Ok, so this story idea didn't just hit me, it completely knocked me over, pinned me down and demanded to be written. I'm not sure how long it's going to end up being, not too lengthy though lol. This is supposed to take place early season 2 (think 'children shouldn't play with dead things') so the boys are still on rocky territory, reeling from John's death. Also, another point, I do not believe the boy's get their awesome tattoos until after BUABS, though we do not actually see those tattoos until…hmmm, Jus in Bello? Perhaps? Somewhere in season 3. So I'm assuming in this story the boys still wear those anti possession charms Bobby gave them. If I'm wrong, then feel free to correct me but for the plot's sake, that's how it is haha. Happy reading!

-Punkin

When Sam was younger, plagued by the restlessness of an insatiable hunger produced from the knowledge that one was often sheltered from the truth, no matter how much they inquired or wondered, no matter how much they truly desired to just…know, he'd find himself counting the surreal, distant brush of passing cars ambling down the lonely highways. He'd wish he was in those cars sometimes, for with each sparkling headlight spilling through cracks in the motel room curtains, Sam always felt like he was being so utterly still…so utterly useless and so utterly unknowing, while they, those mysterious traveling strangers, were heading somewhere. He knew that maybe they didn't have the answers, but perhaps they were moving closer to where they wanted to be, perhaps they were moving farther away from where they didn't want to be, and to Sam, that was something worth counting. To Sam, fingers often digging into scratching seats beneath flat, stained pillow cases, the prospect of those oh so lucky people not trapped, not suffocated by their own ignorance, was a bitter enough thought to lull him into dreams which offered no respite from his broiling, ambitious mind.

And so, several years down the line, he found it quite mocking to awake to the familiar biting sensation of ropes digging and burning into his bare wrists, to the muffled thrum of engines and their subsequent fade into the distance, and to the erstwhile hopeful lighting flitting across his blood dried fingers, up his cheek and into his blurred, pathetic vision. It figures…at last, a first coherent thought. But of course it figured, because life had dealt him a pretty crappy hand lately, so why miss a chance to screw him over?

Sam's body at last seemed to recall how to function properly, legs secured tightly to the creaky, wooden chair nearly too small for his tall frame, so were completely immobile and stinging with pins and needles from lack there of. Right about now would be when Sam would customarily confront his kidnapper without being too obnoxious, Dean would be pissed if he asked for a beating, and then stall for time until his older sibling could get there and bail him out. However, when Sam's mind, along with his despairing memories of how he came to be in his current predicament, caught up to him, words stuck inside his throat and he allowed his bangs to shadow his eyes so as not to risk the chance of looking at his surroundings and accepting reality.

Reality, apparently, wasn't going to wait for him though, because recognizable humming tickled his ears from behind him, uncomfortably close, and after the sound of slow and methodical movement, crackly, thin music began to leak from the record player leaning in the corner of the Winchester's themed motel room. Goose bumps swept up Sam's naked arms, his tongue digging deep into his cheek at the disturbing blaze of eyes watching him, the deep and usually joyful humming joining in with the depressing song leaking throughout the all too small room. Don't come over here, don't come over here, please…don't come over- Sam swallowed a whimper as he detected the leisurely, booted steps coming towards him, the glint of a knife reflecting off the wall.

Sam stiffened, closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on the raw pain radiating from his wrists and ankles, perchance that could anchor him, keep him from being washed away in the title wave of anguish determined to destroy him. The steps stopped, followed by a minute, condescending sigh and the gentle press of a blade against Sam's tear stained cheek. "Open your eyes, little brother."

Sam's heart stuttered, the blood in his veins freezing at the sheer amount of terror the sound of his sibling's voice induced in him when being manipulated into cold, unloving, and malicious tones. Thus, Sam immediately obeyed, blinking up into the handsome contours of Dean's face, marred by hatred not usually welcomed when directed at the one he swore to protect above all else.

Dean smiled then, perfect teeth peeking out at Sam, laughing at how deceiving they could be, at how innocently 'Dean' they could be. He drew in a deep breath, nostrils flaring, "Don't call me that."

