Title: The Lady Killers
Author:![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif)
thrdstrike
Artist:proofpudding
Genre: Slash
Rating: NC-17
Words: 21, 347
Disclaimer: Sam and Dean Winchester, as well as their universe is created and owned by Eric Kripke. I'm just playing in his sandbox and knocking down some of his original stucturing.
Warnings: (skip) Alternate universe, graphic sexual violence, disturbing scenes, may not be suitable for all readers. This is dark!fic, guys. It is not a pretty story at all, please tread carefully if you are not okay with stories with dark themes.
Summary: After their parents die, Sam and Dean end up living with family friends. But when Sam goes off to university, he develops a completely different version of himself. An accident involving his girlfriend leads to a dramatic change in his relationship with his brother, as well as something much, much more sinister.
Watch/Download the amazing trailer by proofpudding here!
Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five
bythrdstrike
John looks out at the sea of black, faces blurred and unrecognizable. He feels dizzy, as though he’s just stepped off a ride at the fair, and everything is just a swath of colors. He's got Sam cradled in his one arm – drooling a puddle onto the shoulder of John’s jacket - and Dean pressed against his leg, tiny fingers wrapped around his own. He can still feel the dirt from the grave that he'd sprinkled on top of his wife's coffin, gritty in the lines of his palm and under his fingernails. People put supportive hands on his shoulder; touch his children’s heads. Their faces are solemn and grave; John thanks them. It’s automatic, a social expectation. He doesn’t know who these people are.
John wants them to leave. He doesn't want their condolences. He wants his wife back.
Mike, John’s business partner, and his wife, Kate come over, edging through the crush of bodies, a frown on Kate's face. She takes Sam from John's unresisting arms, and Sam rests his head on her shoulder, blinking owlishly and yawning. "Come on, John," Mike says. "Let Kate and I take the boys and you can go and have a few minutes for you, okay?"
He kneels down in front of Dean and offers a friendly smile. "What do you say, sport? Want to go and get some ice cream?"
Dean looks up at John curiously, fingers tightening. "Go on, kiddo," John says. He runs a hand lovingly through Dean's hair and tries for a smile. Dean hesitates for a second longer before pulling his hand away from his father's and taking Mike's. He looks up at Sam who's staring at him intently over Kate's shoulder, her straight dark hair grasped tightly in one chubby fist.
--
Later that night, after the house is empty and silent, John sits at the kitchen table, a tumbler with a couple fingers of bourbon occupying the space in front of him. Sam and Dean are asleep upstairs. John had stood in the door of Dean's room for some time, watching the soft rise and fall of his son's breath as he slept, tracing the gentle curve of his cheek, so much like his mothers. He thought about how quiet Dean has been since the police had shown up on their doorstep four days ago. Their faces had been grave (just like all those other people he doesn’t know) when they'd told John that they'd found Mary, and could he please come down to the station to answer a few questions.
In the days following the funeral, John is surprised to find Dean sleeping in his brother's crib each morning, Sam wrapped carefully in Dean's arms. John sighs, touches the heads of both his boys, and leaves them to sleep.
He begins to worry when Dean won't stray farther than a few feet away from John at any time, so quiet and reserved, hovering over his brother when he's not clinging to his father. Mike tells John that he should maybe go see a shrink, try to talk through the pain.
"He's grieving!" John shouts defensively. "I appreciate your concern, Mike, but my wife just died, okay? Murdered. You don't just recover from that kind of thing overnight! Dean just lost his mother! He doesn't understand what that means, and he's clinging to the people that mean the most to him."
Mike raises his hands. "Okay, okay. I'm sorry."
John sighs. "We just need some time, okay?"
"Okay."
--
The following months continue to be a difficult adjustment; John is not prepared to be a single father. Kate ends up looking after the boys so that John can - reluctantly - go back to work. Dean is still as quiet as ever, playing by himself, but always within reach of Sam. He only answers questions from Kate with affirmative nods or shakes of the head, sometimes not answering at all, as if he’d never heard her. He stares at the floor and makes very little eye contact.
On one isolated occasion, Kate is almost brought to tears when in the kitchen, Dean tugs gently on the hem of her skirt and quietly whispers from behind her, ”I want my momma."
