fic: All just a... John, Sam, Dean

[tredecaphobia.livejournal.com]

 Title: All just a... 
Author: me
Pairing: none
Rating: hard R
Warning: rape, sexual situations with a minor.

Summary: The hunt that John doesn't talk about, involving an incubus. And Sam. Pre-series, Sam 16, Dean 20.

Notes: Sorry folks, this one's a little light on the comfort, but it's there.

 

                It didn't matter. It didn’t seem to matter, in this case at least, that succubae and incubi were essentially the same creature shapeshifting to accomplish different purposes. One, to collect the semen, and the other to dispense it.

                So it didn’t make all that much sense while Sam lay rigid on the motel bed, too fucking scared to move, while the incubi trailed clawed fingers up and down the side of his hip, just short of straying either way.

                Hell, maybe with Sam he was just still too young to tell. But in any case, it didn’t seem to matter either way, and it’s face curled into a private, knowing smile, as if it knew (and it probably did) his thoughts, and allowed it’s fingers to rasp forward.

                And over his cock. And Sam keened. At just sixteen, he had never been so hard in his life, and that was pretty impressive for a sixteen-year-old-boy, and he wondered vaguely if maybe it didn’t have something to do with the fact that he was scared out of his fucking mind. And the demon smiled, and hushed him, but there was nothing even remotely paternal or familial in the response. It ducked it’s head forward, lips ghosting over the fragile, pliant skin of his neck.

                “Hush, gosling. It’s just for a while.” And all the muddled, hurried thoughts that rushed through his head (oh god, Dean, where’s Dean, where’s Dad, where’s anybody, aren’t you supposed to be looking out for me, what happened, why am I alone) in an anguished sort of wail before stuttering to silence with the sort of self-preservation children his age still possessed seemed to have no bearing on the creature whatsoever.

                A gasp stuttered from his throat, an animal noise, torn from him as the demon sucked an angry red welt to life on the boy’s throat. This was a dream. It had to be a dream, because he didn’t remember really waking up, and even though it felt so vividly real, Sam knew had he been awake he would have had more power to fight. Not this listlessness, this helplessness one could only attribute to dreaming.

                And Sam keened, again, knowing what was going to happen as it repositioned itself, unable to fight out, lash out with the same, sick sort of numbness as in a night-terror, hovering above his body. To dominate.

                “N-nooooo-.” The sensation of the head of the thing’s penis, nudging between his ass cheeks certainly sent him spiraling. From hot and confused all the way to absolutely ice cold. And terrified. He didn’t have to know anything about sex to know that, dry and unspread, anything getting forced up into him was going to hurt like hell.

                “Shhh-shhh-shhh.” But it didn’t seem to mind Sam’s mewling, and its mouth even curled with a new level of pleasure, and continued to stroke. Up his sides, down his sides, down to his half-flaccid cock, up to his neck, with motions that made Sam jump as if galvanized. It was waiting for Sam to regain that flush, that breathlessness.  Added to that was the incubi fingering him, pressing into him with a way that had Sam pushing his hips not toward the thing but away.

                “Hhh-haaaa.” It was a patented sound of half-arousal, half-terror when the thing positioned its body downward, lifted one still-coltish leg above its shoulder, and thrust. And Sam, immediately, began to cry, a shudder twisting down through his body in pain. Oh, god the pain. He felt his back buckle with the movement, and felt the whisper of the thing’s million dollar hair brush his face as it looked up to consider its handiwork. See a boy’s face in pain.

                And not just any boy. John Winchester’s boy. And Sam knew this, as much as he knew why it was deriving so much pleasure from going the wrong way around on a boy, and that added layer just made it all the more horrible. This wasn’t an act of nature. This was an attack. And he couldn’t help but clutch at the thing’s shoulder for support, and couldn’t help but wonder if this was the way girls felt, and couldn’t help but want to be saved.

