrap his head around is the possibility that they might have been right. The probability even, because nothing human can see the future, right?
He can't tell Dean. He definitely can't tell Dad.
Dean swivels around a bit, pulls his legs up and rests his elbows on his knees, mirroring Sam's position, except that one of Sam's arms is resting on a pillow on his lap, encased in white plaster too heavy to bother lifting.
“The thing is, kiddo,” Dean says in the same quiet tone, always walking on eggshells around him. He's not sure what Dean expects him to do if he's too loud, too normal. Have some sort of breakdown probably. (He thinks he's already having one)
“All you've been doing this past week is thinking. You're barely eating or sleeping.” Dean scruffs the hair at the back of his neck uncomfortably. “I know that what they did to you isn't just going to go away overnight but... I want to help, Sammy.”
Sam thinks about skinned knees and broken, cheap toys, bullies and bruises and how Dean's always been able to make everything okay again. Dean can't help him now.
His brother is silent, waiting for him to think it through, to take the pamphlet on Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and get better.
(If he's a monster then there is no getting better.)
Sam doesn't know what to say so he just stares at the bedspread. He's glad that this motel has another bedroom separate from the living/bedroom area. At least he doesn't have Dad's eyes burning into him as well.
“Sammy,” Dean says, setting the pamphlet down on the bed between them. “Whatever they put you through, or if they made you do anything... you can tell me. I'm not going to judge you or hate you or anything like that. Nothing they did can change how I feel about you. You know that, right?”
Sam resists the urge to snort. He thinks, what if I told you I might not be human?
Instead he nods. “I know.”
For a long moment they're both quiet. Sam keeps his head down and chews on his lip, waiting. This isn't the end of the conversation. Finally, Dean breathes out a long sigh.
“Can you just... give me something to work with here, kid. I'm trying but I can't help if I don't know what I'm dealing with.”
“You can't help anyway,” Sam admits before he can stop himself.
Dean stiffens. Stupid mistake. Now it's like a challenge, a dare. “Try me.”
Sam lets his good hand drop and scrunches up a fistful of blanket, then releases it. Dean's not going to give this up. He could just tell him a little bit - nothing about the vision or the drug or Solitary (Just thinking about Solitary makes him feel like he can't breathe). Just enough to make Dean feel like he's doing something while he tries to figure out everything else.
Scrunch, release. Scrunch, release.
“They took me from just around the corner from our motel,” he says finally. “I didn't... they were just there and there were four of them and they had a van. I couldn't do anything.”
“I know,” Dean jumps in. “We both know, me and Dad. It's not your fault. You were outnumbered. We're not blaming you for anything.”
Sam realizes he's scrunching the blanket so hard that he can feel his fingernails digging into his palm through the fabric but he can't find it in himself to loosen his grip. “Should've been watching,” he mutters. Most of his life has been spent training and he's still too useless to even notice when he's being followed. Stupid, amateur mistake, Dad would say.
“Those people had been snatching kids for God knows how long, Sammy,” Dean says, and Sam thinks of Jason and his nearly two years in captivity. “They were professionals, I guess. You didn't do anything wrong.”
Sam shakes his head. He should have known, should have fought them off. Dean's just trying to make him feel better.
“So, uh... what happened after they grabbed you?” Dean asks, pressing his shoulder a little firmer against Sam's.
Sam's starting to rethink this. Of course Dean won't let it drop. He shouldn't have said anything in the first place. There are too many memories in his head, vying for attention and what if he lets slip the wrong one?
“They, um... they put me in the back of their van and tied me up, taped my mouth shut, and drove for hours. I...” He feels like his throat's closing up. Somewhere in the corner of his mind he can hear the rumbling of the engine, feel his frantic fingers scraping at the rope and it's so dark in the back of the van, dark like Solitary.
Dean's hand finds his knee and squeezes. “Hey, calm down. It's over now. It's okay.”
