Title: Last Train to Clarksville
Written For: WynterRebel for the Supernatural General Ficathon (Situation 3)
Warnings: Non-con, non descriptive sex scenes, language
Summary: While investigating a string of murdered teenage boys going back a hundred years, Sam finds out a secret Dean has been keeping since childhood. Takes place before "Shadow".
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or the universe they live in.
Author's Note: This story is inspired in part by a concept I read in Stephen's King's, "The Wastelands". If you're read the book, you'll, hopefully, know which part I'm thinking of.
"What happened that night?"
Dean, who had just walked into the motel room and hadn't even had a chance to put down the Chinese take-out, ignored Sam's cryptic question in favor of unloading the brown paper bag.
"I know you took a page out of Dad's journal. I also know what it said."
That caught Dean's attention. He looked up from the brown paper bag, surprised.
"You forgot dad's habit of using pens that bleed through the paper." Sam said, showing Dean the page. "It took me a while, but I figured it out."
"Can we talk about this later? Kinda hungry right now."
Sam ignored Dean's protest and began reading from the journal.
"October fifth, nineteen ninety-two. Clarksville, Tennessee. The demon is dead. I destroyed its lair this morning but it was Dean, with some help from Sammy, who killed it. I'm proud of them both. While I was waiting for the demon to return to its lair, it went after the boys. The wards didn't stop it. I'm never leaving the boys alone again. We're leaving Clarksville tomorrow."
Sam looked up from the journal. "I just don't get why you wanted to hide this. I mean, I remember this happening. First time I every shot at anything that wasn't target practice."
"Forget it, Sammy. Come try some of this chow mien."
"Um, no. And it's Sam." Sam paused, as he tried to decide what to say next, "This has something to do with the boy that was murdered, doesn't it?" Sam paused, a challenge for Dean to defend himself but all Dean did was sit quietly on the chair by the table. "I know that there was a similar murder fourteen years ago. I know we lived here at the time. I just don't know why you don't want me to know. Dean, what happened that night?"
14 Years Ago
Dean Winchester, not quite fourteen yet, sat at the bottom of the stairs, watching his father prepare for tonight's hunt and wishing he could go with him.
When Sammy's old enough to stay home alone, His father had said when Dean asked, until then I need you to stay here and watch over your brother.
The duplex still smelled of grilled hamburgers, left over from supper. Sammy was already upstairs asleep in bed.
"I'll probably be gone all night. I have to wait for the demon to return before I can burn the house down and that might not be until early tomorrow morning."
Dean liked how his father, unlike his teachers or the convenient stores clerks, treated him like a real person, not some kid to boss around and talk down to. Dean liked how Dad trusted him with the important jobs, like looking after Sammy. And he liked how Dad never lied or told him half truths. Dean could trust Dad and Dad trusted Dean in return.
"And after I'm done with this demon, we'll be leaving."
Dean knew Sammy wouldn't like that. He got so crabby when they moved. But Dean couldn't wait to see the end of this place. The kids were mean and the water tasted funny.
"And don't stay up all night." These were Dad's finally parting words, as he opened the front door to leave, "I want you in bed by eleven."
Dean had been acting off ever since Sam had brought up the latest job, a dead boy in Clarksville, Tennessee. Not exactly red flag material, except he'd been found with his tongue removed and no apparent cause of death.
Dean hadn't wanted to check it out. "Doesn't sound like our type of thing," was what he said. This should have warned Sam that something was up because even the papers were calling it a sacrificial mutilation. In the end, geography won out. Clarksville was only a day off their route, after all. What's one day when you're going nowhere in particular?
Driving into the city of Clarksville, population 123,395, according to the sign at the city limits, Sam couldn't help but feel a sense of déjà vu. But when Sam asked if they'd ever been here as kids, Dean denied ever living in a place as normal as Clarksville. Sam decided that made sense. Besides, they'd been to so many places, that they all started to look the same.
This was an average job and they went through the regular routine: flashed a couple of fake badges, asked a few questions, left before anyone got too suspicious. They talked to the boy's parents, Sam offering condolences, and then to the group of teens who'd found the body in the field behind the high school. When nothing turned up on the interview front, they turned to other avenues, which meant the library and research.
The brothers spent the majority of the afternoon in the library and it was supper time before they had finished collecting and photocopying the relevant newspaper articles and they were both getting hungry. Sam had volunteered to photocopy the articles if Dean would get take-out and then they could meet back at the motel room.
