Title: Take Me Farther
Disclaimer: Me no own, You no sue.
Warning: Child abuse, language, implied rape, Wincest if you squint
2. Inspired by the song "Holy Water" by Big & Rich.
From when he was a kid to now, a teenager, Sam kneels at the edge of his bed and prays. He listens to his foster parents fighting and the glass breaking and the wet smack of flesh on flesh and he prays to the God that a woman with blond hair and hazel eyes used to whisper to him about.
"Take me, Father, take me away from here," Sam's foster father bangs at the door and Sam squeezes his eyes tighter and tighter, "and then take me farther. Take me, Father, take me away from here. Please, Father, please."
The door to Sam's room flies open and all the drunken fury that is Henry Strop collapses on the young teen.
Sam wore his black eyes to school with pride. It wasn't that he was proud at having survived another beating, but he had figured out early on that if he put on his mask just right and told all his outrageous stories that the teachers would leave him alone.
If he told some glamorous story about how he had tried to go one on one with a wild Mustang, no one would question it. His part of Kansas was filled with mustang ranches, and it was common knowledge that Sam had been able to sneak onto the Jefferson's property to "borrow" a horse.
"Just wanted to run away for a while," is all he would say, winking his good eye. And people would just leave it at that.
From when he was a kid to now, a teenager, Sam kneels at the edge of his bed and prays. He listens to the cussing and the shouting and prays to the God that a woman with blond hair and hazel eyes used to whisper to him about.
"Take me, Father, take me away from here," something in the living room shatters and his mother screams for help that will not come because they live out in the middle of nowhere, "and then take me farther. Please, Father, please. Take me away from here."
Sam wants to help his foster mother, really he does, but in his current condition – as a permanently half-dead teen – he knows he would only make things worse. Since Sam hit puberty and began to grow upwards, Henry made sure that every time an injury showed any sign of healing, he would make another one that worse than the one before it. Sam smiles when he thinks about it; Henry really is very clever, because if Sam ever did get close to full health, Henry would surely be dead. And he knew it.
It is the first time Sam is late for school; and it was all because of a car. He had been running to the school as fast as he could with bruised ribs when he saw it.
The car was black and sleek and dearest Lord in Heaven it was so beautiful. It was an Impala, though he couldn't be sure of the year. But one thing Sam was sure of, was that the car stuck out like a sore thumb among the old pick-up trucks and beaten down station wagons.
Then the bell rang and Sam had been snapped out of his reverie.
"Shit!" Sam cursed as he sprinted toward the school. He did not see the owner of the car standing in the shadow of the building, staring intently at Sam. And if Sam had seen that figure, he might have recognized those bright hazel eyes.
When Sam burst into his first class of the day, he grinned widely at his teacher and began an elaborate story about a raccoon that got into a fight with a deer and how his dog had to get in on it but for some reason the rabbit won.
"I'm still counting you tardy, Mr. Strop," Mr. Smiya just raised his eyebrows and shook his head.
"Oh, c'mon, my dad's going to kill me if you do that!" Sam pleaded, disguising the desperation and exhaustion in his voice very well. "Do you hear me, Smiya? Kill. Kill me dead is what he's going to do!"
"What's the real reason you're late?" Smiya was barely thirty but looked like he was going on twenty. All the school moms loved him.
"I told you there was a fight-"
"I said the real reason."
Sam sighed and leaned against the podium his teacher was standing at. "Mr. Smiya, sir, there is the most beautiful car outside," Sam's voice was lowered to a near whisper.
"Is that a fact?" Mr. Smiya raised his eyebrows again. Sam wasn't the only person who knew about the teacher's obsession with older classics. "Pray tell, Mr. Strop, what kind of car is it?"
"I don't know," Sam admitted with a slight shrug of his shoulders. "But it's black; and an Impala."
"A '67 Impala," the voice was so close to Sam's ear that he jumped nearly twenty feet outside of his skin. Sam turned around and locked eyes with a young man who was definitely not a sophomore.
"Dean Winchester, I presume?" Smiya's voice was distant and Sam almost didn't hear it.
Winchester? WincesterWinchesterWinchester… Why do I know that name? Sam was lost in Dean Winchester.
"Yes, sir," Dean replied, his eyes did not leave Sam's. "Don't I know you?" he finally asked, his brows furrowed together.
"I think so," Sam hated how he couldn't bring his voice above a whisper. So he cleared his throat and tried again. "I mean, I don't think so. I've lived in Kansas my whole life."
Dean tilted his head to the side and Sam would swear that the other teen was actually reading his soul.
After school was over, Sam was excited to find out that he had exactly two classes with the mysterious Dean Winchester: first and last period.
Dean showed him his car and offered him a ride home. Sam could only shake his head and nod his thanks before running to catch the school buses.
