Mercy

Chapter IX

/

"And I've been riding on this train so long

I can't tell if it's you or me who is driving us into the ground"

- Volcano, Beck

/

I looked around the room. It was surprisingly small, only capable of fitting an oak desk with two chairs situated on either side. I noted that the chairs were both the same, the shrink's no larger or more comfortable than the one used by her patients. There were a few plants standing around, including a cactus on the windowsill and a white potted flower on the edge of the desk. A plaque hung on the wall but I didn't bother to read it; probably just a piece of shiny wood bragging about her credentials.

"I'm glad you finally decided to agree to this session," Dr. Ellen Harvelle announced as she watched me closely. She probably thought I was at high risk of becoming a flight case, but the office wasn't so bad. Just a little claustrophobic, but I supposed many would call it 'cozy'.

I tried to recall the reason why I was here. Oh, right. I needed someone to help explain to me what the hell I was supposed to do. To try to make sense of the pieces of my life that had begun to crumble ever since I found my mother lying on her bed, blood slicking her throat. It may sound corny, but I felt like the rest of me was going to fall apart if I didn't talk to someone.

Dr. Harvelle, who had told me to call her by her first name, walked around the desk and sat down. I remained standing by the closed door, still not sure if this was such a good idea.  "Now," she began, shuffling a few papers on her desk to tidy it up. It didn't seem to bother her that I hadn't chosen to sit down yet. "Let me explain how this works. You don't have to tell me anything you feel uncomfortable telling me. That includes things about your personal life, like where you live outside of the shelter or the circumstances that have brought you here. That being said, there is nothing you can't speak to me about. Whether it's trouble at home or something else, you can tell me all about it if you want to."

"What if I have nothing I want to tell you?" I asked her, though that was far from the truth.

"That's fine too. We can talk about the weather if you like. Just as long as we speak for at least fifteen minutes. That's all I ask."

Fifteen minutes. I had the simultaneous thoughts that fifteen minutes was both too short and much too long.

Ellen continued, "Hell, you can lie the entire time if you want."

I found it difficult to believe that this shrink was actually fine with me lying to her, and I said as much. "That's ridiculous," I told her, because it was.

She shrugged. "I don't make the rules up. I only endorse and enforce them."

I bit my bottom lip. Nervous habit. "But doesn't lying defeat the entire purpose?" I sat down across the desk from her. The chair was surprisingly comfortable but I didn't allow myself to relax in it.

She chuckled. "You'd be surprised how much you can learn from a lie."

"I would?"

"Sometimes you learn more from a lie than from the truth."

Was she playing mind games with me already? I was allowed to lie, but apparently that was more revealing than telling the truth. I guessed she was just trying to trick me into not lying. "Everything I say is confidential, right?" I enquired.

"Unless I have reason to believe that you are planning to commit a crime or are at risk of injuring yourself or another, everything we say here today will remain in my office. Otherwise it's my duty to report you to the appropriate authorities."

Then why the hell was I here? I couldn't very well tell her that I was planning to kill my stepfather. Or that I knew where a woman was being held hostage, tied to a chair in a storage room. I couldn't even mention Dean now, in case I let it slip that he had killed two men just last week because they had raped me. I scoffed. "That would be a little hard since you don't even have my name to report."

"True," she agreed, nodding her head. "But I'm very good at describing faces and I hear the NYPD have some talented composite artists."

"I'll keep that in mind," I grumbled. This had been a horrible idea after all. What had I hoped to accomplish, anyway? Now I was about to have a fifteen minute session with a shrink and I couldn't even tell her the real problems I was facing. I didn't even know if it was safe to lie anymore.

"So," she said, her voice becoming lighter now that the rules had been set out. "What should I call you? First names are safe."

I couldn't help but hesitate. Last time I had given out my name it had cost me more than I had cared to offer. "First names aren't always safe," I told her, pulling the sleeves of my sweater down and resting my hands on my knees. I was suddenly feeling claustrophobic again in the small office.

Ellen frowned slightly but it was quickly replaced with a calm expression. "You're right," she agreed. "They're not. I'm sorry for suggesting otherwise."

"You don't have to apologize," I told her sincerely. "Because they should be safe, you know? You should be able to tell your first name to someone and still stay anonymous. I mean, there are so many people out there who share the same name."

"Yes," she said. "There are. I know two other Ellens myself."

"I knew an Ellen once," I announced. "She was in my fifth grade class. Always wore her hair in pigtails." I sat further back in the chair. "I had a crush on her."

