Razorblades and Bandaides

“Worth every penny,” a male voice whispered harshly in Sam Winchester’s ear. The man’s breath was heavy and hot on the back of his neck as he lay trapped beneath his rapist. “Worth the trouble to have.”

“Please,” Sam breathed into the mattress, “let me go.” The man laughed—placing kisses along the back of the teenager’s neck. The young hunter squirmed beneath the man. He couldn’t hear Dean near by and the bed was not the same one from the basement he’d been held in. “Where am I?”

There was no answer, no snorted laugh, or gentle kisses on his back. The weight and hot breath of his attacker was suddenly absent. Confusion and panic worked their way through Sam’s mind as he wondered where the man had gone and when the next attack would be.

Surprise rolled through Sam’s body in shock waves when he discovered he was not bound to the bed and able to roll off—landing with a soft thump on his bare feet. The carpet was soft and oddly comfortable under his feet—it was not the bare threads of the room he and Dean had been held in nor was it the unforgiving cold of the basement’s concrete floor.

The bed before him was larger than either bed he’d been raped in and was neatly made. The clothes covering him felt comfortable, clean and as though they were bought with his tall, thin framed body in mind. He let out a slow breath—eyes scanning what he could see of the room. He wanted to relax and believe that he was safe from another attack, but the training his dad had drilled into his head would not allow it.

Strong arms wrapped harshly around his chest—pinning his arms at his side. “You were worth ten times the trouble your family caused,” his assailant whispered hoarsely against the back of Sam’s neck.

“Not again,” Sam growled at the man holding him as he threw his head back in what he hoped was the general direction of the man’s nose. The arms encircling him released their hold and Sam staggered back a step.

Rough hands grasped his arms in a fierce grip, spinning and shoving him to the bed. Green eyes filled with lust stared down at him and a heavy weight settled on his body—restricting his breathing—before his world had stopped twisting and turning. Even rougher lips smothered his in a harsh kiss.

“You’re so beautiful, Sam,” the nameless man who’d raped him twice said, running a thick, dry finger down Sam’s face and along his jaw. The teen did his best to pull away from the gruff touch.

“Don’t,” Sam breathed out against the weight on his chest and the lips hovering just above his own, “touch me.”

“You couldn’t stop me before,” the man said, placing another abrasive kiss to the teenager’s lips, “and you can’t stop me now.”

“Let me go.” The man laughed. In one quick motion he pulled and pinned the boy’s hands above his head.

“You were the most beautiful one, Sam.” He ground his hips and rock like erection into the muscle of Sam’s stomach. “So very beautiful.’

“No!” Sam screamed—managing to twist away from the man sitting heavily astride his thinly framed body.

With a sharp thud Sam landed on the floor. The sheets and blanket were tangled around his sweat pant clad legs in waves of pink and purple floral as his bare elbows scraped across the thin weave of the dark colored carpet. Light from the lamp on the other side of the room allowed the teenage hunter enough light to see that his father occupied one of the two motel provided chairs at the table also provided by the motel.

His nose told him that food was growing cold atop the table—his stomach told him not to even bother with it; it wouldn’t have stayed long enough to be worth the energy required to retrieve and chew it.

Breathing heavily, Sam carefully untangled the sheets from his legs and looked for Dean. Disappointment and relief vied for dominance when the youngest Winchester failed to spot his older brother’s form anywhere in the small room. He leaned against the bed, pulled his newly freed legs up into his chest, let his head drop to the tops of his knees and tried to remember what happened after his attacker had started to strangle him.

Frustration took on a new meaning as the seventeen year olds mind refused to recall more than the sound of gun fire, the feeling of safe warmth he’d felt for hours, a harsh burst of water and the dream he was still fresh from. As strongly as his body could remember Dean’s arms wrapped protectively around him, it could also remember the man responsible for the fuzz surrounding the last few hours thick embrace. Words of assurance Dean had whispered into his hair during the car ride mingled with and were drowned by the coarse words his attacker had moaned breathlessly in his ear.