His lungs open up to a violent rush of air. “It's not okay!” How can Dean say it's okay? He shoves at him but Dean doesn't budge. “It's not okay! They took me and strapped me to that chair, fucking cut my clothes off and my hair and locked me in a closet for days and-”
Dean's arms wrap around him and bundle him up like he's two years old, not fourteen, small enough to be subdued by a hug. He struggles, pushing against Dean's chest with his good arm, not even sure why he's doing it, except maybe to prove that he can't be taken down that easily. He can though. He's lost too much weight, too much muscle, in the month he was held prisoner, and it's not fair. He doesn't want to be this weak.
Dean's saying something, sounds like he's repeating himself but Sam can't make out what because he's suddenly crying so hard he can't make out anything over his own sobs. He gives up fighting and clings to his brother like if he doesn't, Dean might disappear or he might disappear, and makes a mess of Dean's t-shirt where he presses his face against the cloth, and only just stops himself from screaming, stops himself from telling Dean all the horrible things he wants help with but can't talk about because if Dad and Dean find out he might not be human, they might hunt him like they do the other monsters.
Sam cries until he has a headache, until his eyes feel raw and his chest hurts and all his energy has leaked out onto Dean's shirt, so there's nothing he can do but curl up and listen to his brother's mantra of “I got you, Sammy, it's gonna be okay, I got you” until he falls asleep in Dean's arms.
XXX
When Sam wakes up he can't move. He can't open his eyes or cry out. He can feel thick straps around his wrists and ankles and hear murmurs of conversation that he can't make out and doesn't include him anyway. There's someone behind him, a razor buzzing, and finally a word filters through.
“Autopsy.”
He can't move and he's going to die. His heart speeds up until he's sure it's going to burst and he almost hopes it does. They're going to slice his head open while he's still awake and he's going to feel every second of it until he finally dies. He'll never see Dean again, never see Dad-
Sam sits bolt upright. He comes up swinging and almost tumbles off the bed when his fist meets thin air. He manages to catch himself and looks around wildly, gasping for breath. The motel bedroom slowly swims into focus.
A nightmare then. Just a nightmare.
His plastered arm throbs and his head still aches. He realizes that it was the sheets holding him down, twisted around his legs, and he's soaked in a cold sweat. He wonders vaguely if he's getting sick or if this is just more of whatever withdrawal he's going through. Glancing at the other bed he sees that Dean is still under the covers fast asleep, turned on his side towards him. He must have grown used to Sam's nightmares, or maybe Sam is quieter now than he was when he first got back.
He sits for a moment, cradling his broken arm to his stomach, and listens to the old motel creak and groan in the wind. It sounds like a storm might be brewing up. The window shows only pitch black.
He likes having a window. His room at the facility didn't have one and it was disconcerting at the least to wake up when the lights were turned on, fluorescent jabs to the brain after hours of darkness, and then the sudden complete black that would catch him by surprise every time. He had missed seeing the world outside, missed waking up to the sun spilling through thin curtains, missed the way a breeze caresses skin, missed sunsets and sunrises and the clouds and the stars.
Suddenly the bedroom is claustrophobic, too cramped and the air seems stale, like it always did in his cell. He's throwing back his covers before he's even made a conscious decision to leave. He has to get out, just for a moment, just so he knows he can.
He thinks he'll just go get some painkillers for his head and arm, have a drink of water and calm down, but he only gets as far as the bedroom doorway before he stops dead in his tracks.
Dad's out there. His bed is untouched and the lamp over the small desk in the corner is switched on, illuminating Dad's large frame in the chair, his back to Sam, leaning over...
It can't be what Sam thinks it is. It must be research for a hunt, a newspaper, a trick of the light. Even as he tries to rationalize it away he finds himself creeping forward. He has to make sure.
He knows how to move silently but Dad has ears like a bat. It shows how engrossed he is in what he's reading when he doesn't notice Sam until he's right behind him.
“Sam,” Dad exclaims, clearly startled, as he whirls around, slamming the file shut but not before Sam has a chance to read what's printed in the top left corner of the page.
Subject Fifteen - “Samuel Winchester”
“Sammy,” Dad says in a 'lets be reasonable' kind of voice but there isn't anything reasonable about being a monster and having your hunter father find out before you've figured out how to handle it.