From when he was a kid to now, a teenager, Sam kneels at the edge of his bed and prays. He listens to crash and slap and "If you ever fuckin' do that again, bitch-!" and prays to the God that a woman with blond hair and hazel eyes used to whisper to him about.
"Take me, Father; take me away from here," pans are thrown around in the kitchen and the dog yelps, "then take me farther. Take me away from here. Please, Father, please. Take me away from here then take me farther."
Sam won't ask his foster parents about why the name Winchester means something to him.
"SAM!" his father's roar rattles the windows.
Opening his eyes Sam stands, he touches the bruise at his ribs – it's almost healed. He must've gotten the phone call from the school. Smiya counted me tardy, then. Asshole.
"Don't make me call your name again, boy!" Henry's voice is closer, much closer.
Sam leaves his room.
"What's happened this time, Sam?" Mr. Smiya rolls his eyes when he sees his student walk through the door, a large bruise on his cheek and a limp.
You! You, dumbass teacher. Wouldn't ever be able to figure out that everytime you fuck me over, I show up the next with a new asshole. It's what Sam wants to say, instead he grins and says, "Tiger and a chimp ganged up on me," trying to keep the agony from his voice. Turning away from the teacher he was captured by the intense hazel stare of Dean Winchester. "What?" Sam smirked as he slowly took his seat.
"Nothing," Dean watched and Sam was sure he saw calculations going on inside that head. "A tiger and a chimp?"
"I was at the zoo," Sam tried to keep his eyes on the blackboard. Unfortunately, Dean had gotten the desk right beside his and could still be seen staring through Sam's peripheral vision.
"The closest zoo is a three hour drive. And it would've been closed by the time you got there. I don't buy it," Dean's voice was careful, not exactly accusing but not exactly about to let Sam off the hook.
Sam jerked his gaze over to the teen next to him. Finally he leaned in close, so his lips were almost brushing against Dean's ear as he whispered, "You don't have to. Now, please just take the story at its face value and leave it at that."
A dry chuckle escaped Dean's throat and he just shook his head.
"What if the face value is zilch?" Dean looked at Sam as if daring the younger man to challenge him. And Sam did just that.
"Why are you in this class? It's for sophomores and you should definitely be a senior or even graduated," Sam was confidant in his reasoning.
"I keep flunking out. I have a tendency to skip class."
"Why not just show up?"
"Shit happens," Dean said quietly, leaning back in his seat and out of the Sam's space. Sam hadn't expected the sudden mixture of emotion that exploded in Dean's eyes: sadness, fury, fear, and something else that was dark and unnamable.
Sam also hadn't expected the sudden chill that crept down his spine at Dean's words. "Yeah," was all he could say as he leaned back and tried to focus on the blackboard. He was suddenly painfully aware of his injuries.
From when he was kid to now, a teenager, Sam kneels at the edge of his bed and prays. He listens to bones breaking and painful grunting and prays to the God that a woman with blond hair and hazel eyes used to whisper to him about.
"Take me, Father, take me away from here," the television from his parents' room is turned all the way up and Sam pretends that the thump thump thump is the dog's tail on the floor and that there is no way he can really hear his mother's crying, "then take me farther. Take me, Father, please, take me away from here. Then, Father, I pray, take me farther."
When he wakes in the middle of the night to get a glass of water, Sam ignores the fresh bruises on his mother's face when he almost runs over her in the dark kitchen. She turns on the lights and stares at the sink. On his way back to his room, Sam quickly ducks into the bathroom to vomit.
When Sam walks into his first hour, he doesn't notice the way the teacher looks at him with something akin to horror or the way Sally Gooden has stopped talking to her girlfriends. He just wants to sit down. He just wants to stop throwing up. He just wants it all to stop.
Sam doesn't feel Dean's eyes on him, not right away. But as soon as he sits down and puts his head in his arms folded over the top of his desk, he notices two things: one, his stomach has finally settled but somewhere toward the back of the room, his mother is still crying. And two, Dean Winchester is staring at him.
Sam glances up through his eyelashes as the older teen and raises an eyebrow.
And just as Dean opened his mouth to say something, he was interrupted by Smiya.
"Rough night, Sam?" the teacher's tone was harsh as he took in Sam's pale, sweaty face and dirty clothes.
Sam's smirk was lifeless and defeated as he callously shrugged his shoulders.
Dean's eyes suddenly went dark as he turned toward the teacher and a vicious growl came from somewhere in the back of his throat as he snarled, "You worthless son of a bitch."
A collective gasp came from the students. The teacher's jaw dropped as he stuttered and spat and tried to find a way to respond. Dean didn't let him as he continued his voice a rough and feral timber that terrified everyone.
"You dare call yourself a teacher when you are completely blind to what is going on!"
"Dean," Sam's voice was weak as he placed a placating hand on Dean's arm. When he got Dean's attention, he smirked his lifeless smirk and stated simply, "fuck it, Dean. No worries, yeah?"
"How can you say that?" Dean demanded leaning in close, hazel-green eyes bright and angry.