“You’re beautiful, Sam,” the man’s words and sickly sweet smile bounced around his head as he gave up wanting to remember any of the last two days. “So very pretty.”

His stomach rolled and threatened to shoot bile to his mouth as the human monster’s voice and face burned through his mind in rapid flashes. Slowly the teen unfolded his lanky limbs and carefully pushed himself to unsteady legs. He didn’t want to have to deal with the smell if his stomach decided to make good on its threat to raise the acid from the bottom.

“Best poke I’ve had in a very long time,” the gruff voice that had once breathed in his ear sounded through his mind as he past the bags near his dad’s feet. One he knew was his dad’s bag of bare essentials—clothes, shave kit and toothbrush. The other was their gear bag, or more accurately the bag they’d cram whatever they would need for their current hunt in. “You’re beautiful, Sam. The way you move, the way you look, your innocence…you’re just too beautiful to let go.”

Ignoring the bile threatening to burn up the back of his throat, Sam Winchester grabbed the handles of the weathered bag and made a beeline for the bathroom. He dropped the bag on the bath matt in front of the sink with a dull thud as his knees gave and he was over the toilet heaving the contents of his empty stomach into it. After what felt like forever a thin line of spit and bile hung from his lip and his stomach was finally finished emptying itself.

He pushed away from the yellow white of the aging fixture. Shaking hands un-wrapped a small plastic cup from the back of the sink before turning the cold water on. The cup wasn’t even half full when the teen pulled it from beneath the faucet and filled his mouth with the icy liquid.

He swished the water through his mouth vigorously before spitting it in the sink—glad to be rid of bitter/sour taste the bile had left behind. Abandoning the cup on the countertop, Sam cupped his hands together and splashed it over his face. He pushed his damp hands through his dark brown locks and stared at himself in the mirror; he hated the length of his hair and the unmarred, silken skin of his face.

Without a second though the teen bent and scooped up the gear bag. A dull thump rang through the small bathroom when he sat the heavy bag on the chipped tile of the countertop. Unzipping the bag Sam fought back the memory of the last bag he’d zipped open. Mindful of the weapons the bag contained the teen carefully rummaged through until he found the hunting knife his dad always kept stashed in the bag.

For a moment the seventeen year old stared at the finely honed blade in his hand and marveled at how still his hand held it despite the violent shaking his body felt as if it were doing. He looked in the mirror above the sink and took in the baby fine skin and collar length waves of hair one more time. With a short sigh Sam Winchester brought the blade—made and kept for killing—to the fist full of hair he held out and carefully sliced through the thick strands. Seconds later a patch of short hair stood on his head and the longer ends lay clumped in the sink.

Tears of—he wasn’t sure if they were joy, sorrow or a mix of everything he’d felt in the last day—pooled in his eyes as he carefully continued the process of fisting the long strands of his hair with one hand and cutting with the other. Cutting through the last bit of hair at the back of his neck, Sam let the soft locks fall to the floor and ran his hand over the unevenly cut, but shorter strands of hair.

“Sam?” he heard a sleep filled voice call out as he continued to stare at his reflection. He didn’t bother to answer the voice he knew to be his dad.

“Still so beautiful,” his rapist’s voice echoed through him. Tears that had sat pooled in his hazel eyes rolled in stinging streams down his face.

“Sam,” his father’s worried voice called to him again—panic on the outer fringes of the worry.

Sam continued to ignore the calls of his father—tried to ignore the taunts of his rapist running through his mind—and stared at the boyish reflection staring back at him. He didn’t want to be beautiful, or wanted. He didn’t want any attention from anyone any more.

Before thoughts could be processed or actions comprehended the blade of the knife, held taut in oddly steady hands, rested against Sam’s cheek. The coolness of the metal and few strands of hair littering the blade didn’t register in the youngest Winchester’s mind as he stared in wonder at the reflected image. His body already held so many scars—though somehow his face had been spared—what would one more scar really be to him; to any of them? What would two scars be?

“Sam?” his father’s voice cut through his ruminations about scarring his face. “What are you doing?”