"Oh, baby, I know you do," she tells him, sinking to her knees and wrapping her arms around Dean in an effort to comfort him. Dean freezes at the contact until her arms slowly slip away. She offers him a watery smile, but Dean shrugs her hands from his small shoulders and exits the kitchen without another word.
She is reluctant to tell John about it; the bags under John's eyes deepening more every day from the stress of going to work and managing his two small children.
He frowns while she explains, but thanks her nonetheless. It was only a matter of time before Dean started asking. After she's left, John slips into Sam's room, finding Dean already tucked around his younger brother. His eyes are open, shining in the sliver of light spilling through the open door from the hallway.
"Hey, sport," John says. Dean blinks, fingers curling in the blanket covering the small bodies inside the cramped space of the crib. "Want to tell me what happened with Kate today?"
"I want momma," Dean whispers.
"I know you do kiddo. I want momma, too."
"Why did momma go away?" The confusion in Dean's voice breaks John's heart.
He hesitates before he answers, searching for the best way to explain the concept of death. In the end, he can't think of anything and answers, "You remember in Sunday school, what they taught you? About the angels and heaven?"
Dean nods.
"Well, the angels came and took momma away. They needed her help up in Heaven and they just couldn't wait."
"Is she ever coming back?"
John shakes his head. He's standing over the crib now, hand reaching down to brush through the silky strands of Dean's hair. "'Fraid not."
"Did it hurt?" Dean asks after a moment. "When they angels took her away?"
"No," John lies. He can feel the sting of tears behind his eyes. "No. The angels made sure it didn't hurt. But when you're really missing momma, I want you to just remember that she's up in Heaven with the angels, looking down on you and loving you so much. Can you do that for me?"
Dean nods.
"That's my boy." Sam lets out a rush of breath against Dean's chest and John sighs. "Go to sleep now, okay?"
"Okay." John hovers and Dean stares up at his father. "I love you, daddy," he says.
"I love you too, Dean." Then Dean closes his eyes, burrows closer to his little brother and falls asleep.
John stands over the crib watching until Dean's breaths even out and his face relaxes before stepping out of the room. He sits on his own bed heavily, springs groaning in protest, and puts his face in his hands, allowing the tears to run freely down his face. "I miss you, Mary," he whispers into the dark of the room. "Christ, I miss you so damn much."
--
As the months crawl by, things get better, slowly but surely. The development of a routine and the change in the weather lifts spirits and makes every day feel like less work, becoming more like the way things were.
Dean starts kindergarten, and John sighs in relief when Dean's entire demeanor seems to change. He comes home from school smiling and laughing. He's talking almost as much as he was before... before. John thanks God for small favors, even when he occasionally finds Dean quietly talking to himself as he plays in his room. He asks him about it once, and Dean beams at him and says, "I was talking to momma!" and something in John's chest tightens. Dean still sleeps with Sam more often than not, John too afraid to suggest otherwise.
Dean's teacher loves him, showering John with praise at their parent-teacher meeting. She tells him about what a smart, sharp boy Dean is and how well he interacts with the other children. Dean sits quietly next to John, swinging his legs and smiling at something just over his teacher's shoulder. John thanks the teacher gratefully. On the way back to the car, John ruffles Dean's hair and smiles. "Hey, sport. Want to get an ice cream on the way home?"
Looking up at his father, Dean smiles and nods. John wonders what happened to cause such a turnaround in his son, but he is happy to see him growing and thriving in a new environment.
--
The next time that John is required to go to Dean's school, Dean is seven and it is not because Dean is doing well. Mrs. Castleman has her arms crossed over her chest, Dean and another boy, whose nose has crusted over with blood and a scrape on his cheek, are sitting in chairs outside of her office when John arrives.
"Mr. Winchester?" she greets and John nods. "I'm Mrs. Castleman, the principal. It's unfortunate that we should meet under these circumstances."
John nods, eyes darting to Dean who is fixated on the floor in front of him. "What happened?" John asks as he kneels down in front of Dean. There are tear tracks still visible on his cheeks and an angry red-turning-purple mark under his eye.
"Dean and Rhys got into a fight this afternoon out on the playground."
"What?"
"There was quite a scuffle before any teachers were able to intervene."
John lets out a heavy breath. "Any idea what started it?"
