Father's Son

Title: Father's Son                                                              Chapter Four: Lost and Found
Rating: Adult (18+)
Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, nor do I condone the acts of rape, pedophilia, or murder.
Warnings: NON-CON, violence, foul language
Characters: Sam, Dean and John...and an OMC
Notes: So very sorry for the delay in getting this part finished and up, but the muses refused to behave and then class work kinda came up and bit me in the ass. This is the final part for this chapter of this verse I've managed to create. Keep an eye out for Razorblades and Bandaides for the next chapter in this saga. Thank you to all who have stuck with me through this and "bugged" the snot outta me for more...it's more attention than I am used to receiving and I am truly astonished and flattered by it. I do hope that this part lives up to all of your expectations. So without further ado.....
 
One last note before getting to the fiction. A huge thank you to Assila for the awesomely fast beta on the chapter. I cannot thank you enough for the wonderful job, sweetie. And also, any remaining mistakes are all mine. Now onto the fiction….


Lost and Found

Pain unlike any he’d experienced over the last few hours flowed through Samuel Winchester’s body as his mouth was plowed into by the much larger man. After what the man had already done to him, the teen didn’t think it could get any worse. He was wrong. His knees ached from being pressed firmly into the carpet. His back throbbed in dull waves from holding him in the same position for the past fifteen minutes. His shoulders screamed in stiff pain from holding his still cuffed hands up against his assailant’s thighs to keep himself steady. And his jaw ached.

When the large man had cut him loose and forced him to his knees, Sam had thought he was mentally prepared for the assault. But after Gerald’s engorged member was pressed to his lips and then into his mouth, he knew how wrong he was. The pre-cum leaking from Gerald’s engorged penis had been as salty as Sam had prepared himself for it to be, and far bitterer than anything he’d ever wanted to taste. The first time the erect penis grazed the back of his throat, Sam nearly choked and felt sick to his stomach.

Anger and embarrassment flowed freely through Sam’s body as Gerald began to slowly rock his hips, driving into the teen’s mouth—Dean’s eyes glued on the grotesque scene before him. Sam wanted nothing more than to bite into the length being pressed harshly into his mouth, but the tight grip the man had on his hair and the fear of what would happen to Dean if he did stopped him.

Pre-cum coated his lips in a thin sheen as Gerald worked the teen’s mouth. Spit caked at the corners of Sam’s mouth, occasionally moistened anew by the unchecked tears flowing in new torrents from his closed eyes.

He gagged again as the head tapped the back of his throat. He tried to tune out Gerald’s breathless moan about how beautiful he was and how hot and wet he was all over. He tried to imagine himself anywhere but in the claustrophobic motel room being violated for a second time in less than twenty-four hours.

He felt his older brother look away when their attacker began talking—between growled moans—about making him into a porn star. Metal clanked at the comment, and Sam knew Dean was trying to get free again.

Pinching his closed eyes tighter, Sam prayed that he’d get the chance to tell his sibling that the kidnapping and the rape was not his fault. Sam was sure, despite anything Dean would think about their current situation, none of it was his fault.

At long last warm streams of milky white liquid filled Sam’s mouth in salty waves. Unwilling to swallow the bitter fluid, Sam allowed it to spill out of his mouth—coating Gerald’s spent cock as it dribbled down the corners of the teen’s mouth. He spat what was left in his mouth onto the thin carpet as Gerald pulled his softening member from his mouth and he sank down to the floor; grateful for the stress on his muscles and joints to be gone.

“You were worth every ounce of trouble,” Gerald said beginning to pull on his clothes. “I just can’t wait to get you home and find out what else you’re good at.”

Sam wanted to shoot the large man an insult or at least let him know how dead he was going to be when their father came, but exhaustion and a sore jaw held his tongue. Instead, he glared at the man.

“You sonvubitch,” Dean shot at their captor. “After I kill you, I’m gonna raise you up and kill you again…and again—until there’s nothing left.”