                So it pinned his arms, muffled him with its mouth and made short work of him. It was fast, and not merciful. Each thrust (it hurt, it hurt), and Sam’s head snapped and his shoulders jerked, and he thought for an instant he would wet himself before he came, the thing still in him rough and feral, hiking his leg up farther and bending forward to reapply, hips jackhammering and fingernails biting Sam’s arms pinned to the bed.

                And that was when Sam really did scream, while it was still in him, still moving. And screamed, and screamed, and---. He lay, panting breathlessly, feet on the bedspread, knees in the air, fingers clutching the sheets , come on his gut and blood on his ass, and his father standing over him, face furious and wrathful with a shotgun poised so naturally in his arms he might have been born with it, and the smell of gunpowder dying on the air.

                “Oh, God, Sammy.” Were the first words from his mouth as his face dissolved from enraged to something like frantic rage. “Oh God.” He seemed transfixed, staring down at his child with, Sam recognized from the number of times he had seen it in other people’s faces, the one that said everything they had was dissolving right before them. And then, in those few, wrenching seconds (when he thought his father was going to turn away and walk, hand him a mess of tissues and tell him to clean himself or, worst of all, just keep staring), John reached forward, tossing the gun onto the opposite bed.

                “God, Sammy, are you alright?” His voice had that same strained, frantic quality it had so many times before, but this time it was just… different. Not least of all due to the situation he found himself in. But his father was putting a hand behind his neck, guiding him up from the bed with a sort of fearful pace Sam came to associate with people about to lose something. Maybe their sanity. He remembered the same tone from his father when he was younger, when his dad wasn’t sure Sam would be okay.

                “Are you alright?” And he was pulling his son into the adjoining bathroom with such velocity, such force that Sam didn’t even have the time to separate all the involuntary winces moving from the bed to the shower made him make. And even when he lost control of his legs, knees anti-climactically connecting with the aged, soft linoleum, John was already twisting the ancient shower taps to lukewarm and shoveling his child inside.

                But shortly thereafter, even John seemed to lose momentum. While Sam stood inside, showering off the collected mess of (what had that been? Sex? An incredibly vivid wet dream? The pain in his ass, arms, and throat said differently every time he shifted under the flow of water) that night, had sat on the closed toilet lid, monitoring his son with a sort of dead weariness. Dad hadn’t needed this. Sam had known this. It made the desire to flip out easier to stifle, but still couldn’t fully suffocate the cries of pain he emitted bathing his genitals, sounds he vaguely saw his father jumping at.

                When he had finished, he had let his father know by cutting the taps, and waited either for the man to leave or hand him a towel. When neither was accomplished within thirty seconds of waiting, Sam turned haltingly, reaching out to grab at the towel rack, and catching his father cradling his head in his hands. If Sam hadn’t known better, he would have even thought his father was crying. But when Sam spoke, and got an answer, wavering though it was, his voice was dry, if unsteady.

                “Dad, what was that?” And Sam had known, but had wanted the assurance all the same. Something that preyed on you in a half-sleep, left you unknowing and doubting your sanity.

                “It was just a dream, Sammy. It was all just a dream.” Sam fervently denied the thought that his father’s voice had just cracked.  He clutched the towel to himself and told himself just that; he didn’t feel like arguing, too scared at the reverse prospect that it had all been horribly, horribly real. If he hadn’t been dreaming, it had been real. His father finally rose from the toilet, moving with what looked like the weight of a hundred years laden on his shoulders, but he grabbed a few more towels and draped them over his son before leading him back to the main room.

                And Dean wasn’t back yet from his “part-time job”, even though it was half-past midnight, and probably wouldn’t be for at least another twenty minutes, but, at the moment, it didn’t seem to matter. John, with something like the same frenetic pace he had had before, deposited Sam in the opposite bed, got out the salt and started to line everything, and all Sam could bring himself to do was watch him with a sick sort of twisting in his gut. Because if it hadn’t been real, Dad wouldn’t have been doing this, wouldn’t be acting like this, would have called Dean and told him to get his ass home, would have—Sam stopped the rabid train of thought before it could spin out of control.

