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: Sorry about the day's delay but real life got in the way. I've got the builders in and it's like Grand Central Station around here. I've hardly had a minute to 'play', as my mother calls it, on my laptop. :)
So, at last, the final, slightly longer part...
Riding Bitch (Part 9) by frostygossamer
The next day Sam wasn't any too ready to let Dean continue his testimony. He reckoned it was taking too much out of him. He wanted to give Henricksen a piece of his mind. But Dean was resolute and determined about continuing.
"Gotta do this," he told his brother. "Not gonna chicken out. Hell no!"
Sam was concerned but also deeply impressed. He relented.
The ADA had been clever. He had gotten Dean to talk about his most painful experiences, his worst trauma, in open court. From then on, the prosecution could be sure that Dean had no reason to hold anything back.
Dean, forced by his circumstances to be ever the player, knew exactly how to wring the pathos out of a good story, but at great cost to himself. Sam could only hope that the ordeal would be cathartic for his brother.
"Tell the court about the infant 'John'," the prosecutor began, turning to the jury. "A newborn found six years ago, by a woman walking her dobermann, buried in a turnip field twenty miles outside Phoenix."
Dean took a deep breath, and began to recount the event calmly and quietly.
"The chick, Marie, belonged to a guy named Mad Manuel. She had just dropped a baby boy. That was messed up enough, cos Manuel had already kicked one pregnant chick in the stomach until she lost her kid. But Marie had carried this one all the way. It was a cute little thing, though kinda sickly. She'd been smoking weed all through the pregnancy."
"The child was sickly?" the ADA probed.
"Not sick enough to buy the farm," Dean insisted. "Manuel tolerated the kid for a couple days. He had kinduva soft spot for this particular chick, and she had begged and begged him so freakin' hard. But, hell, he was no kinda pushover. The baby's whining got to him. Sure had a pair of lungs on it for a sickly kid."
"And what did this 'Manuel' do?" the ADA asked leadingly.
"Marie tried to make the kid hush, but the thing mewled all the damn time. It wouldn't shut the hell up. So one time Mad Manuel stuck a pillow over it's head and sat on it until it DID shut the hell up. Simple as that."
There was a gasp from a few of the jury, and Dean paused for a dramatic moment before continuing.
"The chick cried. Boy, did she cry. Cried her freakin' heart out, hugging the little broken thing. I knew that she'd keep that up and she'd soon go the same way as her kid. So I took the bundle off of her, dragged it out of her arms, carried it out to the field and buried it. Wrapped it in an old T belonged to it's mama, and said goodbye best I could."
"And you marked the grave?" the lawyer asked, knowing the answer would tally with the forensic report on the case.
"After the body was covered up, I marked the little grave with a smooth stone, and scratched the name 'John' on it. Seemed like the kid deserved a name, seemed like a good name."
Sam sucked in a breath at the mention of their dad's name. He noticed Dean wipe away a solitary tear. It was the first tear Sam had seen him shed since he had gotten him home.
Dean went on, a firm tone entering his voice, "Told Marie, 'He's sleeping peaceful. Better in the end, huh?' then I dried her eyes and sent her in to her boss. She didn't have to die too. Not that day."
You could have heard a pin drop in the court when Dean finished his story. The prosecutor coughed and shuffled for a moment, to let the horror sink in with the jury before continuing. Then he pressed on with the next witness.
That night over dinner in their hotel room, Sam sat staring at his brother, as Dean kept his head lowered over his food, avoiding eye contact. Finally Sam broke the silence.
"I can't... Can't even imagine..." he began.
Dean shuffled awkwardly in his seat. "Crap happens," he said with a shrug.
"I'm SO damn sorry," Sam declared. "About what you had to go through. Man, all the sick shit they did to you."
Dean put down his fork deliberately.
"Didn't want you to know about all this stuff, Sam" he said. "Now you know, you're not gonna feel the same about me. Won't wanna keep me around, huh?"
"Oh, Dean, why wouldn't I wanna keep you around?" Sam demanded. "Wasn't your fault, man. You didn't ask to have to live like that, to be treated that way."
Dean looked down at his hands on the table. "Sometimes I did," he muttered.
"What?" Sam asked, by reflex.
"Sometimes I had to," Dean explained. "Sometimes your body is the only card you have to play. Makes me feel goddamn ashamed."
Sam placed his big hand on his brother's.
"Dean," he said. "It was never your choice. No one's gonna blame you. Least of all me."
Dean smiled sadly and took Sam's hand between both of his.