“In less than a hour you won’t be thinking of much more than who bought you and where you’re going to end up,” Gerald retorted, pulling on his shirt.

“Undo these cuffs and we’ll see who’s thinking about what.” Dean pulled at his restraints.

“He’ll be well taken care of, Dean,” he said turning to face Sam. “I intend to keep you.”

“Gonna sell him when he gets too old or just kill him?” Dean said—somewhere between a growl and sarcastic jackass. Sam was glad Dean’d said it and not him. Gerald would have certainly retaliated against Dean for it, had he said it.

“You’re almost as much a piece of work as you accuse me of being.” Gerald looked sharply at Dean. “Don’t move,” he told Sam, as he moved toward the door.

“Find me something to pick the lock with,” Dean said as the motel room door closed with a soft click.

“There’s nothing,” Sam said in an almost inaudible tone from his spot on the floor by the bed. The typical motel offerings were absent from the room. There was no small, rickety table with a set of wobbly chairs—just the bed. An overhead lamp was the only, save for the window, source for light in the small room.

“Check the bathroom,” Dean ordered, a hint of sarcasm lacing his hoarse voice.

Slowly the younger hunter pushed himself from the floor to his knees, and then to his feet. Unsteadily he unfolded to his full lanky height—shoulders rounded and hunched slightly; head bowed. He willed each step—left, right, left, right—as though he’d only just learned to walk. Sam could practically hear his older brother’s thoughts and willed his jellied legs to move just a bit farther.

The bathroom was even more spartan than the bedroom. A small standing shower was laid out on graying white tile and a clear, molding shower curtain was pulled across the small expanse of tile to enter it. Across from the shower were the toilet and the sink—both in the same shade of yellow/grey as the shower. The mirror above the sink was just that—a mirror.

Crap, Sam thought as he gave the tiny room one more look through.

Their dad hadn’t come guns blazing to their rescue. Hell, he and Dean hadn’t heard from their father since he’d left almost three days before they were kidnapped.

Probably be glad we’re gone, Sam thought bitterly, heading back into the main room.

‘Anything?’ Dean’s expression said, as he looked up—hope filled—at his younger brother.

“No,” Sam said barely above a whisper; keeping his gaze leveled at the floor—unwilling to watch either the disappointment or the cold, hard rage shimmer across his older brother’s features. He would have reveled in the stony-cold face Dean could set on his face when he was pissed if they’d been able to get him free. But now?...he just couldn’t bring himself to look up from the worn pattern on the motel room carpet.

Sam could tell by the way the air in the room stilled that Dean wanted to reassure him that he’d tried, or that it was okay—when it wasn’t okay. Everything was not all right; it was fucked up beyond anything their life knew to be.

“I told you to not to move,” Gerald said—voice booming in the silence of the small room.

Dean’s head snapped from Sam to Gerald—anger clearly etched on his face. Sam didn’t move, didn’t flinch—merely stood still and silent in front of the bathroom door.

He was afraid, and for the first time in his young life there was no rush of adrenaline accompanying the fear. No security blanket of weapons, knowledge of rituals and Latin or either of his guiding forces in life to hide behind. There was just Dean chained to a pipe and rendered effectively useless. A father, who for as far as the situation was concerned, had abandoned them both. His rapist, now fully clothed, smiling and carrying a small duffle bag—blocking the only escape route. And him—naked, abused and, now, very clearly alone; an orphan of sorts.

“It’s not your fault, Dean.” What else could he say? ‘I’m sorry you had to watch me being raped—not once but twice?’ or ‘I’m sorry I got us kidnapped’ or ‘I’m sorry dad couldn’t save you…us.’ Hollow, empty words—all of them.

“In this bag is a set of clothes,” Gerald said—dropping the small, dark brown duffle at the teen’s feet. “I’m going to undo the cuffs,” he moved closer to the youth and grabbed the couple lengths of chain linking the cuffs together, “you try anything and I kill him first.”

