Chapter Text
"I know you're awake, Sam."
Every muscle and tendon in Sam's body tensed. His heart stuttered uneasily, panic setting in. He was suddenly acutely aware of every line, curve and indent printed into the pad of Dean's thumb as it was smoothed over his cheek, deceptively tender.
Sam's eyes remained glued firmly shut, playing ignorant. He knew his efforts were in vain, however, for the shaky hitch his breathing had adopted was a sure giveaway to his consciousness. He hated how weak it made him sound. How vulnerable he was like this.
The ghost of a sigh brushed by his ear, closer to his face than it had any right to be, sending a bone-chilling shiver down Sam's spine. The slow, deliberate exhale of air was uncomfortably warm against his skin, the beads of sweat that accumulated along the nape of his neck dampening the curled ends of his hair.
Sam itched to pull away; to run from the face that he knew still hovered above his own and never look back, but he couldn't. The raw, all-consuming terror he felt was paralysing; he may as well have been cemented to the spot.
"...hold on, Dad. Sammy's awake,” Dean murmured into the phone, disturbingly calm.
The thumb carefully stroking Sam's cheek increased its pressure, trying to provoke a response out of him. When that failed, Dean spoke again, his voice holding a faint rumbling quality to it this close up. "Alright, c'mon, Sammy. Time to give it up. Let's not play pretend."
Sam swallowed uneasily, knowing he was stuck. Dean wasn't asking. It took every ounce of courage he could muster to finally force his eyes open, and the second he did, an immediate feeling of regret washed over him, eyelids fighting to slip back into place as a shield against reality.
Dean met Sam's hesitant gaze with a small — if a little wary — smile, his thumb still working back and forth across Sam's cheek in gentle swipes. "There he is."
"Dean," Sam whispered, finding himself unable to speak any louder at risk of his voice cracking. He couldn't show any signs of fear. He wouldn't allow himself to.
"Hey, Kiddo." Dean's voice was soft; soothing. Working to ease Sam's worries, or perhaps lull him into a false sense of security. Sam couldn't be sure of which it was yet, and he wasn't ready to commit to either answer.
The phone in Dean's hand was lowered, held within Sam's reach. "You wanna speak to Dad?"
Sam's eyes widened, taken by surprise. He'd been anticipating a number of different outcomes — all less than ideal — and being handed a cellphone definitely hadn't been one of them. He was certainly in no position to turn Dean down, however, and so, nodding his confirmation, he slowly — carefully — pulled his body into an upright position, watching attentively for any signs of hesitation on Dean's end as he gingerly peeled the offered phone from his grasp.
Sam sank into the sofa's plushy back, wedging himself between two cushions as he clutched the cellphone to his right ear — the side furthest away from Dean.
"Dad?" He asked anxiously, averting his gaze to his lap to avoid catching Dean's as he spoke.
"Son," was the terse, slightly strained reply he received. Sam swore he had never heard a sweeter sound.
"Dad, hi." The words were nothing more than a soft, breathy whisper, so uncharacteristically Sam that the boy had to wonder if his father could already sense something was amiss without needing an explanation. He silently hoped that was the case. "How- uh, how are you?"
"I'm doing fine, Sam. I'm okay."
Sam nodded in spite of the fact that John couldn't see him. "Good. That's really good." He let slip a shaky, nervy exhale, still actively avoiding Dean's prying gaze. "I- uh, I know that things got a little heated the last time we saw each other, huh?"
"Yeah, Son. They did," John agreed in that familiar, gravelly voice of his. Hearing it again made Sam want to cry both in tears of grief, and tears of relief. "Let's not argue like that again, you hear me?"
Sam gave a watery laugh, ducking his head. "Yeah, okay. Sounds good, Dad."
"Good," John said. There was a long, comfortable pause. Then, "I sure am glad to hear you're back with your brother. 'Course, it doesn't exactly come as a surprise — you always were a little... clingy, for a lack of better words. Though I have to say, Sammy, for a moment there I really did think you'd left us for good. Scared the hell outta me. God only knows what it did to Dean."
Sam cleared his throat, John's piss-poor attempt at what he probably deemed 'small talk' completely missing its mark. He readjusted his grip on the phone, pressing it right up against his ear as if by doing so he could prevent Dean from hearing his next words. "Um, yeah. I am. That's... I think that's something we should talk about."
"What do you mean, Sam?"
Sam closed his eyes, inhaling sharply as a means of gathering his strength. It was now or never. "Well, Dad, I think I need your help."
"With what?" John asked cautiously. "Sammy, you're scaring me."
Sam was fully hunched over now, knees drawn to his chest protectively as he continued to clutch the phone tight. "It's scaring me too, Dad. But I can't-" he cut himself off with a trembling hitch, trying his damndest not to break out into sobs. "It's Dean. He's holding me hostage. And something else, too. He's messing with my brain, somehow. I don't- I don't fully understand it. Dad, you have to come and get me before-"
The phone was promptly pried away from Sam's fingers, held well out of his reach by a furious Dean.