Dean had tried to convince Sam to go out for take-out instead, which was another warning Sam choose to ignore. Instead, Sam had just taken it to mean that Dean didn't want him walking alone after dark. The whole mess with the human hunter hillbillies had made Dean nervous.
"The motel's just down the street. And I'll be careful, I promise." And then, for good measure, "Dad."
Dean left a huff and Sam started the photocopying. According to the articles, there had been a series of unsolved murdered youths dating back nearly a century, all young men between the ages of twelve and nineteen. Some actually mentioned missing tongues. The last murder, prior to their current case, had been fourteen years ago. In fact, there had been murders in 1992, 1978, 1964, 1950 and 1931. That was a murder every fourteen years, almost all of which involved removed tongues.
This was definitely turning out to be their type of job.
Dad would be proud, Sam thought, organizing the articles. It had been his father, after all, who had taught him how to see the connections in the first place. No doubt he would have come to a similar conclusion.
Sam wondered if Dad had ever passed through Clarksville, anytime around 1992. It was possible that Dean wouldn't have remembered. Sam seemed to recall the time between grade 2 and grade 5 as being especially transit, where they were moving almost every other week, sometimes living in the car when Dad couldn't afford rent. It was in those years that Sam and his brother had learned the useful skill of shoplifting.
Dad had gathered a lot of info on cases that he never managed to follow up on or solve. Well, if Dad had some insight on to what was killing these boys, it would be in the journal.
Dad's system of organizing his journal was known only to him. Luckily, it was in basic chronological order and Sam could find the specific year. No entries for the summer of '92, though. There were a couple entries from April (Bog Beast) then nothing again until early 1993 (Skin Walker).
Well, it had been a long shot anyway. If Dad had happened to come across this, he would have dealt with it at the time.
Not that there was any guarantee that I would have been able to read the entry if I found it, Sam scowled down at the open journal, Dad had the worse penmanship on the planet. Case in point, you could barely read the entry for January 23rd because he'd written over the marks left behind from using a felt marker to write the previous entry. In fact, Sam could even read the entry that had bled through.
October 5th, 1992. Clarksville, TN. The demon is dead…
Sam scowled, confused, and continued to decipher the text. It took him a good 15 minutes and a bit of creativity but he figured most of the entry out. Usually, he smiled after accomplishing a puzzle but the information he found just made him scowl harder.
Someone had torn a page out of Dad's journal. Recently. As recent as today. Closer inspection showed fragments of torn paper still in the spine of the note book. And Dean was the only one, besides Sam, who had access to the journal. Dean had torn out a page of Dad's journal.
Sam could easily forgive his brother for lying about living in Clarksville. It was totally conceivable that Dean simply hadn't remembered. But tearing a page out of Dad's journal. Not only was that was a blasphemy on par with destruction of a holy bible but Dean was trying to keep something from Sam for no apparent reason. There was no secret in this journal entry. It shed no new light on the situation at hand, except to confirm that the Winchester family had been in Clarksville a couple of months after the murder 14 years ago. What was Dean hoping to hide from his little brother?
Sam stuffed the papers into his laptop bag and stormed out of the library. The Impala wasn't parked at the motel room. Dean hadn't gotten back yet, which was probably a good thing because Sam was in such a state… Well, he'd do or say something he'd regret later. Better to get his anger under control before he confronted his brother.
He sat on the edge of his bed, with the journal sitting on his lap, eyes closed, taking deep calming breaths. His eyes flashed open when he heard the familiar engine and turned toward the door just as it was opening.
He attacked his brother before he even got properly into the room.
"Dean, what happened that night?"
14 Year Ago
It was past eleven. Dean, dressed in a T-shirt and sweat pants, was asleep on the couch. The TV, set on mute, had lulled him into a gentle sleep. He was dreaming of his mom. Years later, he'd remember that. He was dreaming of him mom and then he woke up.
Dean turned over on his other side, to go back to sleep, and saw his alarm clock blinking, like the power had gone out. Except it wasn't a clock. It was the EMF reader Dad always kept on the coffee table. He had another one for hunting, which he'd taken with him. This one belonged to the house, an early warning system of supernatural attack.
Through blurry eyes, Dean had been looking at the blinking red lights. Suddenly he sat up. Dad wasn't here and the EMF reader was going off. Their house was protected by wards and the only way that something could be close enough to set off the EMF was if it got past the outer wards, the ones Dean had helped his Dad set up around the perimeter of the yard.