"Because they're all the same," Sam whispered quietly. He suddenly narrowed his eyes and said just as quietly, "You look like someone I used to know."
Dean's angry eyes turned painful.
"What happened to them?" he asked.
Sam thought about it. His brow furrowed as he answered, "I'm don't know. I was really young when I lost her; she had hazel eyes and blond hair. You have her eyes, Dean."
"Yeah, I am, too."
By the end of the week, Sam knew only that Dean would only be in town for a month and that he was living with his father in the town's only inn. They traveled all over the country doing family business though Dean wouldn't go into details. Something about getting ride of infestations.
Dean drove Sam home that day and during the twenty minute ride, Sam prayed that his father had not been drinking. As Dean pulled into the gravel drive way, Sam noticed that his father's old Chevy pickup was not in the drive and he breathed a sigh of relief.
"Wanna come in? We've got soda," Sam wiggled his eyebrows.
Dean grinned and shook his head as he climbed out of the car.
"Mom!" Sam called as he entered the house, "I'm having a friend over for dinner!"
A small woman came around the corner, wiping her hands on her apron, she smiled weakly at Dean. "Hello, son. Dinner is just about ready. Have you told your father about your friend, yet?"
"No, ma'am," Sam kissed his mother's cheek and picked up the phone.
"Well, don't bother, he's already called and let me know that he was on his way home," Sam's mother said, patting her apron down so it lay neatly against her body. "He's already been to the bar."
Sam's eyes went wide as he dropped the phone.
"You have to go now, Dean," he cried as he turned on his heel and began to shove Dean out the door.
"What the hell, Sam?!" Dean let himself be shoved until they were outside before pushing Sam away.
"Please, Dean, you have to go!" the desperation in Sam's voice was unmistakable. "Dean, now, I don't know when he's going to get back. You have to go right the fuck now!"
Suddenly Dean was in Sam's face, hands on his shoulders. "Why do you let him do this?" Dean demanded his eyes hot and burning with that dark something that Sam had seen earlier that day.
"I don't have a choice, Dean," and just like that everything that Sam had built, every defense, every excuse shattered. "I don't have the strength; I can't win against him when I'm never strong enought. Please, just go, I don't want you dragged into this."
Dean smirked. There was no humor in it, just danger and insanity and, damn it, if Sam wasn't so completely and utterly terrified.
"Too late, baby brother," Dean pressed his forehead against Sam's before disappearing into the Impala and out behind the trees that surrounded the Strop property.
Sam could only stare after the car's dust cloud. He wanted to run after Dean. He felt like that was actually what he was supposed to be doing. He was supposed to chasing him, running him down so they could just be close again.
Sam looked over at his mother, her lips a hard line as she smoothed out her apron and quietly walked back into the kitchen.
From when he was kid to now, a teenager, Sam kneels at the edge of his bed and prays. He listens to the doors slam and his mother speaking soothing, futile words and the creeping crawling distant clap of thunder and he prays to the God that a woman with hazel eyes and blond hair used to whisper to him about.
"Take me, Father, take me away from here," lightning illuminates the back of his eyelids and the thunder rattles the windows and the rain begins to pour, "then take me farther. Take me, please, Father, take me away from here. Father, then take me farther."
There's another sound that breaks through the pouring rain, a rumbling, snarling engine steadily getting louder and louder.
Sam opens his eyes, suddenly aware of something that tugs at his soul. He doesn't understand why, but he has to get outside. He's on his feet in a flash and runs out of his room, flying past Henry who makes a desperate attempt to grab him for no reason other than reflex.
And as Sam opens the door, Dean is there, a short barrel shotgun already aimed at Henry and his eyes blazing with a cold hard fury.
"I'm taking him back," Dean's tone left no room for argument. "My dad trusted you. You're lucky I'm here instead of him. He would've killed you both with a smile." His lips quirked upward in a way that made Sam think that Dean was contemplating the action himself.
"How did-," Sam couldn't form the question. And he didn't have to.
"We're Winchesters, Sammy," Dean said, as if that explained everything. "No one can separate us. Come Hell or high water, little brother, a Winchester will always be able to find his own."
From when he was kid to now, a full grown man, Sam kneels at the edge of his bed and prays. He listens to the quiet breathing of the brother he had never known for years existed and the cars driving by and the ancient air conditioner kicking on and he prays to the God that a woman with hazel eyes used to whisper to him about.
"Thank you, Father, thank you," headlights sweep across the room and Dean mutters something in his sleep, "for taking me away and giving me back to Dean. Thank you, Father, thank you."
Sam smiles into his pillow and falls asleep thinking of his brother and his father and the Hunt. Tonight he'll dream of him and his brother driving through the countryside, AC/DC or Credence Clearwater blaring from the speakers, Dean singing along with every song at the top of his lungs.
His brother's voice echoed,
No one can separate us.