She smiled and it reminded me of the way my mom had smiled every time she had asked me if there were any girls at school who had caught my eye. I regretted now that I had never answered her. Truthfully, I had always refrained from telling her anything when I got home from school and she asked me how my day was. I'd always used "boring" or "uneventful" as a response, or just a 'stop and stare' as I looked at the fresh bruises forming on her face and found I couldn't speak around the lump building in my throat. Those days were rare but numerous enough to fill me with anger again just by recalling them.

The shrink didn't seem to notice my change in mood. She was still smiling warmly. "I'd figure you for one of the popular kids in school," she said, a hand on her chin. "I bet you've had plenty of girl trouble in the past."

I shrugged. "Not really."

"Are you still in school?"

I sighed and shifted in my seat, crossing my ankle on my thigh and my arms on my chest. "No," I answered honestly. "I'm supposed to graduate next month but I haven't been to school in over three weeks." To be honest, I hadn't thought about school in a long time. With everything else going on it had kind of been pushed to the back of my mind. I was in my last year of high school, but after my mom had died I had simply stopped going to class. Now I realized I'd probably never go back.

It made me a little sad to think that my school life was over just like that. It had kind of been fun for me. I'd actually enjoyed studying, as freakish as that sounded, and had even entertained the idea of going to college and becoming a lawyer more than once. I definitely had the grades to accomplish as much, but now the possibility of that actually happening seemed too out of reach for me to even dream about. It worried me to look into the distance and not know where I was headed. To not even see a sign at the side of the road that was my future.

"When did you decide to drop out?" I realized Ellen had asked me the question almost a minute ago. I had been staring off into space as I mourned my school days, but now I snapped back to the moment.

"It wasn't really a decision," I finally replied. "Just kind of happened. School didn't seem very important at the time."

"School is very important," she enunciated. "Whatever made you drop out must have been pretty big in comparison. You seem like a smart kid."

Why did everyone feel the need to refer to me as a kid? I decided to let it slide this time. "Just a big change in my life." I looked out the window and at the apartment building across the street. There was a little boy sitting in a window on the second floor. A little boy with blonde hair.

"I always wondered what colour hair he would have had," I said suddenly, releasing the thought that sprung to my mind without even running it through the usual filters. I felt strangely serene in the office now, like it was a little box I could whisper things into and it would keep my innocent secrets safe. Like it was a small compartment in my mind and the woman sitting in it was just a part of it all; someone who didn't exist and would never reveal my spoken thoughts to anyone.

"Who?"

"My brother.”  My voice sounded distant even to my own ears. I was still staring across the street at the little boy in the window. I figured he looked about the same age my brother would be now if he had lived. "My mom had blonde hair but... John's hair is dark. So I wonder sometimes, what colour his hair would have been."

"He probably would have taken after your father, like you," Ellen said.

I whipped my head around and threw a hard glare at her. "John is not my father," I told her firmly. She looked a little taken aback as I returned my gaze to the window, though not to the boy across the street. "It doesn't even matter," I mumbled angrily. "He's dead and he was only my half-brother too. I don't even care."

We were both silent for a time until she spoke again, her voice uncharacteristically gentle. "Your mother must have been very sad."

"I don't think so," I replied, realizing for the first time this was how I actually felt. I didn't know if Ellen heard me when I whispered afterwards, "I think she killed him herself."

I was glad when she changed the subject.  "I noticed you have friends here.  I've met Ash and Jo, but there's another one, isn't there?"

I knew she meant Dean but I told her she was mistaken. "I've known Jo and Ash for a while. Jo's like a little sister to me," I explained. "Ever since I first came here."

"And when was that?"

"A couple years ago." I remembered that day. It had been sunny and bright, the sky a brilliant blue above my head as I entered the shelter. I'd just been in an argument with my mom, nursing another failed attempt at convincing her to leave John.

"Are you glad you did?" Ellen asked me.

I’d forgotten what we’d been discussing. "Glad I did what?"

"Are you glad you came to the shelter?"

"Of course," I replied without hesitation. "It's what's kept me alive until now. I don't know how I would have survived if I didn't find this place."

"Survive what?"

That annoying alarm went off in my head again and I quickly answered, "Just life, I guess." I pondered that for a while. "Life can kill you, yah know."

She frowned. "Trust me, I am very aware."

"Do you think people deserve to die?" I blurted out suddenly, ignoring the alarm and gaining a peculiar look.

"What do you mean?"

I took in a deep breath. "I mean, if someone does something really bad on purpose, is it okay if they die because of it?"