The cuffs fell away from Sam’s slender wrists with a dull clank. Fighting the urge his aching and abused body had to shake, Sam rubbed at each bruised, chafed wrists before stooping down to take possession of the bag. Clutching the nylon bag in slender fingers on the verge of trembling, violently, Sam stole a quick glance at Dean—a look of anger, fear, and sorrow hardened on his face—and then back at the man who had given them the invaluable lesson in fear. He swallowed hard at a lob of spit and left over cum before taking the duffle to the bed.

Tears once again threatened to pour from his hazel eyes—he bit hard on his lip. Carefully he sat the bag on the bed—as though the slightest noise within the room would shatter any semblance of strength and calm he had managed to pull together—and pulled the zipper open. Stuffed clumsily into the bag were a thin white tee shirt, an old worn pair of sweatpants, and a thin pair of socks. Silently he pulled the pants from the bag and with aching arms he carefully tugged them up his sore legs.

He could feel both Gerald’s lust filled and Dean’s pleading gazes on his back as he slipped the tee shirt over his head and pulled it down his long, lean torso. Despite the clothing now covering his body, he still felt naked. The shirt was close to a size too small—it’s hem just touching the top of the worn elastic band in the pants. And the thin—not so warm or cozy—sweatpants were almost a size too large for his thin-framed body. He opted to not even try the threadbare socks; afraid they would be much too small or for a woman’s feet.

“What now?” Sam asked; wanting his voice to come out teeming with anger and edged with hate, instead of the hoarse, barely audible whisper it came out.

“Now, we leave,” Gerald said, moving from his place in front of Dean to behind Sam in two large steps. “I’m sorry to do this to you.” He planted a kiss at the back of the teen’s neck as he gently grabbed hold of Sam’s injured wrists. With no protest from the younger man, Gerald secured Sam’s hands behind his back. “Once I get you home, we won’t need those anymore.” He tugged the teen in close to his chest for a brief, tight hug.

Releasing Sam quickly from the hold, he spun the young man around to face the slightly older man still chained to the register, and said, “say goodbye to your brother.”

“What if I fight back?” Sam asked, weighting the option as he stood—finally clothed—before his older sibling for what could have been the last time.

“He dies,” was Gerald’s soft, matter of fact reply. “Any time before he’s sold I can call and have him killed.”

“But if he does what he’s told…” Dean let the truth of the threat hang in the air. Gerald gave a curt nod and a slick smile.

“Time to go,” he said tugging the teen toward the door and away from his older sibling.

“I’ll come for you, Sam,” Dean said before the pair disappeared from the room.

A firm grip on his arm—and a standing threat against Dean—prevented Sam from making a break for their room, or just away. He prayed as he was dragged from the room that Dean would someday be able to forgive him for being frightened for his big brother’s life.

“The other one’s still chained up,” Gerald informed the trio greeting them at the door.

The woman of the group—dressed as a maid—gave Sam an appraising glance and he dropped his head to study the chipping cement beneath his bare feet. The concrete was almost cold on his feet, and a welcome change to the almost stifling heat of the room. Ants—just barely tiny black dots—darted across the cracks of the pavement bringing scavenged pieces of food back to their tunnels. Sam was too caught up in that scene to know or care if more had been said; or if the ‘maid’ was still staring at him as though his rapist had just won some sort of pedophile lottery.

A sharp tug on his arm ripped his attention from the ants marching along the cracked cement. “Remember what I said,” Gerald hissed in his ear as they moved toward the parking lot.

A movement, subtle and slow, of worn tan leather just behind the motel’s sign, caught Sam attention at the corner of his eye. He knew on instinct, without having to turn and view it, that his father was crouched behind the motel’s sign poised for action. Action, Sam was sure, beyond a doubt, aimed at rescuing Dean—the perfect son and soldier.