"You're a good guy, Sam," he said. "Don't deserve you."
"Sure you do," Sam whispered. "You deserve way better than me."
Dean shook his head. "No one better than you, Sam. No one."
After dinner they retired to bed early. The Feds had set them up in a twin room, but one bed never got as much as turned down. Since that time when he and Sam had made out in the Impala, Dean had been welcomed back in Sam's bed.
Seeing what giving testimony was doing to him every day, Sam had come to feel that Dean deserved all the comfort he could give him. Which, for now, meant only snuggling and some affectionate kissing, relatively chaste stuff. Nonetheless, Dean felt like the favoured pet who is allowed to sit on the furniture, and he basked in his little victory.
Dean had won Sam's favour. What more did he need?
Finally they got around to Chopsaw and his gang. Chopsaw had to be one of the worse goddamned monsters Dean had ever come across in his almost fourteen years in biker hell. And Dean had see a BUNCH of real monsters, so he knew what he was talking about. The FBI were more than anxious to get that guy's show off of the road.
"Tell me about the lynchings that took place on the outskirts of Detroit last Fall," the prosecutor began.
He glanced down at the papers spread on his desk.
"The decapitated bodies of three men were found suspended in the woods north of the city. Their heads had previously been found wrapped in garbage bags and dumped in trash cans around the city centre."
Sam had read about this case in the newspapers, never guessing it would relate to the still missing Dean's situation. He recalled that it had been a shock headline that had sickened him over his morning toast and eggs.
Dean hesitated for a moment, debating where to start.
"There were these three guys in Chopsaw's gang. Two of them were cousins, I think, and the other guy was an old buddy, used to hang out with them all the damn time. Seems they had been running some kinda scam, and skimming a little off of the top of the take whenever they thought they could get away with it."
"So basically they were pocketing certain monies for themselves?" the lawyer elucidated.
"Yeah," Dean agreed. "Then somehow Chopsaw got a smell of it. Now Chopsaw is no forgiving guy. The way he saw it any and every dollar brought in by the gang was his and his alone. It was up to him who he dealt it out to. No one but no one kept folding green stuff from Chopsaw. No one. Stood to reason they were gonna get themselves... punished."
"And where exactly did this happen?"
"Chopsaw and Bolo where crashing at this old flee-bitten motel, got stranded when they rerouted the highway a decade ago. Behind it there was a disused warehouse, used to be a bowling alley, where they hung all day. Chopsaw had Bolo bring the three guys out there for a jaw, nice and friendly. They went along willingly, the dumb-asses."
Dean glanced up at the defendants, sitting there all gussied up and well groomed beside their defense lawyers, smug looks on their masks of faces.
"Stupid knuckleheads reckoned they were smart, figured they were clever enough to fool the boss. The boss didn't exactly graduate school 'cum laude', but he ain't slow neither. In fact, when it comes to cold hard cash he's a freakin' genius, and close to clairvoyant."
Sam glanced over at Chopsaw, and saw that he was almost grinning at that kudos.
"They got to the place, and Chopsaw was there with Bolo and four big guys, playing poker on a crate, all innocent and cracking jokes and crap like that. Guess the three guys were fooled. Figured everything was good. They couldn't have been more wrong."
"Two hours later they were trussed up with piano wire like freakin' turkeys, hanging by their arms from a tree bough, boots flailing wildly in mid-air. Then Chopsaw and Bolo brought out their machetes."
The ADA took a moment right then to explain to the judge that what Dean had described was a form of torture known as 'strappado'. The victim's hands are tied behind their backs and they are then suspended in the air from a rope attached to their wrists. It is known to be incredibly painful.
"And how was it that you witnessed all this?" the ADA asked.
Dean nodded vehemently. "Yeah, well, I saw it all. I was kinda like a ghost. Chopsaw kept me around, but it was like I wasn't there, didn't mean a damn thing. He knew he owned me like he owned his bike. I wasn't ever gonna sing, cos I was a throwaway. I got to see and hear, more than I'd ever have wanted to."
"You saw the defendants, Chopsaw and Bolo, 'despatch' their victims?"
Dean shrugged. "I saw Chopsaw spit in the first guy's face and tell him what he was gonna do. Then he twisted his hand in the guy's long, filthy hair and hacked off his head with his machete. It took two whacks. He didn't make it clean."
"The other two guys screamed and begged and kicked but Chopsaw and Bolo grabbed a head each and 'thwack!'. They wiped their blades on the corpses and left them there swinging in the breeze like some kinda sick pinatas. Both guys were covered in blood. I had to wash out Chopsaw's stuff."
