warning off page attempted rape of main character and murder of oc
he doesn’t remember anything until he swings open the car door, violence in his belly, stabbing deep
Pre show, very AU. Beta by the lovelytwivamp92, everything is right because of her. Mistakes are all mine.
Title from Sober, Tool
there's a shadow just behind me, shrouding every step I take
making every promise empty, pointing every finger at me
waiting like the stalking butler, whom upon the finger rests
murder now the path called must we
“Hey, kid. You got a phone call. Girl says it’s an emergency.”
Dean slides out from under the beater, already getting to his feet, wiping the sweat from his brow, “An emergency?” He drops the wrench, clank echoing hard against the concrete floor.
The owner of the garage shrugs his shoulders, dirty sweat creasing in the corners of his collarbones. “That’s what she said.”
“Dean,” her voice breaks, breathless, tinny over the wire. His heart constricts and freezes in his chest, cold flushes down his body to his toes, flames burning back up. “I need you to come,” she sobs out the last word. “—home.”
He doesn’t remember leaving the garage, doesn’t remember peeling the coveralls from his upper body, doesn’t remember the drive to their motel “apartment”, tires smoking, sliding on rails, heat shimmering above the blacktop.
He doesn’t remember anything until he swings open the car door, violence in his belly, stabbing deep.
The door’s been kicked in.
“Sam,” he bellows, eyes refusing to adjust to the gloom fast enough, palmetto bugs zooming through the room at his face, fear beating the heart from his body.
She’s on the couch, knees to her chest; hands over her mouth either keeping her from screaming or throwing up. Her face is discolored and swollen, dead blood pooling beneath the skin. She’s unfurling, jumping over something on the floor, and into his arms, skin slick and hot with fever.
“It--he was going to-- Dean. I didn’t mean to--” She’s crying, sobbing hard, soaking his neck with snot and tears. Her breath on his face smells like vomit, but she’s whole and she’s beautiful.
“Sam,” he says, relief coursing through his body. Years of denying what he feels crumbling, because in this instant he knows.
He grabs her face with his hands and looks hard, mouth going dry, seeing the crusted blood under her nose, the split in her lip. Looking over her head at the destruction of the room, the overturned chairs, brown grocery bags on their side, boxes of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese, bottles of Coke and Spaghetti O’s scattered across the scarred linoleum. There’s a random patter of blood splattered on the floor. He pulls away, sees the rip at the collar of her t-shirt; finger marks against her throat, bruises above her hip bones.
And red, then all he sees is red, sliding through him like a flaming sword, igniting rage deep in his chest.
Someone tried to—“Did he—are you?” He can’t even say the words.
She shakes her head, wiping her nose and cheeks with the back of her arm, just like she used to do as a child. “He tried.” she says, voice almost unrecognizable, turning away from him, hand on her stomach. “He had a knife, said he was going to slit my throat.” Sam looks over her shoulder and Dean’s eyes follow.
Louie, the neighbor, dead on the floor. Louie sitting outside all day, smoking cigarettes and drinking from a paper bag, watching them come and go; playing nice day after day, trying to make friends.
“I killed him.”
Dean grabs her and pulls her close, wishing he could soak her in, keep her safe, protect her from becoming like him. Sees cause of death, the dead guy’s head bent at an impossible angle, his eyes open and staring at nothing. “You did nothing wrong, Sam.” Dean says, his chin on top of her head, allowing his cheek to lie for a moment against her soft, soft hair. “Look at me. You did nothing wrong.”
“He said there had been others. Told me they were looking--he was wanted--there were unsolved murders--other girls before I was able to--” her voice trails off, hand covering her mouth. She lurches away from him into the bathroom and he hears her retching, liquid splashing into the bowl.
Before she was able to get her hands around his neck, twisting and pulling until the delicate vertebrae separated, he thinks, the toilet flushing, water running in the bathroom sink. She comes back into the room on shaky legs, hand bracing her up against the wall.
He grabs her when she gets close, pulling her into an embrace, his hands sliding up and down her arms, gooseflesh rising against his fingers. “I should’ve called the cops, shouldn’t I’ve?” she says, voice rough. “I mean, are we gonna call the police?”
Dean shakes his head, already thinking four states ahead. “No, it’s too risky.”
Sam throws her head back, nodding once, wiping her face, turning away from him, shutting him out. She's got a problem and she'll solve it on her own, fuckyouverymuch. Damn Sam and her high moral compass.
“Look, I won’t have them take you away while they try and sort out who’s the bad guy in this. I know it’s not you, but you’re only seventeen and I’m not your legal guardian. Dad’s on a hunt God knows where and may or may not be able to get back here in time. The idea of you in a foster home, or worse, in a jail cell where I can’t protect you, scares me to fucking death, Sam. You get that?”
Kneeling back on her heels, she stands one of the brown bags up and starts to throw the fallen groceries in. “Of course I get it, Dean. Jesus, I was just asking. Thought maybe we should do the right thing for once.” Stopping, she looks at the dead body, takes a deep breath, braces her elbows on her knees, and drops her head into her open hands.