Dean threw off the afghan he'd been sleeping under, dashed across the living room and up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Without Dad here, Dean was in charge of keeping Sammy safe.
Sammy was fine, curled up under the covers and fast asleep, as though the EMF wasn't spiking like crazy, like he was safe, protected.
Sammy wasn't the least bit happy about being pulled out of bed. He was down right cranky. But that quickly gave way to nervousness when Dean took the .45 out the bedside drawer and, after checking to make sure it was loaded, pressed it into Sammy's hands. Nervousness turned to near panic when Dean opened the closet door and tried to push Sammy inside.
Sammy would have none of it. He encircled his arms round Dean and buried his head in Dean's t-shirt.
Dean scowled down at his little brother. They didn't have time for Sammy to be scared of the stupid closet monster.
"Sammy." When Sammy didn't look up, Dean tried again, "Sammy."
Finally, he looked up. There were tears in his eyes. Well, shit.
"Sammy, listen to me. You've got to be brave, you hear me. I need you to stay here. Okay?" Dean detached himself from his brother. Sammy didn't look to happy about it but at least he had let go. "You have to stay here. Shoot anything that's not me or Dad. Okay, Sammy? Okay, Sammy?"
Dean had to settle for a small nod. "You stay here until Dad or I come to get you. Don't you come out otherwise." Dean offered his brother what he hoped was a reassuring smile, as he closed the closet doors, "Everything's going to be okay. I'm going to take care of it."
"What happened next?"
Dean looked up from his hands. He was sitting in the only chair in the room, the bag of forgotten Chinese growing cold on the table.
"You know what happened. I went back downstairs. I got attacked. We fought. I was getting my butt kicked and I got lucky."
"You killed it."
"I thought I killed it."
"You didn't kill it?"
"I was thirteen. I'd never killed anything before. I think I just hurt it enough that it ran away."
"That is what this is about? The big secret that you didn't want me to know? That Dean J. Winchester didn't kill every demon he said he did?" Sam couldn't help giving his brother a "You're such a dumb ass" look.
Dean shook his head, frustrated his brother didn't understand, "I let it go. And I lied to Dad about it. And that boy last week died because I didn't have the nerve to tell dad that I didn't really kill it."
"You were thirteen years old. You said it yourself that you'd never killed anything before. You were sacred."
"That's no excuse."
A heavy silence descended over the motel room. Sam wanted to argue with his brother. That's Dad talking, he wanted to say, you were a kid. You shouldn't have been expected to deal with that sort of thing. It was wrong of Dad to expect that of you. Only Sam knew that if he tried to tell Dean this, he'll just be dismissed. Dean was just too stubborn to see anything else.
Sam finally spoke, "So, what do we do?"
"Tomorrow we go after it and kill it."
"How will we find it?"
"Well, these demons are pretty particular. They don't like having to find new haunts. It probably went back to its old lair after we left town. I remember where it is."
14 Year Ago
John pulled up into the back alley and killed the engine. He and Dean had tracked down the house last Saturday, having left Sammy at the library, under the watchful eye of the storyteller. John had figured that the boy would be safer there than alone at the playground.
A few nights of solo work by John had confirmed that his and Dean's conclusion on Saturday was correct. This was indeed the demon's haunt.
Saturday had been a good day. It had been nice to have some company on a hunt and Dean had been eager to learn. The family business, is what he called it. He'd had wanted to come along tonight and John would have let him, if Sammy had been old enough to leave home alone.
Mary would have a fit, of course, if she was here. It was a common thought. But, as always, John pushed it aside. Lots of things would have been different if Mary hadn't died. You just had to make the best of a bad situation.
In a couple of years, John decided, when Sammy's old enough, I'll show Dean what demon hunting is all about.
"That doesn't look like the lair a demon that has been terrorizing this town for over a century." Sam said, looking up at the three story house. In daylight, it looked warm and welcoming and normal. The kind of place Sam wouldn't have minded growing up.
"Must have been rebuilt, after dad burnt it down." Dean said, getting out of the car, "Hey, check this out." Dean pointed to the for sale sign on the front lawn.
"That's a lucky coincidence."
"Or else this demon doesn't like roommates," Dean replied, completely missing Sam's sarcasm, "C'mon."