Dean never once baulked at the training their father insisted they needed. Dean had begged from the age of nine to join their dad on hunts, and bounced off the walls of every cheap motel room they called home for weeks after their dad finally allowed him to go along on the easier hunts—Dean had been twelve.

Sam had been more of a challenge. He didn’t want to learn to hunt—although the hand to hand was nice to know in fending off bullies—or to handle weaponry. And he had certainly not wanted to hunt. What Dean had seen as exciting and fun, Sam saw as dangerous and close to insane.

Do something! He thought, feeling the weight of his father’s stare on his back.

“Let him go! You fucking sonuvabitch!” Dean’s voice bellowed from within the room, and he knew which way their father was going to turn—which way his attack would turn: Dean.

“One phone call, Sam, and your brother’s dead,” Gerald said quietly, helping the bound teen into the passenger seat and closing the door.

SPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPN

“Welcome,” Gerald said, pulling the car into the driveway of his house, a smile breaking his face, “to your new home.”

Silently Sam took in the well manicured lawn—lush and fully green—neatly trimmed trees, shrubbery, and flowers decorating the sprawling front yard of Gerald’s house. A dark brown shingle roof hung in low slopes over a white-sided house trimmed in an orangey-red color.

A groan filled the silence surrounding the pair, snapping Sam’s attention from the house to the door pulling open on the attached two-car garage.

“Can’t have the neighbors meeting you just yet,” he said easing the car forward. A light buzz and a groan later, and the garage door touched against the cement floor. “How about we get you settled in you new room, mmm, Sammy?”

“Why are you doing this?” Sam asked with a hiss as he was pulled from the car. “Make them let Dean go. I’ll stay.”

“Sorry,” Gerald said an almost sad timbre briefly tipping his voice. “That was never part of the deal I made to get you.”

“Why me?” It was a common question—he knew that— but he still wanted, needed, to know why he had been chosen. What had he done to deserve being kidnapped—ripped from an already torn family, never to see them again? Why him? There was nothing special about Samuel Winchester…other than the way his mother had died and the way he had been raised. He needed to know what he had done so that if he ever got away from this man, out of this situation he could make sure not to do whatever it was again.

A light smile, almost apologetic, played across Gerald’s pale lips in answer to the teen’s question. In silence he escorted his young ‘guest’ down to the basement steps to a room at the bottom. A cement floor greeted Sam’s feet in cold welcome as he was pulled toward a cot at the far end of the room.

“Why you?” his rapist questioned, repeating Sam’s query; his voice reeking of sarcastic thoughtfulness. “While you were asleep your brother and I had this very conversation.” Sam glared at his captor, as a handcuff was removed from one of his slender, and already abused wrists and slapped onto the wrought iron headboard; the other end remained attached to his other wrist. “You are beautiful, Sammy. The way you move—like a cat. Your hair so soft and silky. And the aura you give off—so tough and hard…yet soft, innocent and pure. I just couldn’t let that get away.”

He smoothed a hand through Sam’s collar length hair, causing the teen to jerk away from the unwanted touch.

“It’s such a rare thing…the mixture of beauty, innocence and jagged edges…I couldn’t risk you saying no,” he smiled toothily at his captive, “you tasted sweeter than I anticipated.”

“How…” Sam bit back the anger and fear he felt toward the older man, forcing his vocal chords and lips to form the words, “how long are you planning…”

“Am I going to keep you here?” Sam gave a short confirming nod. “That depends on you, Sam. Make yourself comfortable.”

“Wait,” Sam called out as Gerald neared the room’s door. Gerald stopped mid-stride—half way to the door—waiting. “I thought that you weren’t going to use these once we got here.” He pulled the cuff taught against the metal headboard.

“You won’t run?” Sam almost wasn’t sure if it was a statement or a question.

“You’ll have Dean killed if I do.”

“I’ll take them off in a bit.” He closed the door.