Dean falls to his knees in front of her. “Sammy, look at me.”
“Sam,” she corrects, muffled behind her palms, until he forces her hands down.
“This is the right thing. Just because he was human doesn’t not make him a monster,” Dean says, the tips of his fingers gently touching her bruised cheek, tilting her face up to look at him. “And just because he’s dead, doesn’t mean I don’t want to kill him all over again.”
Her breath catches at the huskiness in his voice, eyes flying to his, pupils dilating. He feels the spark of electricity against her skin. Dean slants his head to the side, whispering her name. She bites her bottom lip as he says, “If I lost you—”
She stands, breaking contact, hands in her back pockets, looking at the floor, anywhere but him. “I’ll go get our stuff packed. I don’t think the place next door is rented, so no one heard anything, but if we’re gonna go, we need to get moving. I can’t be here anymore.”
“Okay, you do that,” Dean says softly, still on his knees staring at her retreating back, head spinning because he’s pretty sure he was planning to kiss her, the sudden need and want a physical ache in his bones. He huffs, stands and looks over his shoulder at the dead body in the middle of the room. “Dude,” he grumbles. “I’m so looking forward to salting and burning your ass. Might throw in a little mutilation because you and me? We got us a huge-ass problem.”
Two hours later and she’s staring out the dark window, pale face reflecting against the glass in ghostly flashes from the street light symphony as they rush up the A1A. There’s two hundred miles to the state line, the ocean waves crashing on the right and a dead body in the trunk. They’ve got no place to call home, enough gas money to get them to Pastor Jim’s and two bags full of shit all they got to eat and drink until they get there.
And he wants a beer, or twelve. No, fuck that, he wants a freaking full ass bottle. Doesn’t care what it is as long as it’s amber and burns going down because the last thing he wants right now is Sam’s sullen silence. He hates when she gets like this, when she won’t look at him, and he can’t figure out what she’s thinking by the expressions floating across her face.
He’s in over his head, he knows that much. Because somewhere back there, between finding her bruised on the couch and folding herself into the Impala, he realizes he crossed a bridge, burning it behind him. Because all he wants is for the towns to spread out so he can turn off this interstate, salt, burn and bury the scumbag in his trunk. Then he wants her to scream, to cry, to shoot at something until she’s not broken anymore, until she realizes that yeah, murder’s a sucky milestone, but eventually she’ll get over it.
Because he can taste guilt coming off her in waves, bitter on his tongue with the sour tang of her breath and sweat. She’ll be sick for the next few days, but she’ll have to get over it, because he knows there may come a time in her future when she’ll have to do it again.
He stops just inside of Georgia, Spanish moss hanging from the trees and gliding with the breeze, heat and bugs rising with the sun, shovel against his shoulder as he delves into the tall, brown grass. She’s asleep, finally, in the back seat, curled up in a ball, forearm for a pillow and the old man’s army jacket across her legs. He’s sure in an hour or two she’ll wake up sticky and rumpled, but her breathing didn’t change when he stopped the car and that’s enough for him. Her face is a mess; green mingling with the purple and the violence he felt back at the motel rises once again. His wishes with all his heart he could bring Louie back to life just so he could kill him slowly.
The smell hits him in the face and he flinches back as soon as he pops the trunk, dude getting ripe really quick in the Florida heat. He hates Florida with a dying passion, doesn’t care if the Skunk Ape goes on a rampage and murders hundreds of people, just hopes to never has to see the inside of this God-awful state again. Another reason he’s glad he stopped, because with a smell like this, scum bag will make it rough to stop for gas real soon.
“Aw baby,” he murmurs to the car, dumping the tarp covered body on the ground, pulling the additional tarps from over the arsenal and dropping them, ruined. “I’m sorry I had to do this to you. But it was for Sam, you understand, right? As soon as we’re settled, I’ll detail you nice and good, promise.”
He closes the trunk quietly, sneaking around the car and peeking through the open back window, a little sigh of relief at the quiet rumble of her snores. Nodding his head, he sets off to do what he has to do.
Sam’s sitting on the trunk when he returns; one of his old t-shirts tied in a knot at her back, tight against her chest, a mile of flat tummy showing above her jeans, an unopened can of Coke by her side. He catches it one handed when she under hands it to him, dropping the shovel on the ground before popping the tab and sucking most of it down in four large swallows. He’s soaked with sweat, sugary sweet Coke washing the smoke and burning flesh taste from his tongue. With one hand, he pulls the wet t-shirt over his head, wipes his face with it before dropping it in the dirt.
She flushes and averts her eyes, pushing a hand through her hair and away from her face, humidity raising curls not seen since babyhood. Dean used to hate those curls, hated the fights and the screams when he tried to brush them smooth. He thinks about the small, even scars on the inside of his arm, the first time she drew blood, marked him hers, quick and true.
“Thanks,” she finally says, squinting into the sun at his back, fingers playing with the frayed threads of denim at her knees. “I don’t know if I would have been able to do that.”