Sam backs away, feeling inexplicably like he's been kicked in the gut. The room is shrinking and there's not enough air for the both of them to breathe. Dad starts to stand and he's out of there. He bolts for the door, wrenching the chain-lock off and flinging it open, bare feet smacking against the concrete parking lot. Dad knows. He knows, probably everything; the tests and the drug and the vision. Dad knows that he's a monster and Sam would rather not find out what he's going to do about it.
“Dean, get up!” Sam hears Dad yell from behind him, just as he reaches the edge of the parking lot and steps onto wet grass. It's raining hard, the storm he heard from the bedroom an ugly black mask of overbearing clouds and the grass is slick, shallow puddles turning the ground beneath his feet into slippery mud. He's drenched within seconds and cold, his thin t-shirt and sweatpants offering no protection from the howling wind. There's a copse of trees up ahead, not a forest but enough of one to take him back to that night, when he ran with Jason's hand in his, the alarm screaming behind him and certain death chasing at his heels. Now isn't much different, except he's alone and this time he doesn't make the trees.
He's tackled around the waist and hits the mud, splashing him in dirty water, choking for a moment as he tries to spit it from his mouth, then Dad's pulling him up against his chest. Sam flails wildly, ignoring the pain in his arm as his cast slams against Dad's shoulder, but his father has him from behind and quickly adjusts his grip so he's pinning Sam's arms to his chest. He doesn't want to die and he doesn't want Dad to be the one that ends it but he can't get away.
“Sam!” Dad roars over the pounding rain. “Stop!”
“No!” Sam cries, trying in vain to wrench himself out of Dad's grip, unable to stop the tears that streak through the mud on his face as the sick sensation of betrayal twists around his stomach. “Don't kill me, Dad, please don't kill me!”
“What's he talking about?” Dean's voice asks shakily. Sam looks up to see his brother standing beside them, the knife Dad gave him for his seventeenth held loosely in his hands, looking pale and stunned, frightened. The way Dad looked when he realized Sam had caught him. Dad must have told him. His family is afraid of him. His family knows that he's a monster.
“Dean, don't let him kill me! Please, I didn't, I didn't do anything, let me go!” he chokes out, pushing against his father's arms. He's just as trapped as he was in that tiny room with Jason.
Dean's gaze skitters over him to Dad, uncertain, but he holds his knife a little tighter when he meets Dad's eye, frowning. Maybe Dean's on his side, at least for now.
“No one is killing anyone,” Dad's voice booms in his ear. “I'm not going to hurt you, Sammy.”
“No, let me go,” Sam sobs, because surely it's a trick. Dad read his file, his file must say he's not human and Dad is a hunter. “Dean, please.”
Dean just stands there looking confused, lost.
“We're going inside,” Dad says firmly. “Sam, you're going to stop fighting me and we're all going to get out of the rain. We don't need you getting sick on top of everything else. Dean, come on.”
Dad stands abruptly, hoisting Sam up in his arms and carrying him as if he were a baby. Sam gives up his struggle - there's no point. Dad's faster, stronger - but he can't stop his terror from coming out in heaving sobs, even though it doesn't sound like Dad's going to kill him. Maybe he just doesn't want to do it with Dean around. Dean would probably hate him for it. Maybe he's going to make it look like an accident, or maybe he's going to make Sam do it himself, one final lesson on how to deal with monsters.
The door to their motel room is hanging open, the wind rocking it back and forth. Dean holds it so Dad can pass without releasing his grip on Sam, trying to catch Sam's eye as he does, face creased with worry, but Sam avoids his gaze. Dad's about to tell Dean that he's a monster, if he hasn't already. How do you look someone in the eye while that's storming around in your brain?
Dad strides across the room and sets Sam down on his bed. Sam stays where he's put. Why did he even try to get away in the first place? He should have known that it was useless, and now he's too tired to run again, too cold. His teeth are chattering, his clothes glued to his shivering frame. Dad and Dean are soaked as well. He watches water drip from Dad's beard.
“Dean, go get some towels,” Dad orders. Sam realizes that Dad hasn't taken his eyes off of him since setting him down and he ducks his head, rolling his shoulders forward, trying to disappear inside himself.
Dean returns from the bathroom with a bundle of slightly threadbare towels in his arms.
