Summary: Dean was kidnapped by bikers at age thirteen, and had been traded as a slave for many years. An adult Sam has finally tracked him down. AU Sam/Dean wincest Warning: mention of past non-con.
A/N: Sam and Dean's ages in this are about 22 and 26 years old. 'Riding bitch' is here equivalent to 'riding pillion' in this context.
Warnings for past non-con sexual slavery, eventual wincest, but nothing graphic.
N.B. No offence to actual bikers intended. Any resemblance to reality would come as a complete surprise to me.
Riding Bitch (Part 1) by frostygossamer
Cassie and Dean sat in the back of Chopsaw's truck, half hidden by a tarp, sharing the cigarette Cassie had bummed at the last truck stop. They spoke in whispers, not wanting to be found together by members of the biker gang.
"How long you been riding bitch, Cassie?" Dean asked quietly.
He liked Cassie. Despite everything she had been through, she was still so sweet and chirpy.
Cassie smiled. "Must be almost six years now, I guess," she replied. "My dad, he got himself murdered. My mom went to pieces. Me, I just drifted. Fell in with some real nasty people, and the wrong guy. What a guy. He got me hooked on smack and then he traded me."
"Your boyfriend did that? Traded you to bikers?" Dean asked, disgusted.
Sometimes Dean like to pretend he was Cassie's boyfriend. It would have been nice to have had himself a girl, nice and normal. He would have taken good care of her, the way he used to take good care of his baby brother.
"Yeah," Cassie agreed. "Nice guy, huh? Guess my mom musta reckoned I was just a runaway."
"That's tough," Dean sympathized. "You miss her?"
Cassie chuckled mirthlessly. "Every day."
She took the smoke back from Dean and took a draw.
"And you?" she asked.
Dean generally tried not to think about his family. It hurt to remember. Chopsaw didn't want him remembering any sort of life before.
"There was just the three of us," Dean explained wistfully. "We were raised by my dad, me and my kid brother. Mom, she died when I was four. Sam was a baby. They snatched me off of the street as I walked back to the motel from the grocery store. I was thirteen."
The bikers had come up behind him. He heard their engines but there was no place to run. They grabbed him right up off of the sidewalk. He was a tough kid. His dad had trained him that way. But he was only thirteen. The groceries he had bought were left spilled out on the ground.
Cassie gasped. "Nearly fourteen years ago?" She shook her head. "Guess we're a couple sad cases, huh?"
Dean nodded. "Someday we're gonna get out of this, Cassie," he told her, slipping his arm around her waist.
"Someday," she agreed, laying her head against his shoulder.
They stayed that way until Cassie heard Bolo angrily calling her name, and scurried off to see what it was he needed.
That was the last time Dean saw Cassie Robinson alive.
That same night, as Dean lay on the dirty old mattress beside Chopsaw, who owned him, feigning sleep, he heard a female shriek and knew that Bolo was beating on Cassie again. He lay there listening to her scream and beg, and prayed that she would be OK.
Everything in him told Dean to run to Cassie and haul that mother off of her. But he knew, with a hopeless sinking heart, that there was no way he could do a damn thing about it.
Next morning he watched Bolo load a rolled-up old rug in the back of Chopsaw's pick-up and drive away. Dean drew in a dismayed gasp when he saw a pair of little dusky feet sticking out of the end of the roll.
"Cassie..." he breathed silently.
When the pick-up came back an hour later, the rug was gone. Bolo had dumped Cassie's body someplace.
So much for getting out.
When the bikers had first abducted Dean, he had fought them, fought like a wildcat. But he was a kid, despite all his dad's training, only a kid. He was beat down and worse until he finally gave up fighting.
He had prayed then too, prayed that John would find him. But prayers had eventually died on his lips, and he had learned to accept that he wasn't going to be saved.
The bikers traded him like a commodity, like so many stolen girls, and boys too, as a servant, a sex slave and a punching bag.
He had tried to stay strong, to keep himself fit, to stay alert, always searching for a chance to escape. Eventually he learned the hard way that fighting back, resisting, talking back, only made the punishment harder. To stay alive he had to buckle. He had been broken. All hope of rescue, all hope of escape, was long gone. Now all he knew was how to submit. But he had survived, so far.
Over the years he had been owned by a string of ugly, fat sleazebags and sadistic psychos. Chopsaw was just the most recent of the latter. Chopsaw and his buddy Bolo were a couple of the coldest, nastiest sociopathic monsters in the biker fraternity. Even in this community of crazies these two guys stood out. That was why Chopsaw was the boss of the gang.
Bolo was Chopsaw's lieutenant, every bit as violent and sadistic as the boss but way less smart. The one good thing about him, from Dean's point of view, was that he preferred his bitches female. But of course that didn't mean he wouldn't deliver anyone a beat-down given any half-assed excuse.
Chopsaw was a piece of work. The guy was clever, evilly so, and cruel. He took enormous delight in the mayhem he created and the suffering he caused. The boss's gang were loyal. Mainly because a guy rarely survived crossing him. No one had ever turned on him and remained in one piece. He wasn't known as Chopsaw for nothing.
Chopsaw treated Dean like garbage. Surviving him was going to be the hardest challenge Dean had ever faced.
John had waited an hour in the motel room for Dean to get back from the store, getting more impatient by the minute. Finally he decided to go look for him.
"God knows where the hell your damn brother has gotten himself to, Sam," he told his nine-year-old youngest. "You stay here. Gonna go look for the boy. He better not be romancing some little chick."
Sam grinned. He knew his big brother had an eye for a pretty girl. He also knew that, despite his nagging, John was secretly proud of his son's skill with the ladies, even so young. Dean was going to be a heartbreaker. Just like his dear old dad.