Sam didn’t blink or turn to look at his dad—nor did he move the edge of the blade from his face. He did not want to be beautiful.

“Sam, this is not the way to do that,” John’s voice was closer and full of fear. “Give me the knife, Son.”

“I can’t,” Sam sobbed—still not looking away from the image in the mirror. His knees trembled, breath cam and went in ragged sobs, but the knife in his hand was steady in its mission to mar the perfect flesh beneath it. “I don’t want…Dad, I don’t…I didn’t…my face is why.”

“Sam, you did nothing wrong,” John said in as even a tone as he could manage as he moved closer to his youngest son. “I…I should….never have left.”

“But if I…” Sam’s already raw voice hitched in his bruised throat, “didn’t look…look like this no one will do to me again.”

“I’m sorry, Sammy,” John said in a rush of words as tears stung as his eyes. “I should have been there. I should have never left.”

“I don’t want to be beautiful.” He tipped the blade closer to his face.

“No!” John shouted lunging forward and grabbing the hand holding the offending object.

“No!” Sam screamed in frustration as only a tiny nick welled with blood before the blade was quickly wrestled from his grasp.

“Sam?!” Dean’s voice filled the room outside the bathroom.

“Let me go!” Sam yelled—voice becoming hoarse and struggling to free himself and the knife from his father, who had the teen pinned between the sink and his body.

“What the…”

“Dean, the knife!” John shouted at his eldest son doing his best to keep his youngest from the knife lying in the sink atop several large clumps of Sam’s hair.

Without further instruction or though the twenty-one year old rushed into the already over occupied room and plucked the tool of their trade from the sink. “It’s gone,” Dean said, tossing it into the main room.

“All right,” the Winchester patriarch grunted into Sam’s shoulder. “’m gonna let go.”

Dean watched in horrified fascination as Sam ignored their father’s words and continued to fight against the body keeping him trapped against the sink counter. Seconds later the teen sat in the floor in front of the toilet in a jumble of long legs and tangled bath matt; while their father stood before Dean—both Winchester’s breathing heavily.

Sam stared wild eyes and horror struck at the concerned faces of his father and older brother. His hands quickly shot to the floor as the youth slowly attempted to push himself to his feet. “I don’t…” he panted pressing himself into the bit of bare wall between toilet and shower.

“That wasn’t the way, Son,” the oldest Winchester said in a surprisingly calm voice.

“Would someone care to fill me in on what that was all about?” Dean nearly shouted, taking note of the sink of hair, Sam’s uneven hair cut and the streak of blood smearing with tears down the side of the younger man’s face. He could only hope and assume that they hadn’t been arguing over the usual topics.

“I’m not sure,” John said—eyes glued on the frightened teen still pressing himself into the wall. “He was up when I woke up. I found him in here ready to cut his face.”

“Oh, Sam,” Dean whispered, pushing past their father to stand before his younger brother. “Give us a minute.”

John set his jaw at the breathed command, but nodded curtly and left the tiny room.

“Sam?” the older hunter questioned not daring to move any closer to the scared teen. “You in there, Little Brother?”

Sam blinked at the older man before wiping at the tears still flowing down his cheeks with the backs of his hands. “Not possessed,” he hissed after another long moment.

Dean smiled at the defensive tone in Sam’s voice. “Oh, no, of course not,” he said quickly, “you’re just setting a new trend.” He pointed a finger as Sam’s head to indicate the shorter hair the younger man was sporting.

“I couldn’t stop…” Sam slowly allowed his suddenly heavy body to sink back down to the floor. “His voice wouldn’t shut up.” He looked up into Dean’s face.

“Shh,” he whispered finally moving toward his baby brother.

“I can’t get the feel of him off me…out of me.”

Dean carefully reached out to wipe at the tears staining Sam’s face. “Shh.”

“I want it all to stop, Dean. I want his voice out of my head, his touch off my body…” he swallowed trying to find better words. “I want the feel of him out of me.”

“We’ll figure this out, Little Brother,” Dean said in what he hoped was his best authoritative voice. “I promise.”

The end.