Dean finishes the rest of the Coke and waves her from the trunk. Leaning back, she slides off, shirt riding up and he ignores the flash of heat to his groin, cock twitching in his pants. She’s a fucking mess of bruises and he wants to pull her down to the ground and kiss her until she forgets everything. “Don’t worry about it. I might’ve smashed and stabbed him with the shovel a few dozen times before I salted and burned him; no asshole ghost will rise to rape and kill.”
She flinches and frowns, brows tightening, crossing her arms across her chest. “I watched the smoke above the kudzu. Seemed like the least I could do.”
“Sam,” he begins, digging the keys out of his pocket and popping the trunk. He dumps the shovel, the dirty shirt and the empty can of Coke in before turning. “I don’t know how many more ways I can--”
She smiles sadly, breaking his heart a little. “I know, he raped and killed other girls, he was a monster. We hunt and kill monsters all the time, blah, blah, blah. I get it Dean. It doesn’t make me feel any less guilty, okay? Let me deal with this. I’ll be okay.” She turns away from him, staring off into the woods. “Probably.”
Insects and birds chatter away, sunlight filtering through the hanging moss and lighting the gold in her hair like fire. Slamming the trunk, he moves behind her, ignoring the stiffening of her body, wrapping his arm around her bare waist, chin on her shoulder. There’s a break down, bitter fight waging inside him, between what he should do and what he wants to do, knowing he can never let what almost happened happen again, never wants to entertain the thought of living without her.
Dean knows he shouldn’t be doing this and realizes suddenly he doesn’t care. He wants to open her up, spread her before him, taste the secrets she hides. He never wants anyone else to touch her, only him, wants to mark her, brand her the same way she’s torn him apart and put him back together since the day she was born.
So he’s searching for words he doesn’t know how to say.
“When you called, when I heard your voice, something inside broke,” he begins, turning his head to ghost his breath against her neck. She shivers, gasp catching in her throat. “And I realized that what it is between us, what we’ve been to each other since we were kids, isn’t like other families, Sam.”
“I know,” she whispers. He takes her hand, entwining her fingers with his, hers so small, so fragile.
He turns her around, looking down at her face, hand cupping the side of her neck, his thumb running over her full bottom lip, leaning in to finally kiss her. “Do you, Sammy? Do you know?”
“Oh, Dean,” she sighs, closing her old, old tired eyes. “I lied when I said I didn’t mean it. I had to do it, I meant it.” She’s seen so much in her short life, been through so much more than most people deal with in a lifetime. “I had to kill him so you wouldn’t.”
He moves back, fingers tightening around her wrist. “What?”
“I knew that if I left him alive after what he tried to do to me and you came home, you’d kill him and I couldn’t, I couldn’t let you do that, because what if it went wrong? What if someone saw or heard and the cops were called and they came and found you, took you away from me?”
And he’s drowning, head spinning, falling deeper down into the rabbit hole. He brushes a soft kiss against her lips, groaning when she parts her lips, opening herself to him, licking into his mouth. She’s jelly in his arms, her hips fitting against his, sweat pooling against his fingers.
He takes his time kissing her mouth, learning all he can before kissing down her neck, loving her shivers against him, licking the salt from her skin, sucking on her nipples through the damp cotton. She falls back against the trunk of the Impala; elbows flush against the black metal. Dean’s licking down her torso, unbuttoning her jeans, dropping to his knees to kiss the skin revealed in the open v. He looks up at her, dappled sunlight dancing along the bruises on her face.
She pushes her legs farther apart, red Georgia clay puffing up around her calves. “What if they find evidence? What if someone remembers our license plate, what if they come after us?” she whispers, hands in his hair. He stands, her hands sliding down his face, cupping behind his neck. Fear burns in her eyes and reddens her cheeks.
And she’s falling, eyes brimming just for him, her fear of suddenly losing him, and he envelops her in his arms, kissing the tears sliding down her cheeks. “I’ll never leave you, Sammy. They’ll never find us. I set fire to the couch back in Florida, the whole place must've went up like cardboard and newspaper, no evidence left by now. I’ll dump the plates on the car. We’re safe. You’re safe. I promise.”
“Let’s run, Dean.” she says, suddenly frantic. “Let’s pick a direction and drive, leave Dad to his suicide mission, we’ll stay together, you and me. We’ll never have to kill again.”
“Sammy,” he whispers against her lips, grasping her face, kissing her mouth again. “I can’t do that; we can’t do that to Dad. We’ve got to go after the thing that killed Mom.”
She pulls from him, eyes going cold, walking away, saying over her shoulder, “I don’t have to do anything except breathe, eat and shit.”
“Damn it, Sam. Don’t you talk that way about them,” he says, realizing she doesn’t need him the way he needs her. She’ll survive, regardless if she kills another human in her lifetime, because there's steel running under all her softness.
He wishes he could be so sure about himself.
She pulls open the car door, silently sliding across the seat, slamming the door behind her.
Breaks his heart all over again.
sequel: even if the sky is falling down