Sam and Dean slipped in around back. Middle of the morning on a weekday, moms and dads were at work, kids were at school and everyone else was safety inside their homes. Breaking in undetected, by the human world at least, would be easy enough. Dean broke the window on the back door so he could reach the dead bolt. Sam had wanted to pick the lock but Dean was far too impatient. He wanted to give the demon as little warning as possible that they were coming. Sam didn't bother pointing out that breaking the window pretty much announced their presence. Sometimes Dean Logic just didn't make sense to people with normal brain patterns.
"We stick together." Dean said sharply when Sam started to head up the stairs. Sam rolled his eyes. Dean's protectiveness was getting beyond annoying. How bad could this demon be? After all, Dad had believed a thirteen year old, albeit a thirteen year old trained to hunt and kill monsters, had taken this demon down. Surely, two full grown armed men were not going to have issues.
But Sam decided just to shrug it off. He wasn't in a mood to argue with his brother. He wasn't completely sure he'd forgiven his brother from keeping secrets, whatever his reasons.
They did a sweep of the lower levels, with no signs of anything out of the ordinary from the EMF reader or Sam's shining. The house was empty of people, pets, plants, furniture or demons.
They started up the stairs, Dean leading the way, shotgun in on hand and EMF held out in the other. He'd gotten three quarters of the way up the stairs when the meter started to beep and blink.
Dean turned to his brother, holding up the meter for him to see. Only, Sam wasn't behind him. Nor was he at the bottom of the stairs or anywhere in sight.
A crash from downstairs, the familiar sound of a body hitting plaster came as an answer and Dean flew down the stairs, two at a time.
14 Years Ago
In the rush to get to his brother, Dean had run upstairs without turning on a light. Now he had to creep down the stairs in the dark. He didn't want to turn on the lights and attract the attention of whatever was outside. Oh god, he hoped it was still outside. He had his gun, loaded with silver bullets, and his knife, though there was no telling how useful either one will be against something the set off the EMF.
In the near darkness, with only some faint light from the streetlights outside and his own sense of touch to guide him, Dean did a sweep of the lower level. The house and yard were silent and still. The doors and windows were all secure, locks and salt lines all undisturbed.
Dean's last stop was the living room. He stood in the doorway, assessing the room for supernatural presence. The EMF, still sitting on the coffee table, was continued blinking. The glow of the TV, still on mute, gave off flashes of light. Nothing looked out of place.
Dean sensed rather than saw the movement behind him. It was like someone was breathing down his neck. Dean turned on the spot, ready to fire as soon as he located his target. Only… Nothing. No demon. No monster. No creature of the dark. Not even a shadow of a ghost.
Dean's shoulders rolled forward, his upper body relaxing. This was stupid. There was nothing here. Nothing could get passed the inner wards and they were safe inside the house. If it was a supernatural presence that had set the EMF off in the first place.
Dean sighed. Dad was gonna be so pissed. He'd gone and gotten Sammy all upset for no reason. He should probably go back upstairs and tell Sammy everything was alright before the kid had a hea-
The attack came from right in front of Dean, out of the thin air he was looking right through. It had him thrown against the wall and pinned by his wrists, gun wrenched out of his hands and tossed across the room, before Dean had the faintest realization what was happening.
Of course, not having the faintest idea what he was up against hadn't stopped Dean from fighting back. He gave out a battle yell, tried to kick at the invisible
attacker but then his skin started to burn, where the invisible
( The fucker was invisible!)
demon was holding his wrists.
Oh, it burned. It fuckin' burned!
"Dean!" Sam screamed, struggling against whatever creature was pinning him against the wall. But whatever was holding him, and burning his wrists in the process, was fuckin' strong. "Dean!"
It didn't help that he was in this position because of his own stupidity. Dean had told him not to split up. And what had he done? He'd followed a strange noise into the living room. Fuck, he'd thought it was the wind. Not some demon that was gonna nail him to the wall. In more ways than one, if this thing got what it wanted.
And there came Dean, rounding the corner. Sam was happy to see his brother but less than thrilled to see the raised shotgun pointed at him.
At that moment, Sam felt very bad that he'd shot his brother back at the Roosevelt Asylum. And he really hoped that Dean wasn't going to do what he thought because Sam was the one who cleaned up Dean afterward and, damn, rock salt did nasty things to flesh.
Dean fired the shotgun. Sam only had enough time to close his eyes and brace for the pain. But there was no pain, only an ear piercing scream and the burning hands letting go their hold. With the pressure on his wrists no longer holding him up, Sam fell to a floor. But he only rested there for half a second before his brother was beside him, pulling him up and out the back door.