Mrs. Castleman shakes her head. "Neither of them is willing to confess to anything." Her attention shifts to Dean. "I hope I won't be seeing you in my office again any time soon, Dean."
Embarrassment colours Dean's cheek and John leads him out into the hallway with a polite thanks to Mrs. Castleman as they leave the office.
"Jesus, Dean. What's gotten into you?"
Dean stares straight ahead, stoic and silent.
"I won," is the only answer that John receives as the front doors of the school shut behind them.
--
Back at home, John does not know what to do with the situation. He can already hear Sam screaming before the door is open, and Kate looks exhausted, trying in vain to get Sam to calm down. "He's been like this for the last two hours. I can't get him to stop."
Dean jerks away from the hold his father has on his shoulder and moves across the room to tug gently at Sam's foot. Almost instantly, the crying stops, and Sam blinks glassy eyes. Kate and John share a look. Sam casts around the room to find Dean, and when he does, he squirms out of Kate's arms and wraps small arms around Dean's waist.
"Dean," he mumbles into his brother's stomach.
That is how it works as the boys get older, Dean the only one capable of calming Sam when he is upset. That is how it works. Until it doesn't.
--
Sam is twelve and comes home from school with a black eye and a bleeding nose. Dean is two steps behind him, shouting Sam's name in a vain attempt to get his brother's attention.
"SAM!" Dean shouts and Sam whirls around.
"WHAT?" he shouts back, his eyes blazing. The collar of his shirt is crusted with blood.
Dean takes a step back. "Jesus. I've been calling you for like, twelve blocks. What the hell happened to you?"
"It's none of your fucking business," Sam snaps before marching up the stairs, quickly accompanied by the sound of a slamming door.
Dean, sixteen and feeling the need to push and push even though he shouldn't, grits his teeth and marches up the stairs after his younger brother. He barges into Sam's room without knocking, and Sam glares up from the mirror where he's poking at the purpling bruise under his eye. "God, Dean. Can’t you knock?"
"Watch your mouth, you little shit. What the fuck happened to your face?"
"I already told you. It's none of your business. Now get out!"
Dean's face hardens and he makes it so that he fills the entire doorframe. "You're my little brother. That makes it my business."
Sam is glaring so hard that his nose has started to bleed again. He wipes his arm across his face, leaving a wet rusty blood trail across his cheek.
"I got in a fight." He sets his jaw like that's all he's planning to say, as if it's enough and Dean raises an eyebrow.
"Wow, really? Because I thought that maybe you ran into a tree or something, what with you being a total klutz." he replies meanly.
"Fuck you, Dean. I told you what happened. Now get out."
"Who'd you get in a fight with?"
"It doesn't matter?"
"What'd you get in a fight over?"
"It's not important."
Dean snorts out a laugh. "It just figures you're the type of kid to start a fight over nothing, Sammy."
"Don't call me that!"
"Jesus, I just can't do anything right today, can I, Sam?" He shrugs a shoulder and smiles meanly before leaving Sam's room, door left standing wide open.
"Dean," Sam lets out a heavy, defeated sigh. "Wait."
--
He finds out that Rhys is the one that had an intimate encounter with Sam's face. They have a few classes together, but due to past circumstances, they don't travel in the same social circles - mostly because Rhys is a bully. And a meathead jock.
One day, after school, Dean finds Rhys at his lock surrounded by his sycophantic admirers. "Hey, Rhys."
Rhys looks up, and all of his cronies turn to look. Rhys sneers at Dean and leans heavily against his locker. "What do you want, Winchester?" A few of Rhys's buddies snicker into their fists.
"Just to talk, s'all," Dean replies lazily.
Rhys narrows his eyes. "Yeah? So talk."
Dean's nostrils flare. "Keep your paws off my brother."
A confused crease forms in between Rhys's eyebrows. "And who the fuck is your brother."
"Sam," Dean growls and the other boy lets out a sharp bark of laughter.
"That's so sweet of you, Winchester. Fighting Samantha's battles and defending her honour."
"You shut the fuck up, asshole. Keep the fuck away from my brother."
"Or what?" Rhys challenges as he steps away from the group. His eyes flash angrily and Dean swallows.
"Or else I'll tear your balls off through your fucking throat, that's what."