“Get yourself dried off,” Dad says, taking a towel from the bunch. Sam can't stop the flinch when Dad's boots move towards him but all Dad does is spread the towel out and wrap it around his shaking shoulders, then pulls the blanket up around him too. It occurs to Sam that he's getting his Dad's bed all wet but he guesses that pales in comparison to being a monster.
“Sammy,” Dad says. He sounds exhausted and cautious and worried. He drops to one knee on the floor by the bed, taking Sam's hands and wrapping his larger, warmer ones around him, head down as though he were praying. Sam looks sideways at Dean, hovering a few feet away, still holding the bunch of towels without making an effort to dry himself. His eyes flicker between Dad and Sam.
“I'm not going to hurt you, kiddo. I would never hurt you.” Dad looks up and pins Sam with his gaze and, now that Sam's not panicking as much, he thinks Dad might be telling the truth. He looks closer and realizes that Dad looks wrecked. He looks kind of like how Sam feels, strung out and brittle, like the straw is gearing up to break the camels back, and he doesn't look scared anymore. He looks sad.
“All I'm trying to do, why I was reading that... I just want to keep you safe.”
Sam doesn't know what to say. He wishes his heart would slow down, it's beating so fast he feels dizzy. The silence drags until Dean clears his throat.
“One of you needs to tell me what the hell is going on,” he says, and though he casts Sam an appraising look, it's Dad that he settles his accusing eyes on.
Dad breathes out a weary sigh and squeezes Sam's hands a little before letting go and pushing himself to his feet.
“Dean, take a seat,” he says, motioning to the bed beside Sam.
Sam wishes for what must be the billionth time that those people hadn't cut his hair off, wishes that he could hide behind it and not have to see Dean's face while Dad explains that he's a monster. He keeps his head down anyway, focusing on his hands as he twists his fingers together, pressing vaguely on the soft, damp plaster covering his palm. Dean's weight settles beside him and he determinedly doesn't look up.
“I brought back the file those people kept on Sam,” Dad says, and Sam can't help wincing. He senses Dean stiffen too.
“I thought that if I knew what happened, I'd be able to help more, be better equipped.”
Know your enemy, Sam thinks darkly.
Dad continues. “I wasn't... I could never hurt you, Sammy. I don't know how you could think that. Nothing those people wrote in there could make me hurt you.”
Sam risks a glance up, confused. “But... doesn't it say that I'm not human?”
“Sam!” Dean gasps, shocked. “Why would you think it said that?”
Sam looks between his two family members, then back at his hands. Dad's going to make him spell it out. “They were testing me, looking for something wrong in my head. I had a-” He bites down on his lip.
“A vision,” Dad finishes grimly.
“Sam?” Dean asks uncertainly.
“But Sam,” Dad hurries on. “It wasn't you. It was them.”
Dad's on his knees again suddenly, bending to try to catch his eyes. “They were drugging you, injecting you with something, right? The drug” - Dad's voice seems to waver a bit as he says the word - “was what they were testing, not you. Is that what you've been thinking? That it was you? You were just unlucky. Wrong place, wrong time.”
Story of my life, Sam thinks faintly and then, oh wow, had he really gotten it backwards? He raises his head and looks at Dad, studying his face. “So, I'm not...?”
Dad's lips are presses in a serious line, his brow furrowed slightly. He looks sincere, Sam thinks. “No, Sammy. There's nothing wrong with you.”
His lungs feel suddenly empty and he sucks in a shaky breath, feeling like he's trying to inhale the essence of the words, like that will convince him they're true after a month of thinking the opposite.
“Sam?” Dean asks, one of his hands resting on Sam's back, fingers brushing the spine that must be far too visible. He refuses to look in a mirror until he can't easily encircle his wrist with his thumb and forefinger. He knows he must look like a freak. But now, it seems he isn't one.
Dean sounds worried and Sam thinks he should say something but his throat's closing up. He feels tears welling up in his eyes again. He can't help it. He's exhausted and strung out and in some kind of prolonged state of shock, and now it's starting to sink in that maybe he's not a monster after all so maybe Dad won't have to kill him and he won't have to lose the two people he fought so hard to get back to. He drops his head into his hands and lets Dean pull him into a fierce embrace.