14 Years Ago
Dean had no get love for the duplex Dad had rented for the month. It smelled funny and the taps leaked but it was okay because the rent was cheap, which kept Dad happy, and they had no next door neighbors, which meant Sam and Dean could be as loud as they wanted. It had never occurred to Dean that no neighbors might also mean that there was no one but Sammy to hear him scream.
Sammy. Safe upstairs. Safe as long as Dean was done here, busy with the invisible
(Why hadn't it occurred to him that it could be invisible? Dad was gonna be so disappointed when he got home.)
Dean felt the demon lean forward and couldn't stop himself from flinching away. Only there was no way he could escape the voice. It sounded like his mom's voice though it spoke words his mother would never say,
"Gonna fuck you, boy, and then I'm gonna take a shot at that there pretty little brother of yours."
It wasn't even noon when they got back to the motel. The whole experience at the demon haunted house had taken less than an hour, including the drive there and back.
Sam sat down on his bed and let Dean take a look at his wrists. The burns weren't bad enough to require hospital treatment. In fact, if they looked after these properly, they might not even scar, though they'd hurt like a bitch. Dean gave Sam a couple T3s for the pain and began preparing to wrap the burns.
"You didn't tell me it was a succubus." Sam accused in an attempt to distract himself from the pain.
"That's 'cause it wasn't a succubus."
"Well, it really wanted to have sex with me, so I'm thinking it was a succubus."
"It wasn't a succubus." Dean paused and offered a cocky smile, "It's a lust demon."
"What's the difference?"
"Succubae seduce. Lust demons just take."
"So, what do we do?" Sam asked as he watched Dean finished bandaging his right wrist and move on to the left. "Exorcism?"
"I don't think so. I'm pretty sure Dad was planning on killing her."
"What, you think it's a male demon?"
Sam shuddered as he remembered the voice near his ear. Gonna fuck you, boy, and then me and your bother are gonna have some fun. Sam shook his head. She had defiantly been female.
"Should we set up wards?"
"No point. She'll just get past 'em."
"Like she did that night?"
Dean looked up from tending Sam's wrists. He looked into his brother's eyes for nearly half a minute, searching for… something, before turning back to the task at hand.
Ignoring Sam's comment completely, Dean went on, "We should get some rest, so we can keep watch at night. She only comes out at night, for some reason."
"We got back and we kill her."
"Not sure yet. But we know it can be done and we know she can be hurt." Dean said as he finished bandaging the burn, "For now, we should just rest. We'll figure it out tomorrow."
Sam leaned back on his bed, too tired from the fight and the codeine to do more than kick off his boots. He didn't even complain when Dean had to help tuck him in and he quickly fell asleep under the watchful eye of his older brother.
14 Years Ago
Sammy hated the closet. He was sure there was a monster in there somewhere. He'd been told by Dad that he was probably just dreaming. But, just in case, Dad had bought Sam a gun, an early Christmas present. Sam wished he'd gotten a Gameboy instead.
The only cool thing about the gun was that Dean had been immensely jealous. Dean had been ten before Dad had let him even practice shot and he hadn't gotten his own until his twelfth birthday.
Course, I never had nightmares, like a pansy girl, was what Dean had said. This was true because Dean never did have nightmares. Or got scared. Or cried.
Dean would be disappointed, Sam thought to himself, as he huddled in the corner of the closet, gripping the .45 tightly in his small hands, tears rolling down his cheeks. At least, He told himself, I'm strong enough to not cry out loud.
Sammy could hear banging downstairs and his brother yelling. Or was he screaming? It was hard to tell. They sounds were muffled. Regardless, Sammy crouched tighter into the corner, his imagination providing images of his brother being ripped apart, torn limb from limb, end from end.
But the noises were better than silence 'cause silence would mean that Dean had lost, that he was dead. And then the monster would come upstairs and do the exact same thing to Sammy.
Or worse, it wouldn't. It'd go away, satisfied with its kill, and Dad would come home and find Dean dead and Sammy hiding in the closet. And Dad would hate him for being a coward, for hiding when Dean needed help.
Sam looked down at the gun in his shaking hands.