For a long moment Sam Winchester stared at the wood grain door hoping Dean and their dad would kick it down, pick the cuff lock and they’d be gone; but after nearly five minutes of hard staring he gave up on that scenario coming true.

May as well, he thought—not even bothering with the rest of the thought.

He bounced lightly on the mattress—not much of a squeak in the springs and hardly any lumps. He’d stayed in motels with worse mattress’—like one in Florida a couple years ago that had reeked of urine or the one the year after that had been saturated in sweat, semen and he didn’t know, nor want to know, what else.

It smelled of a perfumed floral air freshener; not the musty, wet he always associated with basements. The floor was bare cement, cold under his foot resting on it. The room outside of his prison had been carpeted in a dark color too difficult to see in the poor lighting. Paneling covered one wall of the basement prison cell; large cinder blocks stacked atop each other formed the remaining walls. He couldn’t stop himself from thinking that despite the fact the room was an offshoot room designed to hold ‘prisoners,’ it wasn’t a half bad basement.

SPNSPNSPNSPSNSPNSPNSPN

His fingers were beginning to feel tingly and numb from immobility when the knob to the door jerked and the door was shoved open. For a brief moment Sam’s heart leapt to his throat with the hope that Dean and their dad would be on the other side. The next moment his rapidly—yet acutely standing still—beating heart dropped, hard, from his throat to the very bottom of his stomach as his brain registered his rapist’s form framed in the doorway.

“I’m sorry, Sam,” his captor said in the most sincere tone of voice Sam had heard him use. He couldn’t help but wonder what had brought about the sudden change in the large man. “But I won’t be able to keep you as long as I’d planned.”

“What?! Why?” Sam pulled at the cuff securing him to the bed. Fear clawed at him again as the reality of Gerald’s words sank in. He was going to die. He wasn’t sure what else the man had in store for him, but that he knew without a doubt. “I thought I was worth the trouble.”

“Oh, you were, Sam.” He moved swiftly to the bed. “Your father…”

“My dad?” His dad had rescued Dean; he had little doubt he would.

Gerald gave a small nod of his head, “he killed three associates of mine.” Sam smiled at the news of his father’s deeds. “When I undo the cuff take off your clothes.”

“I could fight back,” he challenged, hoping to delay his death or allow Dean time for a rescue. “You don’t have my brother to hold over me.”

“I’m sorry it has to be this way, Sammy,” he said quickly descending on the teen cuffed to the bed.

Before Sam had even registered his captor’s words or sudden move, his head snapped back and into the wall. Gerald’s thick hand hovered a second ready to strike should Sam not be stunned enough from the first blow. Blood dripped down his newly split lip to his chin and the plain tee he wore. Carefully the teenaged hunter reached his free hand up to run his fingertips along the throbbing cut.

“You hit me,” he gasped in shock; his brain finally emerging from the seconds long fog the blow had sent him into. As his mind came back to reality it registered a draft where the sweatpants had offered cover. No! his mind screamed as he realized his back now rested against the bed and not the wall. “Don’t touch me,” Sam hissed with as much venom as he could—hoping to sound more like Dean when he was pissed and not a scared kid who was about to be raped for the second time in twenty-four hours, and possibly murdered.

Gerald’s form loomed near the bed for a long moment admiring the finely tuned body occupying it—fear and anger once again pouring from his captive in wonderful waves. It made him sad and hungry for the youth he was about to devour again.

Sam watched a smile part his captor’s pale lips as he desperately pulled at the iron bars in the headboard in hopes of a weak spot, while attempting to pull himself back up to a seated position. In any other situation Sam would have read the smile as friendly; chained to a bed as he was, and half naked, Sam decided the smile was purely predatory.

The iron refused to budge. The cuff attached to his wrist began to constrict against his struggling appendage.

No! he screamed mentally as Gerald moved in one long stride to the bed.

Before Sam could even think of mustering a verbal assault of pleas or a kick, his captor pulled him flat in the bed again—covering Sam with his body. Emotions flew from Sam’s grasp as his attacker began to whisper soft assurances over his lips while using legs and hands to force the teen’s legs open.

