Disclaimer: Same as before: I do not own Supernatural, nor do I own the Winchesters. They (unfortunately) and Supernatural belong to the fabulous Eric Kripke.
Warnings: Violence, mild Language, torture, limp!Sam
Author's note: Sorry for the late update guys! I am having trouble writing a lot as, being sixteen years old, had to have my wisdom teeth removed. I had all four of them removed! I've attempted my best at finishing this part off. This next chapter is a small section, but it was something I really wanted to include.
Also, thanks for reviews to you guys! You guys are awesome! Feedback is definitely something that really helps me move forward with keeps me writing. So thank you…
Bobby Singer stood outside behind trees – stalk-still and eyes peeled to his binoculars. What was going on inside the motel where the Winchester's were was beyond anything the older hunter could understand at that moment. First of all, Bobby knew that Dean would never hurt Sam. And Sam would never hurt Dean. Then why was Dean beating the crap out of his little brother? He eyed more closely into the binoculars and noticed the helpless young body of Sam's had being brutally beaten. His feet were dragging from the ground. Although his back was facing him, Bobby could tell Sam was beaten from the front too, as blood trips sported all around the floor of him.
He can't be dead – the thing that looks like Dean Bobby kept telling himself, is keeping him alive for some reason. If it wanted to kill him, he would have had his chance to catch Sam off guard if he was able to tie him up. It wouldn't make sense to kill Sam now.
Pondering about why would have to be done later, so Bobby worked up his action plan. The older hunter went through a list of things in his head of what he could do. He could bring in his load of holy water and silver knives, guns and what not. He could storm in, grab the Dean-thing and have himself a friendly little interrogation – and of course, help Sam. Or he could silently wait out and stake out the place…. Hoping that Dean would eventually come outside and he could nab him there. Or face the other alternative: get the cops involved.
Bobby shook his head at that one. Nah. He knew the cops were looking for the stealth Winchesters twenty four hours a day seven days a week, there was simply no way he could do that. So he came to his conclusion, and got himself prepared. The cold beers he had brought that he thought would be put to good use with Sam and Dean lay in the back of his truck, and Bobby knew they would not be cold by the time they were ready to be opened.
Sniffles and sobs from Sam were the only sounds that Sam was making at the moment. Tears rolled down his bloodied cheeks. His breathing was raspy and fast – from the sobs, pain, or fear – it was hard to know. It might have been from all three of them. The room was hot and stuffy, the air hot and thick – which also added to his shortness of breaths.
Through his clouded vision, Sam blinked and let the stinging tears fall down. Every time his brother hit him the pain got more intense, and each time it was harder to breathe. It was getting more difficult to manage the pain with every blow, kick, slap, or punch that was laid upon his already beaten body. He didn't understand what his brother was doing – how could he do this?
Please, please somebody help me…
But no one could hear him. He was left unheard again. All of his screams, all of the crying and the begging to stop and for help that was boiling up inside him was not heard by anyone but by Sam himself. In some ways that wasn't so bad – the screaming and crying was so cruel to anyone's ears, but Sam wished he could call for help. It was like all of his unheard cries and screams were filling up his lungs inside him and he couldn't get it out. Like a balloon filling with air and he wanted to untie the balloon and let all of the air and screams come out before he burst.
The Dean thing kept pushing him farther and farther into a corner like a frightened, wounded animal. A dark corner where Sam didn't want to be. Slowly Sam felt like he was losing his mind, like the Dean-thing would never stop until he got him pinned into that corner, no where to go.
Losing his trail of thought, the Dean-thing came up to him again, and Sam knew he was in trouble yet again, as Dean grabbed him by his hair and forced his face up. A sob escaped again. It was amazing how routine this was. No please, not again. Sam started to shake more and more. The Dean-thing was getting less and less angry; he seemed to be happier. Which was almost worse. Sam's crying and stifled yelping made the Dean-thing just stand there and smile at him, like he was very pleased with himself.
It didn't really matter, he clearly was enjoying this. Hurting him. Hurting his little brother. But it wasn't him – Dean would never do that to Sam.
Still holding his head, he spit at him, "You enjoying this, little brother?" He taunted at him. "Hanging in there . . .?"
Huh, literally. Sam thought if he could answer him. No matter what you did to Sam Winchester, he always had the geek-boy, Joe College trait inside of him. He refused to even move or make any sign that he had heard him though.
"Look sweetheart," he began, using his other hand to thumb the cuts on Sam's face. Sam flinched. "When this is all over I'll make it clean and easy. There'll be no more pain – I can stop it." His voice changed to a softer and almost loving and caring way, "You want me to stop the pain for you, don't you Sammy?" he asked Sam but the kindness in his voice still didn't conceal the taunting which lay beneath it, and he was also hoping to get some kind of cooperation or response from Sam. Sam whimpered in an attempt of agreement to the favor asked of him.
And then it came, another bone-piercing, ear-splitting hard punch to Sam's bruised face again.
"Uhhhhhh…." Sam cried out from behind his taped lips, his eyes closed and trying to endure the agony he was in. He cried hard. The pain was too unbearable. He closed his eyes and let the tears flow out. He was beaten. He had lost and the sick Dean-thing knew it. Satisfied, his brother released the grip on his hair, and whimpering, Sam's face felt down to his bruised chest. His head felt heavy. Dean just stood there, and continued watching Sam cry.
Tears hit the carpet and continued to fall. Sam shook and whimpered, the pain stung and he was finding it hard to catch his breath again. His world was swimming, everything vertigo, just let me out… let me sleep….
"No – I don't think so little brother." Dean saw the closing of Sam's eyelids quickly. He grabbed his chin, forcing him upwards again.
"The fun's just started – why stop now, eh?" Dean laughed. His eyes danced with playfulness – almost innocent looking…
"Here – let me help you wake up…" Dean reared back and kicked Sam's ribs and stomach over and over until Sam was alert and sobbing again. In an attempt to tell his brother to stop, Sam moaned and forced himself to look into his brother's predatory eyes. He sobbed and tried to move his lips from behind their cage of tape to say something, the tape creasing to their prisoner's attempted movement. Dean grabbed a hold of the tape, and yanked it off in one swift, clean motion. Sam yelped out – the tiny prickles shooting from his chin and lips down to his feet.
Sam could breathe again. He cried out loudly, his cries and voice echoing and filling the room. Everything seemed to shake with Sam's shaking body as he yelled and sobbed in front of Dean. The energy, now sorrow, pervaded the room. He yelled – all of the screams and cries that he had lingering in his lungs for so long were escaping. All of the hits he had taken, every emotion that he felt – were all coming out. It was horrible to hear. Time seemed to freeze.
As Sam hung there, defenseless and helpless, sobbing and bloody, and continued to sob, his screams reduced to softer sobs and half-choked cries. And Dean just watched. But before Dean could do anything else – the door was burst open and in both Sam and Dean's line of vision appeared Bobby.