"And the victims' heads? How were they disposed of?"
"That was Bolo's little joke. Chopsaw told him to get rid of the damn heads. Bolo thought it would be laugh-out-loud funny to drop them in city trash cans around town. He was a fun guy."
The ADA turned to the judge and jury theatrically and called the next witness.
When the session broke up for lunch, Dean dragged Sam into the men's restroom and hauled him into a cubicle with him. There was only room to stand pressed up close.
Dean was breathing hard. "I am so freakin' turned on, man. Right now I could pull a train for the whole freakin' jury."
"Dean!" Sam hissed. "How the hell can you joke about a thing like that?"
Dean laughed, his eyes huge like he was high.
"Gonna do me right now, Sam huh? Please," he begged. "Please, please," and he started to unzip his pants right there.
Sam grabbed his hands. "What the hell are you doing?" he demanded. "This is the Courthouse. I'm NOT gonna fuck you here."
Dean grinned. "You ARE gonna fuck me someplace, huh? I know you wanna, man."
Sam turned and pushed his way out of the stall, fuming.
"You wanna act like a slut, Dean, then fine," he snapped.
Dean scrabbled out of the stall after him.
"Sam," he said. "Just spilled my guts out on the ground in front of a goddamn judge. Ratted on Chopsaw's gang, broke the Biker Code. You do NOT break the Biker Code, Sam. It's an unwritten law."
He grabbed Sam and pushed him up against the washbasins.
"Did it for Cassie," he said, "and for me and for you, Sam. Did it because you saved me from them. And now I gotta send them right to hell, cos otherwise they WILL find me and hurt me, and everyone I care about, which is basically YOU."
Then he closed his eyes and exhaled.
"My heart is freakin' pounding like a heavy metal track and I need to know, NEED to know that you want me. Cos I jumped ship back there and I freakin' TORCHED the old one. No way back. I need to know. I need you to show me."
Dean stared pleadingly up into Sam's eyes, until Sam grasped him by the back of the neck and pulled him into a vertiginous kiss, plundering Dean's mouth, Dean's hands sliding down inside the back of his jeans.
"I want you," Sam gasped. "NEVER doubt that."
Then the door opened, and a guy in a suit walked in. He stood there staring open-mouthed, until they spotted him and fled.
The prosecution finally got around to Cassie and her sad fate. Dean had to stand there and recount how they first met, and all about their loving friendship, built from adversity.
"She was a nice, quiet girl," Dean explained. "She had been to college, studied journalism. She had a good future ahead of her. But after her daddy's death she fell in with the wrong people. She met a bad guy. He got her into drugs. And then he sold her like a piece of meat. She didn't deserve that."
And then he described the events of the night she died.
"We had been sharing a smoke, talking about stuff, life, whatever. Then Bolo called out to her and she went to him. Cassie was Bolo's girl, you see. From the sound of his voice he was angry."
"Do you know why he was angry?" the prosecutor asked.
"Nope. But that was normal. He was generally angry about something. He knocked Cassie about. She was always covered with bruises from a whopping, a kicking, and maybe a couple cigarette burns to sensitive skin. Bolo was a class act."
"When did you know that something was wrong?" the lawyer pushed.
"Around midnight, when I was trying to get to sleep. I heard Cassie's voice pleading and begging from Bolo's room. I could hear him beating on her. Heard the slaps and punches. Heard Cassie cry out in pain."
"And what did you do?"
Sam noticed a note of self-contempt in Dean's voice as he replied, "Nothing. Not one damn thing. Couldn't help her. Only wish I could. Bolo woulda killed me too, or Chopsaw, his pal, woulda. Lives mean nothing to that guy. He's a psycho."
The prosecutor turned to the judge and talked about Bolo's psychiatric report. He pointed out that Bolo had been adjudged psychologically competent to answer for his crimes. He couldn't plead insanity.
Dean then described how he had seen Bolo drive away with Cassie's body in a rolled-up rug, and return without it. He had recognized the corpse by the small tattoo of a yellow rose on her right ankle.
At this Mrs. Robinson, who was sitting in the back of the gallery, was unable to stifle a loud sob. Sam felt his heart clench in sympathy.
The thought flew through his mind, "Jeez, it could so easily have been Dean who died that night and Cassie sitting there in the witness box."
When Dean finished giving his evidence about Cassie's death, his part in the trial was over.
As Chopsaw and Bolo were led out of court it was plain from their faces, now empty of their former complacency, that they both knew they were headed for Death Row.