“They were going to kill me,” he chokes out between sobs, like the words have a mind of their own and don't want to stay locked inside any longer. “Right before you got there. They were going to do an autopsy, cut my head open while I was still awake.”
Dad moves to sit beside him, his hand joining Dean's on his back, firm. “I dealt with those people, Sammy. I took care of it.”
That means Dad killed them, whoever they were.
“You don't have to worry about them anymore,” Dean says, giving Sam a small squeeze. His voice sounds off, choked up like maybe he's crying too. Sam doesn't have the energy to lift his head and check. “Jesus, and don't you ever run off like that again. Scared the crap out of me. We only just got you back.”
“You scared the crap out of both of us,” Dad rumbles.
Sam sniffs, taking a shuddering breath. “Sorry,” he says. He rubs his hand under his eyes, the swelling is hot and sore and his head hurts too much to give into crying anymore. He's too exhausted to pull away from the comforting hands that hold him.
“Tired,” he mutters. He thinks he could be so wiped out that he might even sleep without nightmares chasing him awake.
“Okay, kiddo,” Dean says, “Lets go to bed.”
Sam braces himself for the inevitable dragging himself to his feet but Dean shucks off the blanket around him and leaves the damp towel with it on Dad's bed, hoisting Sam into his arms. Sam thinks that a month ago Dean wouldn't have been able to carry him so easily but that leads to other things that are different from a month ago and he doesn't want to go there so he shuts down that train of thought as they enter the bedroom and changes into the dry clothes Dean gives him, their backs to each other as they change.
“You done?” Dean asks, just as Sam's finished fighting his cast though the sleeve of his fresh t-shirt and dragged it over his head.
“Yeah.”
They both turn.
“So get into bed already before you face-plant,” Dean says gruffly, eyes heavy with concern.
Sam obediently sinks down on his bed. He does feel woozy, his head still spinning a little. The bed is cool and softer than their usual stays, loose-spring free. He startles a little when Dean pulls the covers over him, having forgotten that part of the going-to-bed process. He looks up.
Dean smiles a little, reassurance not quite blotting out the worry that's creasing a frown in his forehead, before heading over to the light switch, inconveniently placed by the door - what kind of motel doesn't have lamps? - and flicking it off.
Sam takes a breath and closes his eyes. He doesn't like the dark since the facility. He's not entirely sure why seeing as most of the horrible stuff happened under the bright overhead lights. There was Solitary, of course, which was all kinds of horrible, but the dark doesn't always bring that to mind. Most often it's the room he shared with Jason, the complete darkness of the windowless cell, wondering when the people who took them would decide that night was over. He used to lie awake and freak himself out over the possibility of the light never turning on again. What if they'd left? They obviously didn't care much about whether he lived or died. What if they had just left him and Jason and all the others there all alone in pitch black rooms? It wouldn't have taken long, once the water ran out.
He's starting to reconsider the possibility of a nightmare-free sleep when the bed dips behind him and suddenly Dean's there, his approach silent.
“Dean,” Sam says, stunned. They haven't shared a bed for years that hasn't been for necessities sake.
“No more disappearing,” Dead says, throwing an arm over Sam and pulling him close. Sam feels his spine press against his brother's chest, Dean's grasp on him firm without being constricting. “And no jokes about spooning either.”
Sam's surprised by the small chuckle that escapes. He can't remember when he last laughed. “'kay.”
He closes his eyes again and concentrates on Dean's warm breath against his neck until he falls asleep.
And for the first time since the facility, he manages to sleep without nightmares.
XXX
John rubs a weary hand over his face, heaving out a breath. The bedroom is quiet, has been for a while. He gets up from his bed and crosses the room to the desk where Sam's file still sits. He picks it up and flicks through it one more time, committing it to memory.
Tomorrow, when the rain has stopped, he'll find somewhere secluded to burn it, dispose of it before one of his sons decides to read it and finds out the truth.
He thinks of Sam's pale face, looking up at him with unguarded hope. “So, I'm not...?”
He closes the file with deliberate firmness before shoving it down into the bottom of his duffle.
Even if you are, he thinks, I'm going to save you.
END