Summary: Dean and Sam were separated from John at an early age and grew up apart. Many years later they meet again under circumstances they'd never thought possible. Through pain, camaraderie and an escape involving a black Ford Mustang they get their lives back.

Author's note: This story is a mix of two things that have happened to my friends. I wrote it to deal with their problems; to understand what they are going through and why they act the way they do. This was originally written as a script and shot as a short.

I wanted to make a fan fiction story from this and so I've altered the story so it will work with the Winchester brothers as the main characters. I've started rewriting the script into an actual novel and I want you guys to read it and give me your opinions.

The story is based on two of my male friends; one who's been abused all his life (inspired me to write "I know how you feel" as I wanted to convey his emotions.) The other friend of mine was raped a couple of years back. (Yes, he's a guy, but guys can get raped too.)

I asked them before I wrote the script if it was okay that I used their life stories. They agreed to it as long as I didn't use their real names. They wanted the message to come across as well, for people to understand, and sometimes, I guess, it's easier to have someone else write about it than to write it yourself and go through it all over again in your head.

I want to warn those who have a hard time reading abuse fics because this story isn't nice – but it's true to some extent. I've tried not to be so graphic but I've wanted to get their emotions across so it's very angsty and emotional.

With that said, read and um…enjoy?


By definition all pain is invisible; it is a private experience which the person not in pain cannot know directly. Yet, relief of pain and suffering depends on this private experience being shared to the extent that a person's pain becomes another's concern, and thus acquires visibility and a social dimension. For pain to be made visible, it needs to be given voice, not only by the person in pain but also by those with the power to relieve it.

- Scarry





"If people bring so much courage to this world, the world has to kill them to break them, so of course it kills them. The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break, it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too, but there will be no special hurry." -- Ernest Hemingway

Only fragments. There were only fragments of a memory left of the man and the little kid that were once his father and his brother. It wasn't so much their appearances he remembered but rather moments, touches, smells and a sense of safety. He didn't have that anymore. Soft touches weren't that common. Where a kiss should graze the cheek, a slap was placed more often. Shoulders aching to be hugged only received bruises, and a mind screaming for acknowledgement was left numb from years of psychological abuse. And what made it all even harder was that he had once been loved so he was painfully aware of what he was missing out on. His old life was almost completely forgotten – erased from his mind as if swept away by a great tidal wave. And his name… Even his name had been taken away from him. It was gone. And the personality attached to it, gone with it. Ten years later his new name was still as foreign to him as it had been the first time he'd been addressed with it. He wasn't an 'Ulrich'. He was a Dean, goddamnit!


The voice had him flinching. He hadn't even opened the front door yet and the monster of a man was already sensing his presence. How was that even possible?

Before he knew it the door was flung open and he was standing in the doorway, sleek moustache on a red and bloated face. Right then, for a fragment of a second, Dean considered dropping the bags of groceries and run. But where would he go?

"Get your ass in here right now, Ulrich."

It's Dean, you bastard! "Yes, sir."

The man stalked back inside the house and Dean followed warily, the calm worrying him. Calm had usually preceded the worst run-ins with the man. And like always, he had no idea what he had done wrong.

"When I tell you to do something I expect you to do it." He was angry. Dean could tell. He had mastered the skill of reading the man's signals. A red, bloated face; calm voice; trembles of excitement - they all spoke to him, and they told him to run and hide. Next phase: droplets of sweat, heavy breathing…

Now what? "But you told me--," he faltered.

"Don't talk back to me, son!"

I'm not your son! "I'm sorry."

The man wiped at his forehead where the first droplets of sweat were now visible. Dean watched him in silence, waiting for the man's next move. The wait was worst. Or the 'trepidation of impending doom', to be poetic. No matter how he phrased it he was scared shitless of those seconds of silence and uncertainty.


"Nothing gold can stay. Nature's first green is gold, her hardest hue to hold. Her early leaf's a flower, but only so an hour. Then leaf subsides to leaf, so Eden sank to grief, so dawn goes down today. Nothing gold can stay." -- Robert Frost

'Alone' was a scary word, almost as scary as 'new'.

He had once been a little brother. Or so he'd been told. He didn't remember much. But sometimes a voice or a situation or a smell brought forth a foggy memory from the back of his mind and he knew – knew that he'd once been the baby, the object of affection, the protégé. And he'd feel the presence of those who'd once showed him that unwavering love. He didn't know their names, couldn't see their faces, but in those moments of reminiscence he'd know them like he knew himself and he wouldn't feel so alone.

But most of the time he was alone; left out in the cold; pushed aside; forgotten.

Alone was a scary word because to him it was true, he really was alone.


"No man is an Iland, intire of it selfe; every man is a peece of the continent, a part of the maine; if a clod bee washed away by the Sea, Europe is the lesse, as well as if a Promontorie were, as well as if a Mannor of thy friends or of thine owne were; any mans death diminishes me, because I am involved in Mankinde; And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee." -- John Donne

Ten years had passed since his boys had been taken away from him. Ten years of putting everything on hold to look for them. Ten years of roaming around the country in what was evidently a fruitless search.