“It’ll be over soon,” Gerald murmured pulling back to his knees. Grasping the teen’s already bruised hips he carefully lined his already weeping erection up with Sam’s red, puckered entrance. Good lord, how he wished he could keep the youth half writhing to get free beneath him. There was nowhere he could hide with the boy—he was sure of that. It was better that no one else got him either. Sam really was a sweet treat—one he hated to part with, but one that he didn’t want anyone else to soil. Savoring the moment Gerald drove into the tender, still slightly loose entrance.

A grunt of pain forced its way passed his lips as the man entered his abused body. It wasn’t as intense as the first time, though it still hurt like hell. Sam wasn’t sure what the man’s game was, but there was no way he was going to cry out and let the man violating his body know the pain being inflicted.

A slight tingling from his hand in the tightening cuff registered at the back of his mind as the invading body began to violently rock into him. The squeak of the bed springs almost reminded him of the last time their father had left them for a solo hunt, but the pain being inflicted on his body stole away the wonderfully embarrassing memory of the moment.

Above him, Gerald grunted as he shifted his weight and leaned in closer to Sam. Hastily the man’s lips pressed hard to Sam’s in a hard kiss promising nothing but goodbyes; his thrusts becoming deeper, shallower, less violent and more brutal all at once.

Clenching his eyes closed to keep both the pain and vision of his own death from himself and the man raping him, Sam could feel the tears threatening to fall and stain a path to the bed.

“I’m so sorry, Sam,” the voice belonging to the body mercilessly invading his, said gruffly. Sam groaned inwardly at the contradictions being shown him while outwardly he tightened his free hand into a fist—half ready to strike.

The body above him once again shifted, taking the weighted pressure off Sam’s chest with it; he barely bit back a whimper of relief at his ability to breathe a little easier.

“I’m sorry.” And for the first time since the assault began the body stopped moving.

Sam opened his eyes and looked at his attacker. He hadn’t planned on it, but the almost sincere tone to the older man’s voice made him curious enough to look. The look masking the man’s face was close to the one Dean had worn a few years back when a Black Sabbath cassette he’d been particularly fond of was too worn to play anymore. Normal kids had funerals for their deceased pets, Dean Winchester had them for cassette tapes.

A chuckle at the memory began to form in his throat and Sam worked to mentally suppress it.

“I’m sorry,” Gerald said, renewing his previous rhythm as his thick fingers wrapped tightly around the young man’s throat. “I didn’t want this for you. Not like this,” he murmured to the struggling teen.

Panic filled Sam’s mind at the sudden lack in ability to breathe air. He pulled at the man’s hand encircling his neck with his free hand; legs kicking as he struggled to dislodge the man on top of him. The handcuff attached to his other arm, made frantic clanks as he once again tried to break it free of the headboard.

Agony, fear and pleasure collided in Sam as black and white spots blurred the colors around him. He could feel his struggles lessening, and the body hammering an invasion moving faster, as he fell into a growing precipice.

He almost felt outside of himself when his fingers loosened their hold on the hands at his throat and fell away to hang from the bed. The grunt of satisfaction and disappointment his tormentor let out as he came sounded as a distant memory to Sam’s ears and his ever-blackening world.

SPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPN

Gerald stared down at the young man he’d finished raping and was in the process of strangling—he hated having to kill the one person he’d seen worth the money and the trouble; selling him, however, was not an option. He could never share Sam like that; it was better this way.

A tear slipped down Sam’s face as his eyes began to slip closed.

“I’m so sorry, Sam,” Gerald apologized again, squeezing the tender neck beneath his thick fingers a little harder.

Neither body on the bed moved. Gerald barely dared breathe as he felt the pulse once throbbing in rhythm with the boy’s quick heart beat, slow. His own pulse pounded heavy through his ears drowning out all other sound.

