THE FLEDGLING - Chapter 5/6

[leighannwallace.livejournal.com]

Title: THE FLEDGLING

Author: Leigh Ann Wallace
Rating: NC-17
Genre/pairing: Gen
Characters: Sam & Dean Winchester, Bobby Singer, John Winchester
Word count: 2126
Summary: Young boys have been disappearing and Sam is the latest victim. Will Dean find him before it’s too late?
Spoilers: (if applicable) No spoilers. Pre-series

Warnings: (if applicable) Child Endangerment, Some Language
Disclaimer: Pretty clear I don't own anything to do with Supernatural. Written out of love and passionate obsession.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Dean picked Sam up, sat on the bed with him. He held him tight against his chest, the boy's head tucked under his chin, rocking him gently back and forth. Exhausted, Sam lay against him, hands fisted tightly in Dean's shirt as if afraid his big brother would vanish.

"It's okay, Sammy, it's okay," Dean murmured. He was content. Sam was back with him now, and that was all that mattered. Whatever shit had happened, whatever was wrong, he would fix it. He had Sam back. Everything else was extraneous.

Half-asleep, Sam murmured, "Dean, where's Dad?" He felt Dean stiffen, knew what was coming.

"I'm sorry, Sam, I couldn't reach him," Dean said apologetically. "He probably lost his cell, or he's not getting reception. I'm sure he'll come as soon as he gets my voicemails."

Tears stung Sam's eyes and he willed them back. Just about what he'd expected. Since when had anything in his sons' lives mattered more to their dad than the hunt? Still, part of him had thought that for this, his dad might make the effort. He needed his dad, needed him.

He pushed that useless thought away. I've got Dean. He's all I need.

After a while, Bobby came in and sat down on the bed beside them. At the sudden movement, Sam flinched, eyes widening, and clutched hard at Dean with a gasp.

"It's okay, baby, it's just Bobby." Dean kissed the top of Sam's head, rubbed familiar, comforting circles on his back.

"Hey, Sam," Bobby said quietly. He reached out, patted the boy's shoulder, looked into Dean's eyes. Dean knew, whatever the cop had told Bobby, it was bad. Bad. Bobby looked like he'd been gut shot.

"Bobby," Sam whispered hoarsely. He cleared his throat, tried again. "Thanks for coming."

"That's what family does, Sam." He saw Dean wince, shake his head slightly, silently mouthing Dad. After a second Bobby's mouth twisted in bitter understanding.

"Listen, boys, I'm sorry, but that detective's outside," Bobby said reluctantly. "He wants to talk to you, Sam, if you're up to it."

Sam turned slightly towards Bobby. "Did he tell you about Joey?" he asked in a small voice.

"He told me, Sam. I'm so sorry." Bobby reached out to touch Sam again and Sam managed to stay still under Bobby's hand, accept his touch.

"What about Joey?" Dean asked, bewildered. "Didn't they find him with you, Sam?'

When Sam didn't answer, Bobby said grimly, "He's dead."

Dean froze, then pulled Sam back against him, hard. Thank God it wasn't you. Thank God. Thank you, God. Sam trembled under him and Dean kissed the top of his head. "It's okay, Sam. I got you. I got you."

Sam sighed, relaxing against him. This felt so good, Dean felt so good. Sam wanted to stay like this forever, sink into his brother - let him handle the detective, handle everything. He didn't want to do anything but sleep. Sleep and try to forget. Forget his own stupidity, his guilt, his culpability in Joe's death.

His mom had to know by now that her son was dead. A kid his own age, someone with a life of his own, friends, family, hope for the future. Now there was nothing but a grave and a grieving mother. Joey. God, Joey. I'm so sorry. Nausea swept over him and he gagged.

Reading Sam's face, Dean grabbed a nearby basin and stuck it under his head just in time. Not much came up; he hadn't eaten since the night before he'd been taken. When he was finished, Sam wiped his mouth with a shaking hand. "Can I have some water?'

Dean filled a glass from the pitcher next to the bed. Watching him drink, Dean looked up at Bobby. "I don't think he's up to talking right now."

Sam lowered the glass. "It's okay," Sam protested. "I'm okay."  The glass wobbled in Sam's hand.

Dean took the glass, set it on the bedside table. "Are you sure?"

Sam wasn't sure at all. He was nearly numb with exhaustion. His imprisonment, the horror of his captors, Joey's death – it was all a huge mishmash. His system was on overload and it was taking everything he had to keep it all inside, to pretend that he was okay. The only thing he was sure of was that he had to do this.

Sam nodded, albeit a little nervously. "For Joey."

))))))))))))))))))))

Sam sat in a corner of the room, Dean's chair canted slightly in front of his, a small barrier between his little brother and the police detective.

"Sam."

He looked up. Dean, Bobby, the cop - they were all staring at him. From the expression on their faces, Dean had been trying to get his attention for a while. The sound of his own breathing was suddenly very loud in the quiet cubicle.

The detective had his notebook out. "Take your time, Sam. Tell us what happened that first night."

"Joey had some fireworks left over from the Fourth," Sam began slowly. "We were going over to that park over on Hosea. There's not much traffic over there, especially that late at night. We figured no one would see us; we could set them off, get home before anyone knew we were gone." He looked apologetically at Dean.

"They grabbed us on the way back before we even knew they were there. " He flushed with shame. All the training his Dad and Dean had given them, for what? So two humans could take him? What a waste of training he was. His father would be so disappointed.

"What kind of vehicle?" Portillo asked.

"A white van. A Ford, I think. I don't know what kind. They put us in the back and made us sit on the floor. We went into the building through the parking garage. Then they took us upstairs in a freight elevator and locked us up."

"How many people did you see?"