Sam breathed a sigh of relief. It was over at last. Although he knew that, in some senses, it would never be completely over for Dean. At least Dean had Sam, and Sam would do everything he could to help his brother put the past behind him.
Outside the courtroom, when Sam collected Dean for the last time, Dean attempted a light-hearted smile.
"Those dicks, they really thought no one could touch them," he said.
"Sure, but you showed 'em, huh?" Sam grinned, squeezing his shoulder.
Dean heaved a deep sigh. "Damn shame Cassie wasn't around to see it."
"Yeah," Sam agreed, pausing for a moment. "Wanna go get dinner?"
Dean shook his head. "Wanna go do something life-affirming."
"And what's that?" asked Sam.
Dean smirked. "You."
This time Sam didn't argue.
The moment they got back to their room, Dean grabbed Sam by the shoulders and pushed him up against the bedroom door. He leaned in and pinned him there, chest to chest, as both his hands slid into Sam's hair. Dean mouthed at the tender skin below his brother's ear and Sam groaned weakly.
Then suddenly Sam pushed Dean to arm's length, Dean protesting incoherently.
"You sure about this, Dean?" Sam asked anxiously. "I mean REALLY sure. This is not just you trying to please me again? You really wanna do this? Really want me? Cos if this is in any way a submission thing we should just stay, ya know, brothers. Won't love you any less or want you around any less, I swear."
"Dumb-ass," Dean commented. "Thinking too much again. Just give in for fuck's sake."
He shoved Sam hard against the door, so the back of his head impacted with the wood. Dean chuckled throatily and slid his lips over Sam's, sucking away all his air, showing him this was going to be real.
Sam felt his stomach twist as a shock of electricity passed right through his body, energizing his every last nerve. He opened his mouth and allowed Dean's tongue to search out his tonsils, his brother's fingers cupped around the scruff of his neck.
After a seemingly endless moment, Dean disengaged, causing Sam to growl faintly.
"I'm yours, Sam, yours," Dean whispered huskily. "Know you got a freakin' problem with that. So, you know what? I'm gonna make you mine too. That work for you?"
Sam grinned. "Totally," he agreed.
They moved over to the bed and Dean pulled his shirts off over his head. By the time his face re-emerged, Sam was down to his shorts.
Sam smirked. "C'mon, slowpoke," he encouraged, helping Dean out of his jeans.
Two seconds and they were both naked. Dean crowded Sam up against the bed and Sam dropped onto it, shuffling up to lie comfortably against the pillows. Dean climbed on the bed and crawled over him.
"I freakin' chose you," he reminded Sam, voice raspy with desire. "No one else. Never before. Never freakin' allowed to choose. Chose you on day one. First freakin' time I saw ya. 'Fore I even freakin' knew ya."
Sam smiled up at him fondly, big hand brushing the sandy hair out of Dean's mossy eyes.
"Reckon deep down you knew me, Dean. Deep down you remembered."
Dean leaned down and invaded his mouth again, one hand behind his neck, the other trailing down his side, over his hip, under his thigh.
"Guess... Guess I musta... Knew... knew you were different," he gasped between kisses. "Your eyes on my face... all the goddamn time."
Sam let Dean press him down into the comforter, sliding one leg between his, and rolled his hips up to connect with Dean's body. He felt drunk, heady with desire, craving the feel of Dean's hands on his skin, his warmth on his flesh.
"Never gonna be with anyone you don't want ever again, Dean," Sam promised.
"Never gonna want anyone freakin' else, Sam. Only you," Dean responded. "Always gonna want you."
Sam tried to remind himself that this was a wrong thing that they were doing, but somehow the word seemed false, hollow. This wasn't wrong, it was inescapable. It had been John's prayer to get Dean back, and Sam had gotten Dean back for him, all the way. Dean had come back to Sam and this was how it would be, how it was always gonna be.
And, hey, if it wasn't right, well, Sam couldn't give a crap anymore.
He wrapped his long legs around Dean's waist, wrapped his arms around his shoulders, locked his lips with his brother's.
"I... I love you, Dean," Sam gasped, as their bodies united. "Always."
"Better," Dean hissed, as he pushed them both toward climax. "You better, cos... Oh God, Sam... I freakin' worship you."
Then, as the rush of consummation washed through them both, he pressed his lips to Sam's throat, teeth scraping the skin, and whispered softly,
"Hey, Sammy, I'm home."
The boy who went out for milk was back.
A/N: There it is then. Hoped you enjoyed it.