The door to his tiny, silent sanctuary splintered open with a boom that may as well have been a cannon. His head snapped from the body being rapidly drained of life to the door barely hanging by a hinge in its frame. Behind the guns aimed at him Gerald gaped at the beyond pissed expressions the men wore. A laundry list of excuses flashed his head as his mind focused on the set of green eyes filled with anger and pure lust for the kill that had become familiar to him the last twenty-four hours. He willed his hands to finish their task—if he was going to die Sam’s company would be well welcomed.

Bam! The sound of the .45s aimed at Gerald broke the seconds long silence that had permeated the room. Gerald’s large body lurched back as the 45 cal slugs drilled in him—one square between the eyes, splattering blood and bits of brain onto the cinder block wall the bed sat against; the other dead center of his heart, exploding the delicately tough muscle within his massive chest.

Without so much as a grunt the large man’s body teetered a fraction of a second before falling back away from the listless body he’d sat atop seconds before. Neither Winchester missed how the large man’s body pulled free of their youngest.

Not taking the time to smirk at his kill, Dean tucked the still smoking gun into his jacket pocket and moved with smooth precision to his baby brother’s side. Normally sure hands shook almost violently as Dean reached them to Sam’s newly exposed neck. Relief nearly knocked him on his ass when his brother’s weak, but strong pulse thrummed beneath his fingers.

“Sam.” His voice sounded rough to his own ears; enough so, he wasn’t sure he had inflected Sam’s name as a question, a statement, a request or in relief at finding him alive.

Their dad was a flurry of movement around them. Dean didn’t have to watch or even look to know what the eldest Winchester was doing: last rights—though he didn’t deserve it, John rushed through almost too fast for it to be worth it—a thick sprinkling of rock salt, and a quick dousing of gasoline. It was better than the sonuvabitch deserved, but it was far better than chancing having to come back and deal with a pissed off spirit.

A long draw of breath snapped his mind from thoughts of his brother’s newly dead rapist, “Slow and even,” Dean said watching Sam carefully as a harsh cough tore through the youngest Winchester’s lungs—shaking his entire lanky framed body.

“Dean?” Sam’s voice was barely there and thick with grit, but was the most beautiful sound Dean could imagine at that moment.

“Yeah,” he confirmed with half a smile. “I’m gonna get you to the car.”

“Dean…”

“Shh, don’t try to talk.” Carefully, the older boy slid the discarded sweatpants up the younger one’s body. With a sigh that was a cross between a grunt of frustration and tired relief, Sam pulled his chained wrist against the headboard. “Don’t worry, Little Brother, I got it.”

Careful not to step on his younger sibling, Dean climbed onto the bed, digging the lock pick set he’d brought—to be on the safe side—from his jeans pocket as he climbed. “Have you out of these,” he quickly inserted the needed tools into the lock and began the task of opening the lock, “in no time.”

A half smile crossed and left Sam’s face at the cocky humor of Dean’s words. He watched as his older brother quickly worked the lock on the cuffs. Dean didn’t glance at him in the minutes it took him to trick the lock into opening. He wasn’t sure if that should be a comfort to him or if one of Dean’s patented jackass smiles would have more to offer. A light tug at his wrist and a sharp click from the cuff attached to it, and he was free.

“Ready to go?” Dean asked, face looming over Sam’s face, smile as close to carefree jackass as he could muster given the last twenty-four hours. Sam’s eyes closed and he gave a small nod. “Here we go.” Dean helped Sam get his feet off the bed and to the floor. A sharp tug and a groan later, and Sam was up. Dean took hold of Sam’s lesser-damaged wrist and pulled the arm around his neck. Wrapping his other arm securely around his younger sibling, Dean moved them toward the stairs.

“Dean,” Sam rasped once they were in the garage and heading for the Impala.

“It’s all right, Sam,” Dean said, instinctively responding to the question his brother wanted to ask, “he’s dead.

The End