She cocked her head to the side and for a moment I was worried she knew what I was planning. That she had found out somehow that I was going to murder John. But then she spoke, and what she said surprised me. "Yes," she stated firmly. "I think if someone does something awful and they do it on purpose, if they hurt someone innocent very badly, they deserve to die."

There was something in her eyes... I couldn't quite recognize the look but I wondered if she had experienced something similar to what I was going through. The look was so intense that I couldn't continue to meet her gaze, so I let my eyes wander around the room for a few seconds, noticing that our fifteen minutes were up as I read the clock on the wall.

"I guess this wasn't too bad," I admitted. "I could probably do it again." It was the truth. Talking with Ellen hadn't been nearly as painful as I had first thought it would be. I was surprised. It may have even helped a little.

"Well, know that you're welcome here anytime, Sam."

I turned my head to look at her, my eyebrows slanting downward. "You knew my name all along?" I tried to recall if I had let my name slip at any point during our conversation.

"Jo told me," she said. "She's quite lively, that one. I'd be nervous to be her mother."

I guess I didn't mind too much if the shrink knew my name, and I laughed, knowing exactly what she meant about Jo. As I went to leave the room she seemed to want to say something further, but then she closed her mouth and smiled again, the wrinkles around her eyes deepening. "It was nice talking with you, Sam."

I nodded. "Yeah. Maybe next time we'll switch chairs."

/

I returned to Dean's loft that afternoon. I needed to ask Meg some more questions. I was sure she knew things about John that could help me, and perhaps spending the night tied to a chair had loosened her tongue a little. It was a while after I knocked when Dean finally answered, and I was practically scared out of my wits when I saw he was holding a gun at the ready when the door swung open. "Sorry," he apologized as he let the firearm drop loosely to his side. "Can't be too careful."

He was dressed only in a pair of ripped jeans and it reminded me of the first time I had met him. His hair was wet now too, and I figured he had been in the shower when I had knocked. As he turned around I found myself stunned again by the sight of his tattoo. The sun wasn't shining on it this time, but I had forgotten how striking the wings were; how they could fool you into thinking that they were actually real.

"Careful about what?" I asked as I closed the door and followed him.

"I'm sure Vince and his pal had friends," he explained as he entered the kitchen and placed his gun on the counter. "That means I have some enemies now, and those are only the ones I know about."

He was right. Dean and I were kind of in the same boat: we both had people who wanted us dead.

I noticed he was avoiding my eyes. Usually that was my job, so I wondered what was wrong. It seemed like he was unsure how to act around me; unsure if I was angry or disgusted at him after he had admitted to killing Vince and Leo. I still didn't know what I thought about it all but I knew I didn't feel any of those emotions towards him. In fact, I felt a little bad for never having thanked him for helping me deal with Meg.  I had been so occupied by my own problems I’d forgotten Dean had some of his own.

I cleared my throat. "Vince... Did he tell you who you were looking for at the shelter that day?"

"Yeah.”  Dean was watching me warily now, like he was gauging my mood. "Just some kid."

I nodded my head. "Just some kid," I repeated, but my mind was focused on other things. "I need to talk to Meg again. I have more questions."

"All right, but not right now. She's sort of unconscious at the moment."

"She's sleeping? Then I'll wake her up.  The princess can miss her beauty sleep once," I sneered.

"No, I mean she's physically unconscious."

I raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

He shrugged. "She kept screaming when I left the room, so I gave her something to knock her out."

I looked at him, bewildered. "What'd you give her?"

"Just an injection. She'll be fine when she wakes up in a few hours."

I didn't even want to ask where he had gotten the 'injection' from. Instead, I leaned back against the kitchen counter.

"The police are gonna be after you," I said quietly.

"For a guy like Vince and his pal?" Dean shook his head. "I don't think so. If anything, I've done them a favour."

I looked at him and what I saw unnerved me. "You really don't feel any remorse?" I asked him.

He scowled. "Should I? For them?"

I looked down at my hands clasped in front of me. "People usually feel remorse after they've killed a person. No matter how much they may have deserved to die."

I heard him sigh. "Are you going to feel remorse after you kill your stepfather?"

I wondered how he knew I was planning to kill John, but I guessed it was pretty obvious. "He killed my mother."

"And what those bastards did to you was no worse?" he demanded to know.

My head snapped up and I glowered at him. "My mother sacrificed everything for me. John made both our lives miserable and then killed my mother. He has to pay for that with his life."

Dean laughed coldly. "Yeah, he does," he agreed. "Just like Vince and his friend did. An eye for an eye."

I breathed out in frustration as I leaned my head on my hand. "They didn't kill me."