Rhys takes a step back, face registering surprise and maybe a little fear. Then his face transforms into a smirk. "Is that so." He straightens his letterman jacket. "Well, I guess we'll just have to see you try."
A muscle in Dean's jaw twitches as he clenches his teeth. "Believe me, Rhys. None of your buddies are gonna stop me if I want to get to you. You can count on that."
Next
Author:
thrdstrikeArtist:
proofpuddingGenre: Slash
Rating: NC-17
Words: 21, 347
Disclaimer: Sam and Dean Winchester, as well as their universe is created and owned by Eric Kripke. I'm just playing in his sandbox and knocking down some of his original stucturing.
Warnings: (skip) Alternate universe, graphic sexual violence, disturbing scenes, may not be suitable for all readers. This is dark!fic, guys. It is not a pretty story at all, please tread carefully if you are not okay with stories with dark themes.
Summary: After their parents die, Sam and Dean end up living with family friends. But when Sam goes off to university, he develops a completely different version of himself. An accident involving his girlfriend leads to a dramatic change in his relationship with his brother, as well as something much, much more sinister.
proofpudding here!The Lady Killers
by
thrdstrike
Charred Remains of Local Woman Found in Field
Lawrence Journal
Andrew Kinsdale - Staff Writer
November 3, 1983
Lawrence local police were called to Hoyland Farm late last night, owned by Robert Lominska, where they discovered the badly burned body of a young woman near the far back acres of the fields. Police reported that the owner of the farm, Robert Lominska, was finishing a night perimeter check of the farm when he came across the body. Lominska recalls that he immediately called the police upon the discovery, and after directing the police to the body's location, maintained a wide berth from the crime scene.
While the police have no leads at this time, the death is suspected to be a homicide.
The name of the victim is not yet being released to the public.
John looks out at the sea of black, faces blurred and unrecognizable. He feels dizzy, as though he’s just stepped off a ride at the fair, and everything is just a swath of colors. He's got Sam cradled in his one arm – drooling a puddle onto the shoulder of John’s jacket - and Dean pressed against his leg, tiny fingers wrapped around his own. He can still feel the dirt from the grave that he'd sprinkled on top of his wife's coffin, gritty in the lines of his palm and under his fingernails. People put supportive hands on his shoulder; touch his children’s heads. Their faces are solemn and grave; John thanks them. It’s automatic, a social expectation. He doesn’t know who these people are.
John wants them to leave. He doesn't want their condolences. He wants his wife back.
Mike, John’s business partner, and his wife, Kate come over, edging through the crush of bodies, a frown on Kate's face. She takes Sam from John's unresisting arms, and Sam rests his head on her shoulder, blinking owlishly and yawning. "Come on, John," Mike says. "Let Kate and I take the boys and you can go and have a few minutes for you, okay?"
He kneels down in front of Dean and offers a friendly smile. "What do you say, sport? Want to go and get some ice cream?"
Dean looks up at John curiously, fingers tightening. "Go on, kiddo," John says. He runs a hand lovingly through Dean's hair and tries for a smile. Dean hesitates for a second longer before pulling his hand away from his father's and taking Mike's. He looks up at Sam who's staring at him intently over Kate's shoulder, her straight dark hair grasped tightly in one chubby fist.
Later that night, after the house is empty and silent, John sits at the kitchen table, a tumbler with a couple fingers of bourbon occupying the space in front of him. Sam and Dean are asleep upstairs. John had stood in the door of Dean's room for some time, watching the soft rise and fall of his son's breath as he slept, tracing the gentle curve of his cheek, so much like his mothers. He thought about how quiet Dean has been since the police had shown up on their doorstep four days ago. Their faces had been grave (just like all those other people he doesn’t know) when they'd told John that they'd found Mary, and could he please come down to the station to answer a few questions.
"Sorry to bring you down so late, Mr. Winchester, but we'd like to get a head start on the investigation."
"No, that's fine. Anything I can do to help."
"Your cooperation is greatly appreciated. Where were you last night, Mr. Winchester?"
"At home, with my children."
"And where was your wife, last night?"
"Mary was... She has a pottery class on Wednesday nights."
“Is there anyone else who would be able to confirm this?”
“My best friend, Mike. His wife went with her.”