The smile widened, the press of the knife becoming more prominent as it bit into his skin, blood sliding nauseatingly down his face and onto his neck. Sam's stomach rolled in protest, the disgusting iron scent filling his mouth. Dean leaned in close, enough so that Sam could smell the toothpaste on his breath and enough so that he was forced to peer deep into those crystal green eyes and acknowledge the humanity that seemed to lie there. "Would you prefer Sammy?" When Sam violently flinched, unaware of the small rip of the knife continuing on its path, Dean chuckled, all at once drawing back and away from him.

Sam's heart was beating so fast that it pounded within his ears, resounding among his thoughts and choking his throat with denied sobs. It's not him…he's not him…have to remember. Suddenly, Dean was back, gone only to retrieve the other chair from the table and seat himself in front of Sam, red stained knife twirling between his fingers with practiced skill and deadly promise, promise that contradicted all others that had left his older brother's mouth prior. Sam's fingers clenched, pulling in futile efforts to loosen the ropes, small tremors taking him hold and shaking his core. Silence deafened the room, but for the continuing baritone singing and acoustic guitar that laced the atmosphere in an eerie sense of tranquility. Just another day, right? Somewhere deep down, the pessimist in him laughed.

At last, Dean leaned back in his chair, elbow hanging off the side in a manner no Winchester would ever mimic. "He took it right off, you know."

Sam's molars ground together, and instead of satisfying the fire burning inside, he merely stared back in quiet defiance. This seemed to amuse his sibling, whom continued to pick at a hangnail in apparent indifference, "The charm, I mean. Annoying little contraptions, really. Makes it so much harder to get our hooks into you fine breed of hunters."

Sam's gaze dropped away, eyes misting. God…he's going to monologue. I don't want to hear this…Because demons? Sure, they existed on the mere fabrication of a lie, they breathed deception, but they also knew how to use the truth in much more crippling, scarring ways. Now was a time when Sam most definitely did not want to hear the truth, especially from Dean's lips, because he knew whatever stray thoughts his brother had rolling around up there in that unstable head of his would most certainly break him.

Dean was leaning forward again, blade pushing Sam's chin up, green depths twinkling in blatant merriment at the amount of control he possessed over the younger man. "All it took was a pretty face." The cold steel moved, dancing playfully across his chest, pushing a bit too deep every few inches. I'm going to look like a connect the dots picture after this. Dean chuckled, "So unoriginal, I thought. He's been doing that a lot lately, huh, little brother?" Wetness began seeping through his shirt, sticky and uncomfortable, but Sam didn't feel it at all, he was frozen, caught in the headlights. "Ditching you, leaving you here to wallow in your own self deprecation. 'I'll be back later Sam, don't wait up,' you know that's code for 'fuck off', don't you?"

The blade withdrew, only to be pressed beneath Sam's eyes, catching a wandering tear as it escaped the confines of his dark eyelashes. Dean's breath pressed against his nose and his brother smiled warmly at him, "But that's okay, Sammy, 'cause at least Dean's finding the comfort he so desperately needs in the wake of you poor daddy's death because we both know that you," Sam blinks, and shivers at the suggestive pause, "just aren't enough."

Sam choked a bit, a strangled sound escaping his mouth and shaking his shoulders. Dean stepped back and stretched, arms thrown wide. "Yep, he just took it right off. All I had to do was bat my eye lashes and we were out of that bar and to my apartment, or should I say the bar tender's apartment." Dean stopped for an instant, beautiful green orbs flashing into bottomless, charcoal black pits. "How does that make you feel, little brother? That he'd just throw away your safety to get off? That he'd be so careless?" A disinterested shrug, followed by a disappointed cluck of the tongue, "Guess you're more expendable than I thought…"

Then, out of nowhere, the knife was plunged deep into Sam's thigh. He screamed while Dean merely laughed, "We're going to have fun, Sammy…so much fun."

When the knife twisted and Sam's vision was drenched in white, a part of him desired desperately to call out for his brother, but he knew this time there'd be no answer.

TBC…

Oh Boy…here I go again lol