Trembling, Sam drew a deep unsteady breath. "Three." He named his captors, described them; Portillo writing it all down in his notebook. Dean listened hard, clearly memorizing the details.

"Did they say why they took you?" the detective asked gently.

Sam blushed. The three men didn't say anything to push him - all of them had a pretty damned good idea why, but they needed to hear Sam say it.

"They were going to sell us," Sam said finally, unhappily. "They were talking about sending Joey to someone in Florida."

"Did they mention a name for the buyer?" Portillo asked matter-of-factly.

Sam shook his head.

Careful to keep the rage out of his voice, Dean asked, "Did they say where they were sending you?"

"Ma Jenner - the old lady - said she had to think about it," he said in a low voice. "She said it had to be someone who –" he stopped, not sure about telling the police detective that he'd stabbed someone.

"Sam?" the detective promptly after a moment.

Face red with embarrassment, Sam said, "She said they had to find someone who liked a fight." He looked cautiously at the detective. "I cut one of them when he tried to mess with Joey."

Angry pride flashed through Dean. "Good for you, Sam."

Dean's praise stung and Sam looked away. "It didn't help, did it? Joey died anyway."

Dean took him by the shoulder, forced Sam to look at him. "Not your fault. You screwed up, yeah, but it's not your fault Joey's dead. The dickheads who took you, that's on them, one hundred percent."

Watching as Sam looked away from his brother, Detective Portillo sighed inwardly. This kid was going to have a lot to work through. He'd seen a lot of kids get taken. Those that came back were never the same. It looked like they'd gotten Sam back before they'd done anything irretrievable to him, physically, but his friend's death - hard enough for an adult to deal with something like that, never mind a kid.

Portillo hesitated, then resolutely drew a photograph out of his jacket pocket. "We found a dead man in the building where you and Joe were held, Sam."

Sam's shoulders hunched a little. He glanced at the picture out of the corner of his eye, but didn't reach for it.

"He's been shot, and it's not pretty. I'm sorry to have to ask this, but I need you to tell me if it's one of the men who took you."

Sam wanted, very badly, for the picture to be of Mitch. Mitch, who scared him more than any nonhuman monster ever had.

Mitch, who'd promised to come back for him.

Dean reached out, took the picture and studied it, showed it to Bobby. "Can you look at this, Sam?" Dean asked.

Sam steeled himself, looked at the picture and then quickly away, disappointed, nodding an affirmative. "Jerry. He's the one I cut." He looked at the detective pleadingly. "Are we done now?"

Detective Portillo shook his head. He felt bad for the boy, but he had one dead boy and four children still missing. If he were going to have any chance of bringing them home, it might lay with this boy. "I'm sorry, Sam, I know this isn't easy. But we need to know what happened with Joey."

Sam flinched. He dropped his head, mouth trembling. After a minute he began, staring at his hands as he talked.

He took them slowly through those horrible two days, with Portillo interrupting occasionally with clarifying questions. Learning that first day what the kidnappers had in mind for them. Cutting Jerry. Their escape. The roof.

When he was telling how he'd leapt from the ladder to the drainpipe and from there to the ledge, Dean stood up and turned away, shaking. Sam watched him for a moment, feeling unhappy, guilty, then finished his story, voice now a raspy whisper.

Under control now, Dean got a glass of water for Sam and sat back down beside him, put an arm around his shoulder and looked at the detective. "That's enough for now," he said firmly.

Portillo nodded in agreement and stowed away his notebook. He looked compassionately at the trembling boy. "Sam." When Sam looked up, Portillo said, "You did the best you could, son."

Sam nodded, in acknowledgement of the man's kindness more than in agreement. He watched as the man spoke quietly with Bobby for a minute, then left the cubicle. Closing his eyes, he slumped in his chair, wanting to cry.

He wanted his father, but - Dad would be so mad. Sam had broken practically every rule they had. Don't leave the house without your brother. Don't hang out with strangers. Go to school, then come straight home.

Train. Salt. Ward. Memorize. Hunt. Isolate. Stick with family. Simple rules to follow. Why hadn't he listened?

He was an idiot, that's why. A stupid fucking idiot. If only he'd listened, Joey would still be alive, not stuffed in some morgue refrigerator, heading for a hole in the ground and eternity. His hands started to shake and he knotted them together, trying to quiet them.

Dean leaned over, laid a gentle hand on his arm. "Take it easy, kid."

Sam jerked violently away from him. "Don't call me that!" His voice was shrill.

Dean looked at him in shock. "Sam?"

The doctor, who'd been waiting outside, pulled aside the curtain and stepped inside the cubicle, the policeman outside looking in.

"Sam," Dean said, leaning in, looking into his brother's eyes. "It's okay."

"Stop saying that." Sam's voice was shaking. "You keep saying that. It's not gonna be okay. Joey's dead, how can it be okay?"

Sam saw the doctor coming toward him, knew that if he couldn't pull it together, they were going to force a sedative on him, and he couldn't bear that. To be asleep, not able to wake up, the prisoner of whatever nightmares he was sure were waiting for him – no.

With a massive effort of will, he managed to pull himself back from the edge. He placed his hand in Dean's. "I'm sorry," he said clearly. He cut his eyes meaningfully to the doctor and Dean, of course, understood. He stood, placed himself between Sam and the doctor, who already had a hypodermic in his hand.

"We're good. He doesn't need that." He held the doctor's gaze, ready to do battle, but the doctor apparently read him pretty well. He nodded and, with a final searching glance at Sam, left the cubicle.

Dean looked at Sam. "You ready to get out of here?"

Sam nodded, clutching Dean's hand tightly.

Stay strong. Hold on. Just - hold on.

Don't be a fucking baby.