                And when his father seemed to wind himself down out of that, he strode over to the bed and seized Sam, clutching him with the sort of ferocity Sam hadn’t experienced since he was younger and very sick or hurt, one hand cupping the back of his boy’s head, the other arm wrapped around Sam’s ribs. And Sam, for that while, allowed himself to feel that small, niggling terror he hadn’t felt since he had been a child. The “what if” fear. He fell back asleep, still being held by his father, some minutes later, with the sort of drugged realization that he was in shock, the regular rhythm of his father’s fingers carding through his hair.

                It would take months before his father would sleep regularly again, and they never spoke of that hunt. He knew that his father had gotten the thing, as he had been missing when Sam woke in the morning to find Dean laying beside him, arms folded, ankles crossed and breathing lightly, and the hazy recollection of his father’s form collecting supplies limned by an early light. And that they had abruptly left in the middle of the day several days later, John mutely packing his boys and possessions in the car and hitting the highway further westward. John never even spoke of it to Dean, not even in murmured conversations when the thought Sam wasn’t listening.

                Years later, when he told his brother for the first time, Dean had been at first horrified, not knowing what to say, and then had guffawed.

                “Dude, you’re telling me you got your dream cherry popped by a ghost?” Sam had rolled his eyes, and declined to explain further. Dean, in Sam’s silence, had shuddered at the thought, but not without some sympathy. “Man. No wonder Dad was so freaked out by the whole thing.”

                “I don’t know if ‘freaked out’ is the right choice of words, Dean. More like ‘terrified’, and the pissed I had messed up the hunt.”

                “No, dude, I remember.” Dean had insisted, directing his gaze out at the traffic crawling by the parked Impala. “ He told me something years ago. It took him a while to get over it. Hell, I don’t think he ever got over it. He never did tell me everything that happened. Jesus. Now that I think of it, I’m kind of glad he didn’t. I don’t think I could have handled that.” And then, pausing, he glanced over at Sam, body so obviously telling of some deep, embedded terror within him (You were supposed to watch your brother echoing somewhere in their consciousness). “You’re… okay now, Sammy, right?”

                It had happened years ago. He wasn’t honestly sure how he felt about it; just one more thing in a pile of fucked-up things that had happened to them. Though that one was pretty high up there, he wasn’t sure he would term it as the worst. Not by a long shot.

                And in the face of Dean’s tenseness, his desperation to make things okay, to hold together his family with what bone and sinew could not always, and in the face of the memory of his father’s weariness, and frantic attempts to hold something together, he could say nothing more than,

              "Yeah. I'm okay."

 

 

Comments

[mollrach13.livejournal.com]

Poor Sammy. And poor John. He really does just try to do his best then things like this happen. Such a heartbreaking little fic. I feel bad saying I liked it - makes me feel a bit harsh saying I like reading about Sam getting ripped to shreads - but what the hell - I did. :)

[framedhim.livejournal.com]

Very intense read and I agree with mollrach13, I feel harsh saying I enjoyed but - I did. The gripping part is, you weave in there the fear and terror and the end just wallops the reader. Well done, thank you for sharing.

[vail-kagami.livejournal.com]

I feel sorry for all of them. Moistly Sam, of course, but for John that must have been an absolute nightmare, and you brought across how shaken he was by it.
I really liked how Dean's initial reaction was some stupid remark that showed how he didn't really get it on the one hand but was genuinely upset on the other hand - more, the more it sank in. Very in-character for him.

[kassidy62.livejournal.com]

I felt so bad for Sam and what happened, how he wanted to be saved (just like in the show in earlier seasons), and then the reactions of his Dad and then Dean, years later, were all excellent. Heart-breaker, telling Sam it was all a dream, and Sam's reaction to that, followed by Dean's inappropriate comment about it all years later - typical first response before he showed his true concern. This was really well done!