Sam fumbled to get it back, grappling desperately at any part of Dean he could get ahold of in order to reach it. "Daddy, please, you have to help me!" Sam cried, a pathetic whimper escaping his lips as Dean shoved him back with enough force to bruise, immediately pinning him down.
He squirmed and bucked and thrashed around like a crazy man — anything to break the ironclad grip Dean had on him — but nothing worked. Dean had him locked down tight, splayed flat on his back like a tortoise on its shell, unable to kick loose a leg or throw out an arm. No hopes of defending himself.
"The fuck do you think you're doing?" Dean questioned angrily, tightening his grip on Sam's wrists as the younger man continued to struggle beneath him. "You trynna imply that I kidnapped you?"
There were tears in Sam's eyes now, blurring his vision until the world around him was nothing more than a smear, messy and indistinct, a warped version of reality. Yet, he could do nothing but lie there and let them pool in his tear ducts, unable to wipe them away.
Dean shook Sam violently, unhappy with his lack of response. "Hey! Answer me when I'm talking to you!"
Sam choked on a sob, feeling every bit the helpless little kid Dean kept making him out to be. "I- no! I wasn't!"
"Bullshit!" Dean spat. "You were crying out for help, Sam! Just begging to be rescued from the clutches of your evil, psychotic older brother. Isn't that right?" His shouts ended abruptly, so automatic it was like a switch had been flipped. A sudden, eerie calm settled over Dean's features, setting off all kinds of alarm bells in Sam's head. His voice reached a dangerously low register as he leaned down to murmur in Sam's ear, "Well believe me, Sammy, you haven't seen what a real psycho looks like yet."
Sam struggled harder. He couldn't have been more eager to get away from that cabin, and from the man that kept him there.
Dean smirked at him cruelly, watching on in twisted amusement as he squirmed. "You can struggle all you want, Sweetheart, but you're not going anywhere. Not until I say you can."
Sam stilled, limbs finally falling limp. Dean's temporary illusion of victory didn't last, however, as the moment he let his guard down, Sam flung his head forward, biting down on Dean's arm with as much force as he could muster — which apparently was quite a lot, his teeth tearing deep into the layers of soft and tender skin.
"Shit!" Dean hissed in pain, instinctively reeling back to free the punctured flesh from Sam's jaws, relinquishing his grasp on him in the process.
Sam didn't linger about long enough to glimpse the mess of an injury he'd caused, snatching up the discarded phone and scrambling to get to his feet, making a bee-line for the bathroom.
"Sammy!" He heard Dean call after him, and risked a fleeting glance over his shoulder to see the older man had stood, cradling his hurt arm close to his chest as he began to give chase.
Sam ran faster, socks sliding dangerously against the polished hardwood floor in his rush to get away. He reached the bathroom door and rammed it open with his shoulder, slamming it shut behind him and twisting the lock just in the nick of time.
"Hey! Let me into that fucking bathroom, Sam!" Dean's fists, (or rather, fist), pummelled the door angrily, one hit after the other, rattling the old lock as the door shook rampantly.
"Fuck you!" Sam yelled back, surprising even himself with how clear it came out, especially from his quivering lips.
The banging on the door didn't stop. Sam slowly backed away, bumping into the sink in the process. He startled at the contact, heart skipping a beat.
"Alright, just- calm down," he murmured to himself, wiping a twitchy hand down his face. His palm came back adorned with salty droplets — more tears.
"Fuck," he whispered, reaching up to wipe his face again, this time more aggressively. A glance in the mirror showed his flushed, angry cheeks, ruddy and red from crying. The eyes that stared back at him were shiny; glistening, the lashes that framed them dark and wet. His pupils were blown wide with adrenaline, and his under eyes had swollen up, purpled like a bad bruise. He was a state.
"Dammit Sam, you better open this goddamn door, or I swear on everything that's good you'll regret it!" Dean was still yelling, fist pounding persistently.
Sam ignored him, redialling their Dad's number with clumsy fingers. John picked up on the second ring with a confused, demanding, "Dean? What's going on over there?"
"It's Sam, Dad. I- I managed to get away. I'm in the bathroom. He can't reach me here," Sam told him hurriedly, watching through wide, fearful eyes as a particularly powerful kick almost had the door flying open. "Or, at least I hope he can't."
"What? Sam, what are you talking about? Just-put your brother on the phone. I need to speak with him," John ordered, taking on that authoritative, no-nonsense, military official tone that filled Sam with an awfully familiar sinking feeling of dread.
"What? N-no. No! Come on, Dad, please! You have to help me!" Sam pleaded, shamelessly desperate. "I need you to get me away from Dean before he does something that I can't undo! Please." His voice cracked painfully on that last syllable, a fine substitute for every word left unsaid. "You're my only hope."
"Sam, I want you to listen to me very carefully," John started, unmistakably stern, putting an end to Sam's frantic ramblings. "You do not need my help. You aren't in any danger. Not with Dean. Now pull yourself together, stop crying over nothing like a pansy-ass, and hand your brother the damn phone. The adults need to talk."