"Doesn't mean they didn't deserve to die," Dean said firmly, and I knew it was useless to try to argue with him.

I shook my head again and began to turn away. "I can't talk to you right now," I said, planning to leave the apartment again and return when Meg woke up. How had everything turned so messy so quickly?

A hand grabbed my wrist as I turned. "Fuck me," I heard Dean say, and my eyes widened.

"What?" I exclaimed as I swung around again, not believing I had heard correctly. But I had, because when he repeated the two words they were the same as before. Fuck me. Said so simply, like he was telling me to spot him while he did a few bench presses at the gym. I didn't know what to say, so I told him he was crazy.

"What you went through, Sam..." I felt the urge to punch him for bringing it up again. Why couldn't he just leave it alone? What happened, happened. He'd said that once himself before. "You were put in a situation where you had no control. Where any power you held was stolen from you. I just want you to feel in control again." He took a step closer. "I want you to fuck me hard and I want you to enjoy it."

I felt my cock begin to harden, the first time since that day. But I couldn't understand. Why was he saying this to me? Why did I still feel like hitting him?

"Fuck you," I hissed angrily. I had meant it as an insult, but he twisted the words in his mind and smirked roguishly.

"Yeah. Do that."

I felt my heartbeat quicken against my will as anger surged within me. Anger and something else.

"Come on, Sam," he taunted, his voice becoming deeper. "Don't you want to fuck me?  I know you enjoyed it when I had my tongue in your mouth."

I felt myself blush deeply. Why was he bringing that up? What did he really want from me? "Shut up, Dean," I warned. "I was high."

He laughed and it sounded almost cruel. "High or not, Sam, you liked it. You were as hard as a rock. You wanted me that night and I know you still do."

I glared at him, my hands curling into fists by my sides. "You're a bastard, you know that?" I said, my voice rising in volume. "I'm straight. I don't fuck guys."

"But they fuck you." He said this bluntly, his voice lacking any emotion as he looked at me with a blank stare.

"If you want me to admit they deserved to die, I won’t.  They didn't kill me, Dean.”  My voice was shaking as I held back the urge to scream at him.

"No. They only raped you," he sneered. "They only fucked you in an alley until you bled and then left you to pick up whatever was left of your dignity." He looked at me like I was pathetic, narrowing his eyes. "Maybe you deserved it after all."

A part of my brain registered that my breathing was becoming out of control. I gulped down air like there wasn't enough of it in the atmosphere, because I couldn't believe he had just said that. I couldn't believe he had just. Fucking. Said. That.

I reached back an arm and let my fist fly. I felt my knuckles collide with the side of his face, an explosion of pain rocketing up my wrist. Then he was catching himself on the counter, wiping blood from a cut that had appeared beneath his eye.

My anger did not ebb with the sudden outburst of violence. I wanted to beat the crap out of him. I wanted to make him hurt. I wanted to... I wanted to fuck him. Hard. Before I could stop myself I was hitting him again, this time using my other hand. I reached across my chest and then brought the butt of my fist crashing down on his head, slamming it into the counter. He crumpled to the floor.

My mind was in a rage as I began to tear at his pants. He was struggling to his hands and knees as I dragged them down his thighs. Then I was pushing him down again. He let out a grunt as he flattened on the tiles and I slid the rest of his pants off, ripping them and his boxers from his legs. I kneeled and reached down to drag his hips upward. As he tried to lift his shoulders again I stretched over him and pushed his head back to the ground. When I did so, my hips pressed against his ass and my erection was caught between us. I felt a furious heat tear through me, mixing with the rage that was already threatening to blind me.

I needed to be inside of him. Now.

Undoing my own pants and letting them bunch at my knees, I pushed his legs apart. He gave little resistance, though I wasn't sure if it was because I had hit his head too hard or he really wanted me to fuck him. Either way, I didn't care. He had asked for this, and even if he changed his mind right now I knew I wouldn't stop. My cock was resting against his ass and I moved my hips back, dragging its tip closer to his entrance. I heard him release a shaky breath and I couldn't hold back anymore. I immediately grabbed my dick and positioned it right at his hole. Then I pushed, holding his hips still while I felt myself enter him.

It was unlike anything I'd ever felt. He was so tight, and I could barely push myself in, but it felt amazing. A hundred times better than anytime I'd done it myself. Dean let out a cry as he tried to raise his head again, but I reached over and pushed him down. Then he was silent as I stayed like that, bent over him with one hand in his hair and the other still on his hip, slowly pushing myself further inside of him. I saw the muscles in his back bunch and then he groaned in pain. I was hurting him and somewhere in the back of my mind I knew that was wrong, but the rest of me told me to forget it. To forget about thinking and to just do.

