He woke at six with his brother. When Dean rose and went in the bathroom, Sam watched from the safety of his blanket and waited until he was alone before he dressed. He had showered last night and even though he felt dirty again, he knew that he wasn’t. He needed to pretend to be normal, to maintain the façade of normality that had carried him through his struggling teen years. He needed to fight his father’s commands and he needed to obey his brother blindly
( ... )
School was an exercise in control He had to learn to pretend that he was normal, that the not so silent jeers behind his back weren’t hurtful. He had to pretend that he really didn’t want friends. And when Dean asked, he had to pretend that he was making friends, that he was getting along well
( ... )
Sam waited for Dean at the Impala. He’d considered breaking into the car, climbing into the backseat and curling into himself and just waiting for the end. But he couldn’t. Dean couldn’t know about what had happened to him. He couldn’t know that Sam was breaking. Because if Dean knew, then dad would know. And if dad knew, he would be so disappointed.
He curled his arms around the books against his chest, leaned heavily against the passenger side door and waited. The sun wasn’t even out for him to pretend like it was a nice day. It was cool, a constant breeze blew and he fought the urge to shiver. The sun couldn’t make it out of the clouds, but the grey light was enough. More than what he deserved. He was so dirty.
He jumped and his books fell from his hands when a heavy hand landed on his shoulder. “Hey there, pretty boy,” Jordan grinned. Pretty boy, I’m gonna ride you so hard. Sam jumped back, left his books lying on the concrete as he tried to escape without making it obvious. “You miss me
( ... )
“Oh god,” Sam sobbed softly as he fell to his knees. He trembled at the thought that he’d been… that he’d allowed himself to be taken advantage of. He knew that dad or Dean would never have allowed it to happen. He curled his arms around himself and rocked back and forth slowly. He was a broken man. He knew that. And he couldn’t tell Dean. He couldn’t tell anyone who might actually be able to help him.
“Sammy,” Dean growled. Sam clenched his eyes shut when he heard his brother hit his knees beside him. Strong arms wrapped around him and Dean’s voice was a soft litany of soothing noises. His hands moved in a careful, steady rhythm. “I’ve gotcha. You’re alright.”
“’M sorry,” Sam just repeated.
When he was aware of what was going on again, he was alone. His jeans were tangled around his ankles, pulled sloppily over his shoes. His shirt was wadded into the dirt to the side of the tree he was lying under. His back felt like it was on fire. He’d been pressed against the tree last he remembered
( ... )
“That salt and burn,” Dean said. “You weren’t in a fight, were you?” He looked at his brother with pleading eyes and shook his head. “Talk to me. What’d that kid do to you
( ... )
Sam didn’t remember falling asleep. He didn’t remember moving into the bedroom or climbing under the covers. The last thing that he remembered was being in the bathroom, sobbing as his brother struggled to comfort him. He struggled, it felt like he was suffocating in the covers of the bed and tried to pull himself out of the mire
( ... )
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He curled his arms around the books against his chest, leaned heavily against the passenger side door and waited. The sun wasn’t even out for him to pretend like it was a nice day. It was cool, a constant breeze blew and he fought the urge to shiver. The sun couldn’t make it out of the clouds, but the grey light was enough. More than what he deserved. He was so dirty.
He jumped and his books fell from his hands when a heavy hand landed on his shoulder. “Hey there, pretty boy,” Jordan grinned. Pretty boy, I’m gonna ride you so hard. Sam jumped back, left his books lying on the concrete as he tried to escape without making it obvious. “You miss me ( ... )
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“Sammy,” Dean growled. Sam clenched his eyes shut when he heard his brother hit his knees beside him. Strong arms wrapped around him and Dean’s voice was a soft litany of soothing noises. His hands moved in a careful, steady rhythm. “I’ve gotcha. You’re alright.”
“’M sorry,” Sam just repeated.
When he was aware of what was going on again, he was alone. His jeans were tangled around his ankles, pulled sloppily over his shoes. His shirt was wadded into the dirt to the side of the tree he was lying under. His back felt like it was on fire. He’d been pressed against the tree last he remembered ( ... )
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