Please, he prayed without even knowing he was praying, Please…
Sam jerked awake from the unpleasant memory. He lay there a moment, allowing his body re-orientate to the waking world. The codeine was wearing off and his wrists were back to throbbing again. The clock radio read 3:36, in the afternoon, judging from the sun outside the curtained windows. Good. He could take another dose of T3's and get some more sleep before he had to worry about the lust demon.
"Dean?" Sam called as he sat up, hoping that his brother would just bring him the medication. Only, on further inspection, Dean wasn't in the room and the Impala was gone.
He could be anywhere, Sam tried to tell himself, A bar. Getting supper. Taking a drive to clear his head.
All Sam's speculation added up to was a whole lot of bullshit. Sam knew damn well where his brother had gone.
As Sam struggled into his boot and jacket, he cursed the pain in his wrists, the codeine for making his head so fuzzy, Dean for being such a stupid asshole and himself for being an even stupider one.
He should have made Dean promise not to handle this himself and then realized that would have been useless. Dean had never been much for keeping promises.
14 Years Ago
Dean never made any promise, not to Dad or Sammy or even his dead mother, yet somehow his duty had always been implied. He had taken his little brother out of a burning building and, from then on, his brother was his responsibility. It was probably a good thing he'd never promised. He was horrible at keeping promises.
Dean screamed as the demon's claws torn away his clothes and into the flesh of his back and thighs. But even as he screamed, he fought. He bit. He scratched. He kicked. He hit. Dean kept only one thought in his mind.
As long as she's busy with me, Sammy's safe.
Dean got back inside the house the same way he and Sam had gotten in earlier that morning and found the house just as they had left it, empty and intact, aside from the Sam shaped impression in the living room wall.
Dean wanted nothing more than to get a third option from Dad. After all, he'd been the one hunting this demon in the first place. In the good ol' days, Dad was just a phone call away. Not so anymore. If he tried to phone, all he'd get was the stupid phone message. The journal entry didn't tell him anything of any use and his own memory was full of holes.
Dean hadn't been expecting the demon to be able to attack like it had Sam that morning. He'd been under the impression that the demon's powers were diminished during the day and that was why she choose to hunt at night. Obviously not.
He hoped he wasn't in the process of making another mistake. He'd decided to carrying less weaponry compared to usual, just a pair of concealed knives. He had a plan, a poor, ill-conceived, dangerous plan, and, for this to work, he needed to appear as vulnerable as possible. Unfortunately, to appear vulnerable, he actually was vulnerable.
"C'mon out, bitch!" Dean yelled to the house, his voice reverberating through the empty rooms, "C'mon! You know you want me!"
A familiar breeze stirred at Dean's neck, rising up his neck hairs but Dean stood his ground and let her come to him. All part of the poor, ill-conceived, dangerous plan.
Dean could feel her greed and lust and anticipation. You didn't need the Shining or an EMF to know that. She was desperate to jump his bones but she was holding back. No way was she going to underestimate this man, who had bested her twice.
"C'mon, bitch. You wanna fuck? Let's fuck."
Dean shuddered as something, the demon's fingertips, brushed against his chest and back.
The demon pulled out the blade stashed in Dean's belt, covered by his shirt. It hung in the air by an invisible hand.
Shit, Dean thought, One down, one to go.
The knife floated in the air so long that Dean thought she was going to reject his offer and just kill him.
In the end, the need for sex won out, despite the demon's suspicion. The knife flew across the room, far out of reach, and Dean was on his back, on the floor, the demon on top, her invisible nails clawing at his jeans, her wicked tongues alternating between attacking his mouth and whispering obscene nothings in his ear.
Ain't gonna go down like that, Dean thought, flipping the demon on to her back. The demon was invisible, not insubstantial. And she was about to learn why you didn't fuck with a Winchester.
14 Years Ago
Dean's fight weakened under the demon's abuse. She'd finally gotten tired of his futile yet annoying resistance and had slammed his head into the floor, three times in secession. He'd blacked out and when he came to, well, he wished he could just go back unconscious but the best he could manage was to close his eyes.
He didn't understand how this can be happening. Not that he doesn't understand the actions. He's thirteen. He's taken Sex Ed., which the adults hope will counter all he's learned from movies, his friends and nudie magazines by telling him to abstain until marriage or else he'll end up with something nasty, like genital warts or the AIDS. But how she can do this to him if he doesn't want this, he doesn't know.
He tells himself. At least, he thinks it's himself. Maybe it's a voice that's not his. Who is it? Dad? Sammy? Mom? Dean digs his nails into the demon's upper arms but she doesn't even notice. She was too preoccupied in her own lust.