I finally reached the point where I could push no further and I stopped. I was breathing heavily and so was Dean. I couldn't see his face, but sweat gleamed on his neck as his back heaved up and down. I removed my hand from his head, and when he didn't make another attempt to rise, I slowly began to straighten my back. My eyes crawled up his tattoo, tracing the curves of the angel wings. My cock was still deep inside of him and I saw his fists tighten on the cold tiles as I shifted. He let out a sound like he was objecting and I felt a strange delight rise within me. It scared me a little, but then I was back to not thinking.

Dean grunted in pain again as I began to pull out. I moved slowly, watching him squirm. Watching his fists uncurl and his fingers push against the tile like he could pull himself away. His forehead was pressed against the floor, but he threw his head back as I suddenly thrust my hips forward again, my cock sliding in more easily now. He yelled as I drove myself in and then withdrew, back and forth, thrusting and fucking and listening to him groan and cry out. But he never pleaded with me to stop. Not once. Even as I felt blood slick my cock he said nothing. I was hurting him, possibly raping him, but I didn't care. All I wanted was to feel that release. To orgasm and feel pleasure consume my body. All I wanted was to feel something good for a change.

I quickened my rhythm, digging my nails into Dean's hips as I drove him from behind. My balls slapped against him with each plunge, the sound loud in the kitchen, competing only with Dean's stifled cries and my own heavy breaths, each seeming to raise the temperature slightly as I exhaled. My body was covered in sweat, and as my hands began to slip from Dean's hips I dug my fingers into his skin. I knew he was biting his lip to stop from yelling out again as I began to pound into him harder, feeling myself near the edge.

I was going to cum. I looked up to the ceiling and closed my eyes as I let out a harsh moan. My hips moved faster, my cock sliding in and out. I was so close now. "Fuck," I groaned as I felt pressure build at the end of my erection. Then I came, and as I felt myself release into Dean, pleasure coursed through me. The back of my eyelids sparked white and my hands tightened on his hips, steadying me as I bucked into him, trying to reach as far as I could. Trying to milk every bit of pleasure possible.

Then it was over, and as I withdrew my soft cock from Dean he rolled his head to the side, resting it against his arm. The side of his face was already beginning to bruise, the cut on his cheekbone an angry red line. His eyes were shut and he grimaced as I finally slid out. I saw that blood was dripping down his thighs. Red. The same colour that had stained my shoelaces. I sat back against the cupboards, reaching up to grab a hold of the edge of the counter. Dean didn't move from his position, his body having become strangely still after all that action. I couldn't even see him breathing.

What the fuck did I just do?I asked myself. What the fuckdid I just do?

He had asked me to fuck him, not rape him. Not take him on the dirty kitchen tiles and make him bleed. Not make him experience the same humiliation I had gone through. As these thoughts swarmed in my mind I felt panic build inside of me. Then he tried to move, and when I heard him suppress a sound of pain, all the emotions I had felt earlier disappeared. I was empty now, but regret and shame were quickly filling the void. He was trying to stand, dragging his knees forward and straightening his back, and I wanted to help him, but I couldn't move. I couldn't look at him and stare at what I had done. I couldn't be here.

Before I knew it I was jumping onto my feet and pulling my pants up, not even bothering to button them before I ran out of the kitchen and out the front door and down the stairs and out the building and down the street. Away from it all. Away from that person I had been for those moments in that kitchen while Dean was beneath me. Away from Dean himself. Away from my mind and the accusations I was screaming at myself.

I turned into an alley just as it was getting dark, having run for blocks. I had knocked a woman to the sidewalk in my haste but hadn't stopped to apologize. Hadn't stopped for anything. Now I crouched against the brick wall, wishing my mom had never died. Wishing she had never married John. Wishing Dean had never saved me. Wishing I didn't know what I knew now: that he was the only person I could trust, and the person I had just fucked mercilessly. Because he'd asked me to.

Wishing I could go back to when I was a kid; when my real dad had been alive and I'd lived happily with him and my mom. Innocent. Pure. Not crouched in an alley with blood on my cock and disgrace weighing so heavily on me I couldn't even lift my head. The only problem was, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't remember that time. I couldn't remember my real father, and with horror I realized that my mom's face had become fuzzy in my mind's eye too.

I wanted to cry but no tears would fill my eyes. It seemed I had finally lost the ability to shed tears.

---

To Be Continued.