John retraced the steps Dean should have taken to the store. The store clerk remembered the cocky teenager all too well, and he remembered the pack of cigarettes the boy had five-fingered.
On the way back, John put his head in the bar next door, just in case, but no Dean. He was almost back at the motel when he spotted the groceries spilled on the roadside. A carton of milk draining into the gutter bore the photo of some other lost kid.
John never saw his eldest again.
John had taken losing his firstborn hard. He was broken by the death of Mary, shattered by the loss of Dean. He wasn't going to risk losing Sam. Time was he had told himself he should keep his family together. Time was. But he had realized bitterly how that had been one bad idea.
When Sam was all he had left, John reasoned that the kid would be better off, and safer, in foster care than on the road. So he handed his youngest over to Child Protection, who found him a foster home. Actually they were to find him several foster homes.
As John dropped Sam off for the last time he told his son,
"Be a good boy, Sam. Mind what they tell ya. They're gonna take care of you now. Send you to school regular. You'll like that."
Sam had beamed up at him, always a little nerd about school. John had ruffled his hair with his big calloused hand.
"I'll come visit often as I can. Don't you worry."
Then he patted his remaining son on the head and flashed his teeth sadly. He got back in his truck, waved once and drove away out of Sam's life.
Time passed. Sam grew up.
Sam went to school every day, and he liked it. With the support of his case worker, he graduated high school, got into Stanford, then he met a pretty girl named Jessica and talked about settling down. Basically he had a near enough normal life. The first nine years seemed like someone else's life.
He heard from John once in a while, communicating via John's old friend Bobby Singer. Sam heard how John was still hunting that wife-killer demon, heard how close he had gotten, how narrowly he had missed, how soon he was going to get that bastard once and for all.
He also heard from Bobby whenever John thought he had picked up a lead about his lost brother, heard a rumour he had been seen, traced a man who claimed to know where he was, who he had been with, where he was going, that he was even alive. But those little news highlights soon petered out.
For the first year after Dean's disappearance, John had largely set aside his hunt for the yellow-eyed demon to hunt for his boy, following biker gangs around the US, wasting good dollars on useless informants. But he had hit a wall. The biker fraternity weren't talking. The biker fraternity never talked. And no one talked about them. Too scared. You just didn't cross those people. Ever.
After that, John went back to hunting yellow-eyes full time. He had finally realized that he had more chance of winning against the monsters than the bikers. But as he travelled around, he kept his eyes and ears open. Never once stopped looking and listening.
Until he was stopped.
Dean had been with Chopsaw for a little over six months. The first time he had set eyes on the psycho biker his immediate thought was, "Jeez, I pray that guy is straight."
Maybe he was, but as it happened that didn't signify much. Chopsaw wasn't real interested in sexual orientation, even his own, because what really turned him on wasn't pleasure. It was pain. What the boss liked to do was hurt.
Right before that Dean had belonged to Greasy Mike for nearly two years. Mike was a pig of a man, fat as a house and stinking of sweat and motor oil. Mercifully motor oil was pungent enough to kill most other aromas.
Belonging to a lard-ass whose love for food eclipsed most other things had some advantages. Mike didn't move too fast. He slept a lot. He was easily distracted when he was hungry. And as for sex, Dean's gag reflex had gotten pretty weak by then anyway, and he had learned to close his eyes tight and dissociate.
Then Chopsaw came along. Greasy Mike and he had business. Mike was going to move some product for him and he needed some surety on the deal. To show his goodwill Mike threw in some sweeteners, including a couple girls and a couple boys.
That night Chopsaw would choose a new bitch for himself and Dean found himself with a dilemma. Look too weak, look too defiant, look too young, get yourself chosen. Which way to NOT get picked? Dean's looks had always been his curse.
There was nothing Dean could have done about it. Truth was Dean just looked like a guy who needed subjugating somehow, too pretty, too proud. And Chopsaw took enormous delight in breaking him in.
Sam was hovering on the edge of sleep, arm around his fiancee Jess as she dreamed peacefully in bed beside him, his head full of law books and test papers.
The cell phone on his nightstand lit up and hummed quietly, shimmying toward him. He picked it up lazily and flipped it open. "BOBBY" it read.
"Hi, Bobby," Sam answered.
"Sam," Bobby responded, and Sam knew right away, from his flat tone, that something was very wrong.
"Dad?" he asked anxiously. "Is Dad OK? What happened? Has he been hurt?"
On the other end of the line, Bobby sighed.
"So sorry..." That was as much as he could get out.
"No, Bobby, no," Sam moaned softly. "Not Dad."
But he had been waiting for this call all his life, this inevitable call. It was just... too soon.
"He went after that damned yellow-eyed bastard again. Got the drop on him. I am so sorry, Sam," Bobby replied, affirmation implicit.
And there it was. Sam was the sole surviving Winchester. He switched off his cell and just stared into the dark. Jess turned over in bed and cuddled up against him.
"Who wuz 'at?" she murmured sleepily.
"No one," Sam replied. "Go back to sleep. Tell you in the morning."
It was nearly a month later before the boxes of Sam's dad's old stuff arrived FedEx from South Dakota. Bobby had called again, a few days after he had given Sam the bad news about his dad, and had asked him if he wanted the personal stuff John had left at his place. Sam had told him to keep anything he could use, weapons, lore books, whatever, pack up the rest and send it over.
Jess had started to help him go through it. There wasn't a lot. Not much to show for his dad's whole life.
Sam had spent the afternoon crying over the mementoes John had kept of Mary, his mom, a woman Sam couldn't even remember. Jess had tactfully gone out and left him alone a while to grieve. After carefully repackaging John's memories of a lost happiness, Sam finally opened the last box.
What he found inside knocked him sideways.
A/N: Poor Dean. I'm making him suffer again. And Sam's grown up without him. So wrong. More soon.