"No..." Sam whispered, shaking his head fervently. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. "No. Nonono. Dad- you can't- you can't do this to me. Not you too."
"Oh please, save the dramatics for somebody stupid. The only thing I'm guilty of doing is not indulging in your selfish, whiny little tantrum," John said matter-of-factly, utterly oblivious — or perhaps just indifferent — to the heartbroken hitch of his youngest's breath at his cruel, unfeeling words. "And you'd better quit bitching about how awful Dean is while you're ahead. I won't stand for it. He's done nothing but be a good brother to you. S'about time you start showing him the respect he deserves."
Sam dropped the phone, letting it clatter harshly against the porcelain tiles as he sank to the floor, head in his hands. Everything just became too much to handle, and he broke down, numb to the incessant, angry raps on the door; ignorant to the dull hum of his name being repeated by both Dean and his father, over and over and over, their voices sometimes overlapping, like a weird spell or incantation.
Time passed by in a strange, disorienting blur. Sam couldn't tell if he'd been sat there on that bathroom floor for minutes or hours, (though he suspected it was the former), when Dean finally succeeded in kicking the door in, flinging it almost completely off its hinges.
He stepped calmly into the room, taking in the sight of his little brother sat in the middle of the floor, the cellphone lying screen-side up a couple inches away from where Dean stood. He kicked it out of the way with the toe of his boot, watching the small device slide across the tiles until it collided with the tub.
"Sam."
Sam slowly lifted his head from his hands, expression pained, but devoid of the tears Dean'd come to expect in moments such as these. "He's on your side," he murmured bleakly, meeting Dean's eyes with a crestfallen look. "Same as always."
"Of course he is."
Sam's brows furrowed slightly upon receiving such a blunt response, watching through narrowed eyes as Dean took another calculated step forward, unnervingly quiet.
"What are you doing?" He asked skeptically, regarding the hand reaching into the inside pocket of Dean's jacket with caution.
"That was very stupid of you, Sam," Dean said suddenly, ignoring Sam's question. "You shouldn't have run off like that."
Sam swallowed, adam's apple visibly working in his throat. "Dean..."
"I won't stand for that kind of behaviour," he continued seriously, his fingers closing around something long and sharp. It's pointy, metallic tip glinted in the light, and Sam's heart sank all the way to his stomach as he realised what he was looking at. A needle.
"Look, I'm sorry, okay? It won't happen again," Sam tried, fighting to keep his voice steady. His eyes never left the quite possibly lethal weapon wielded tightly in Dean's closed fist.
"Oh, I know it won't," Dean agreed, moving to crouch down in front of Sam, flicking the side of the plastic syringe to remove any air bubbles from the orange-tinted liquid inside. "I'll be making absolutely sure of that. Now, stay still. This may pinch a bit."
Dean reached out to grasp Sam's shoulder, tugging him forward forcefully. Sam whimpered, struggling to pull away.
"Wait! No, Dean-!" Too late. Sam felt the moment the needle pierced the surface of the delicate skin in his neck; could feel the mystery liquid entering his bloodstream as Dean pressed down on the plunger, the drugs already starting to take effect.
Sam slumped forward, chin catching on Dean's waiting shoulder. His blinks gradually began to slow, eyes fluttering shut for longer intervals each time they closed. Any and all attempts at movement were limited and lethargic, draining every ounce of energy he had left from his tired body.
"D'n..." he tried to say, but it came out slurred; practically incoherent. Dean shushed him lovingly in response, rubbing a gentle palm up and down his spine. "Shhh, it's okay, Baby boy, you're okay. The worst bit's over now. You've just gotta close those precious eyes for me. Can you do that, hm? Close your eyes for Big brother?"
It was difficult to stay awake in his reduced circumstances, but that didn't stop Sam from trying his damndest anyway, fighting tooth-and-nail against the drug-induced drowsiness threatening to pull him under, fixing Dean with a defiant, spiteful glare.
Dean sighed, making no secret of his disappointment. "Fine, if that's how you wanna play it. Not much point in it, though. Drugs are already in your system. S'only a matter of time before they knock you out cold. You're just prolonging the inevitable."
Sam glowered at him, nothing but hatred in his eyes. He tried to spit in Dean's face in what could've been a powerful show of his contempt, but didn't quite work out the way he intended, leaving an embarrassing wad of spit to dribble down his chin instead.
Dean smirked at that, a spark of amusement glinting in his pupils. "Awh, Sammy, what happened, Baby? Forgot how to aim?" He chuckled at his own cruel joke, patting Sam's back condescendingly.
Sam finally caved, no longer caring to keep up with this facade of rebellion. All of a sudden, he longed for the cloudy haze of sleep to wash over him, to provide him with an easy escape from this nightmarish humiliation ritual.
Luckily, whatever higher power lurked beyond the boundaries of the earth seemed to take pity on Sam this time, as he felt the last of his consciousness begin to slip away from him as Dean hefted him effortlessly into the air, throwing him over his shoulder without so much as a grunt of exertion.
"C'mon, Sweetheart, let's get you to bed," he vaguely registered Dean murmur, right before everything went black.