John gulped down the last of the whiskey and slammed his glass down on the counter. Several sets of eyes turned to stare at him and the barmaid shot him an annoyed look. He didn't care. The initial shock and pain of losing his sons had turned into frustration and bitter anger over the years.

He'd been robbed of everything and he was sick of it. His wife had been taken from him thirteen years earlier and then his sons. Mary was gone but his sons weren't. He was going to get them back.


The Separation

She'd been working at the hospital for twenty years and had learnt how to distance herself from the bad things she had to witness every day. But the scene played out before her was sickening – even to her. The man was hysterical, as were his kids. They were screaming for their daddy as he was fighting the men that were restraining him and pulling him away from them. The oldest son was fighting the CPS official, desperate to reach his father. The youngest son was shaking with sobs, his longing gaze set on his father; confusion in his eyes, and she realized that he had no idea why this was happening to them. Abused children were never confused as to why they were separated from their parents. But this kid was.

She blinked away a tear and turned away. She couldn't watch anymore. There were enough spectators in the hallway as it were. She didn't want to witness this -- this kidnapping.

Walking the other way was easier. Taking those steps to physically distance yourself worked when nothing else would. The memory was harder to shake though. She stuffed it in the already filled file of 'life traumas' in her mind to be opened at a later time in the company of a therapist.

The last thing she heard before the door was slammed shut behind her was the pain filled cry "Daaaaaaaaaaaaaad!" and a single tear found it's way out, getting a taste of the cheek that hadn't known crying for a long time.


After the Separation


Strapped in the backseat of the gray BMW, Sam cried all the way from the hospital to the pink house with the white picket fence where the man and the woman lived. His new parents; they liked to call themselves that and he had no idea why they were so persistent in wanting him to say it. They weren't his parents and he didn't care if they were 'new'. He already had a mom and a dad. And a brother.

His heart thumped vividly in his small chest and tears flowed from his eyes. He was so scared he was shaking and he wanted nothing more than for his dad and Dean to be with him. But that wasn't going to happen, he'd been told. His dad and brother weren't going to be a part of his new life.

"Sammy," the skinny woman with too much lipstick said and Sam flinched and cried even harder. Hearing the unfamiliar voice made what was happening even more real and scary.

"Sammy, welcome to your new home."


They had to force him into the car. Once he was inside, the door was shut quickly and the familiar locking sound reached his ears. He screamed at them and pummeled at the window but they just ignored him.

The big German guy that they had introduced to him as his foster dad climbed inside the car and shot him an angry look. Dean didn't care instead he tried to squeeze past the man to get out. The man grabbed him by the collar and pushed him back into the car with such force it almost knocked the wind out of him. Dean froze for a second, kind of taken aback by the man's roughness, just as the door on the passenger side opened and the other man climbed inside. Dean stared at him and the man met his gaze with hard, gray eyes that made Dean more than a little uncomfortable. The man who was the German's brother smirked at him. "He's feisty," he said to his brother and the older man nodded.

"Let me out." The three simple words sounded both like a plea and like a command. They were met by silence and Dean was suddenly afraid of the men in the front. He couldn't take them but he was sure his dad could have had he been around. For at least the tenth time that day he wished that John was there to help him.

The car pulled up to an old yellow house and the men got out. Dean stayed in the backseat - his previous strong desire to get out of the car traded for a fear of what was waiting outside. His so called foster dad unlocked the door to the backseat and pulled it open. Dean quickly scooted over to the other side to get away from the man, only to be grabbed by his brother who'd opened the other door.

The man yanked him out of the car and wrapped two strong arms around Dean's waist to keep him from running off. Dean struggled to get free but the man only tightened his hold on him until he had him in a vice-like grip. Dean panted heavily from the strain of fighting the older man. He gave up for the moment and relaxed in the man's arms.

The foster monster went up to them and grabbed Dean by the ear. Dean bit back the painful groan that suddenly threatened to leave his lips, willing himself to look the man in the eye.

"No more screaming and trying to run away." The man spoke with such force and authority it gave Dean the chills. He didn't dare mouth off to the man. He didn't dare do anything. He was only seven years old. He shouldn't have to.


Cold metal closed around his wrists and he was pulled away from his boys. "Nooo!" he screamed frantically. "Please, no!" His cries were accompanied by Sam's loud sobs and Dean's desperate gasps as he tried desperately to reach his father.


Dean sounded so scared John wanted to cry. "This shouldn't be happening," he thought, "Not to us, not again."

"Dean! Sam!" He was surprised at the sound of his own voice. He sounded just as agitated and scared as his sons did.

John tried to pull free again, kicking one of the men in the shin. The man groaned in pain but didn't let go. A third man approached them and helped the other two restrain him, bringing his battle to an abrupt end.

He watched helplessly as his sons were led off by the CPS officials. Desperation and energy turned to agonizing calm and he slumped in the arms of the three policemen, almost pulling one of them down with him. The only thing dear to him had been taken away. He'd lost everything.


To Be Continued…

The Present