The voice says again but Dean doesn't have it in him. He's lying on the floor, gasping. He's in pain. He's hit his head. His thoughts and vision are blurry. It hurt to see. He keeps his eyes closed.
Dean just lies there. And like the pain he felt when he broke his arm after jumping out of the second story window when he was eleven, he rides it out.
With every thrust, she became clearer, more visible. Dean's relieved that his recollection had not failed him on this point, that his childhood memory was not a stress hallucination. Sex makes this bitch visible and, fuck, was she ever an ugly cunt.
They take turns pressing each other into the floor. They fight each other, claw each other, bite and kiss and hit and thrust. He holds on with everything he has, afraid to give an inch. She grasps him tightly in return, caught between wanting to flee and the need to fulfill her lust. She's not happy with this arrangement. She doesn't much appreciate being fucked. Dean doesn't much care. Payback is sweet.
"Take it, you fuckin' bitch," he gasps into her demon ear, "take it."
14 Years Ago
Dean didn't recognize the shots for what they were at first. But as the weight of the demon lifted off him, pulled off of him, Dean felt relief. Dad must have come home early and it was going to be okay. Dean had done his part and now Dad would take care of everything.
Except, when Dean sat up, Dad was nowhere to be seen. Dean saw only Sammy crouched on the stairs, the .45 trembling in both hands and the demon rushing at him.
Dean scrambled to his feet, cursing at his brother: for leaving the closet, for having such a lousy shot, for losing all ability to fight or run or scream. He wasted precise seconds finding his knife before rushing after the demon that was running towards his brother.
She's stronger than him. In the end, that's all it comes down to. She's stronger and she has more endurance. This was a stupid plan, after all.
Dean was back on the bottom and just couldn't find the strength to flip himself back on top. It was taking everything in him just to hold on.
She was thrusting her tongue into Dean's mouth and he felt the sharp sting of her fangs cut into the fleshy insides of his mouth.
The demon suddenly reared back and Dean let her go. He didn't have the strength to hold on anymore, just to think, well, there goes my tongue. Only there wasn't any pain or blood in his mouth and he was pretty sure that was his tongue moving around in between his teeth.
Dean struggled to his feet, pulling out the boot knife, and faced a familiar scene, yet different all the same. For one, the man standing in the doorway, stance ready, curved knife in his hand, abandoned shot gun at his feet, was no terrified nine year old crouched on the stairs, with a .45 clutched in his trembling hands.
For another, the demon was not longer the giantess who'd towered over him in his memory. Hell, now that he wasn't thirteen anymore, he was actually a couple inches taller. And Sam was taller still.
Still, this was Dean's fight and he had no intention of letting his little brother win it for him. With her preoccupied with what to do with this newcomer, Dean ran up and grabbed her from behind. The demon let out a shriek of anger that was abruptly ended when Dean slit her throat. Dean let go and she fell to the floor, dead. Dean looked down at her sprawled form, a mere shadow of the demon that had haunted his dreams for too long, and decided she was not dead enough for him.
After he was done, the demon was sporting over 20 stab wounds, deep gashes, some of which punctured her through and through. Dean rose, covered only in the tatters of his shirt and drying blood, some his, some the demon's. He shared a look with his brother, thank-you Sam for letting me do what I had to do, and his feet promptly gave way beneath him.
14 Years Ago
The demon was gone. The house silent except for Dean's heavy breathing and Sam's crying. Dean, wrapped in the afghan, sat on the couch with his little brother. Sammy had curled up into a fetal ball, his head buried into the back of the couch. Dean rubbed his back in circles, repeating over and over in as soothing a voice a possible, "We're okay. We're okay."
Dean tried not to look at his blood stains on the carpet, a heavy smear of red against the tan, concentrated mostly where she'd held him down. It made his stomach turn to think about what had happened there and he had to remain strong until Dad got home.
Dean still had his knife in his hands, the demon's dark blood drying on the blade. He also has the gun. Sam's in no condition to be handling it right now. Whatever courage that had taken him to come down and shoot at the demon had vanished the second he was forced to face the beast.
Dean knew he should be angry at his brother for not staying safe in the closet but he just could find it in him. Sammy had saved both their lives tonight. Besides, Sammy never had been good at following orders.
Sam had wanted to talk to his brother ever since they came back from the demon's house. Only there hadn't been a proper time to bring it up. After Dean had collapsed (Sam was careful not to say fainted because Dean was insistent that he hadn't fainted, his legs had just given way), all Dean wanted was a hot shower and a soft bed.
Dean had taken an hour long shower that had steamed up the whole motel room because Sam had insisted the Dean leave the door slightly ajar, in case Dean's legs happened to "give way" again. Dean hadn't put up much of a fight, which meant he either agreed or was just too tired to argue. He'd fallen asleep under the watchful eye of his younger brother.
Over the next couple of weeks, Sam watched his brother, looking for the events regards Clarksville and to make sure his brother was going to be okay. On the sly, of course, cause if Dean caught him watching, there would be words, loud, sarcastic words.
For the first few days, Dean had been broody, like when he'd been like after the whole reaper thing in Nebraska. But then they killed a werewolf in Pennsylvania and Dean seemed to settle back into himself.
In the end, it was Dean who finally started the conversation. Dean was driving the Impala through Mississippi and Sam was trying to sleep.
"You want to talk about what happened in Clarksville."
It wasn't a question.
Sam sat up straighter, "Dean, you don't have to-"
"You want to talk about it, don't you? You want to know that I'm okay?"
Sam can't help but think, No, you're not. 'Cause I saw how you tore that demon apart. You didn't just kill it. You slaughtered it. And what happened when we were kids? You can't be okay with that either 'cause I wouldn't have been okay. Even if it happened now, if you hadn't been fast enough with the shotgun, I wouldn't have been okay.
Except, maybe Dean was okay. Because Dean was always okay. Even when he was dying, he was still okay. Dean had always been the strongest of both of them.
"I didn't know," is all Sam can manage to say, "I mean, I remember coming down the stairs but I thought you were fighting."
"We were. We were just fucking too."
Sam winced. It almost hurt to hear Dean talk about such a traumatic event so flippantly. Like it didn't bother him. Maybe it really didn't.
"Did you and Dad… ever talk about what happened that night?"
"Nah," Dean said with a shake of his head, "I don't think he even knew."
14 Years Ago
John had suspected. He'd been hunting the demon, after all, and he knew what it was capable of. But Dean had seemed fine. He was a little shaken but that was to be expected. After all, he'd never had to fight any type of monster on his own before, let alone kill one.
A good father, John would tell himself years later, when he was making a mental list of all the wrongs he'd ever committed against his boys, would have taken Dean aside and asked. But John, in his weakness, just never knew how to form the words.
John supposed the most appropriate time would have been when Dean was sitting on the kitchen counter in his underwear, his eyes half closed with exhaustion and pain, letting John clean out the wounds. Only John hadn't brought it up, because Sammy was there, wrapped in a blanket, but refusing to go to sleep. And besides, Dean was too tired to answer anything beyond "yes sir" and "no sir". Though looking back, that might have been more helpful. John imagined the conversation would have gone something like this:
Did it have sex with you?
Then John could have said that no matter what had happened, Dean was still his son, and he still loved him, would always love him, and that he was damn proud of him.
Only that never did end up getting said, except about how proud he was of them. That he told both of them several times that night. He wondered if either of the boys even heard a word.
Maybe, if Dean had broken down, started sobbing uncontrollably or refused to speak, John would have found the time, sat Dean down, pushed the issue. But he didn't because… because Dean was fine. If something had happened, it would have shown through.
Maybe if Sammy hadn't had so many nightmares in the weeks afterward, hadn't started wetting the bed again, hadn't so obviously needed his father's attention, maybe John would have been able to take a moment to focus on his other son. Maybe.
It would only be years later that John realized that when he had asked about the demon, Dean hadn't actually said he'd killed the thing. He'd just said he'd taken care of it. But that was years later and by then Dean was almost twenty and there was really no need to bring up bad memories if there was no cause. Besides, by then, Sam was well into his 'I fucking hate everything supernatural' phase and John and Dean were preoccupied with dealing with Sam. Sam had always needed the most attention.
So, in the end, John never got around to talking to Dean about that day and Dean never felt he had a right to. After all, Dean was always fine, even when he wasn't.
"So, are there anymore deep, dark secrets I should to know about?" Sam asked, hopefully in what would be interrupted in a joking manner.
"Sam, you're my brother," Dean answered, "And I'd die for you, but there are some things I need to keep to myself." Then he looked over and flashed an "Oh, I am the Shit" grin. Sam could only roll his eyes.