"Mm-hm. And how was your relationship with your wife in the last week or so? Any fights? Disagreements? Have you had any problems concerning the boys?"
"What? No. Everything was fine. I loved my wife... love my wife. Mary was my entire world. She was a wonderful mother. We were very happy together."
"No one is disagreeing with you, Mr. Winchester. These are just standard questions we're asking. Is there anyone you know of who'd want to hurt your wife in anyway?"
"No. I don’t know why anyone would want to hurt Mary. I can't imagine any reason why this might have happened."
"Do you know Robert Lominska, Mr. Winchester?"
"The name is familiar. He's a farmer, isn't he? Won some awards at the agricultural festivals a few times, I think. I’ve never met the man. Are we done here? I'd like to get back to my kids. I don't think I can be of any more help right now."
"Of course, Mr. Winchester. We'll be in touch."
In the days following the funeral, John is surprised to find Dean sleeping in his brother's crib each morning, Sam wrapped carefully in Dean's arms. John sighs, touches the heads of both his boys, and leaves them to sleep.
He begins to worry when Dean won't stray farther than a few feet away from John at any time, so quiet and reserved, hovering over his brother when he's not clinging to his father. Mike tells John that he should maybe go see a shrink, try to talk through the pain.
"He's grieving!" John shouts defensively. "I appreciate your concern, Mike, but my wife just died, okay? Murdered. You don't just recover from that kind of thing overnight! Dean just lost his mother! He doesn't understand what that means, and he's clinging to the people that mean the most to him."
Mike raises his hands. "Okay, okay. I'm sorry."
John sighs. "We just need some time, okay?"
"Okay."
The following months continue to be a difficult adjustment; John is not prepared to be a single father. Kate ends up looking after the boys so that John can - reluctantly - go back to work. Dean is still as quiet as ever, playing by himself, but always within reach of Sam. He only answers questions from Kate with affirmative nods or shakes of the head, sometimes not answering at all, as if he’d never heard her. He stares at the floor and makes very little eye contact.
On one isolated occasion, Kate is almost brought to tears when in the kitchen, Dean tugs gently on the hem of her skirt and quietly whispers from behind her, ”I want my momma."
"Oh, baby, I know you do," she tells him, sinking to her knees and wrapping her arms around Dean in an effort to comfort him. Dean freezes at the contact until her arms slowly slip away. She offers him a watery smile, but Dean shrugs her hands from his small shoulders and exits the kitchen without another word.
She is reluctant to tell John about it; the bags under John's eyes deepening more every day from the stress of going to work and managing his two small children.
He frowns while she explains, but thanks her nonetheless. It was only a matter of time before Dean started asking. After she's left, John slips into Sam's room, finding Dean already tucked around his younger brother. His eyes are open, shining in the sliver of light spilling through the open door from the hallway.
"Hey, sport," John says. Dean blinks, fingers curling in the blanket covering the small bodies inside the cramped space of the crib. "Want to tell me what happened with Kate today?"
"I want momma," Dean whispers.
"I know you do kiddo. I want momma, too."
"Why did momma go away?" The confusion in Dean's voice breaks John's heart.
He hesitates before he answers, searching for the best way to explain the concept of death. In the end, he can't think of anything and answers, "You remember in Sunday school, what they taught you? About the angels and heaven?"
Dean nods.
"Well, the angels came and took momma away. They needed her help up in Heaven and they just couldn't wait."
"Is she ever coming back?"
John shakes his head. He's standing over the crib now, hand reaching down to brush through the silky strands of Dean's hair. "'Fraid not."
"Did it hurt?" Dean asks after a moment. "When they angels took her away?"
"No," John lies. He can feel the sting of tears behind his eyes. "No. The angels made sure it didn't hurt. But when you're really missing momma, I want you to just remember that she's up in Heaven with the angels, looking down on you and loving you so much. Can you do that for me?"
Dean nods.
"That's my boy." Sam lets out a rush of breath against Dean's chest and John sighs. "Go to sleep now, okay?"
"Okay." John hovers and Dean stares up at his father. "I love you, daddy," he says.
"I love you too, Dean." Then Dean closes his eyes, burrows closer to his little brother and falls asleep.
John stands over the crib watching until Dean's breaths even out and his face relaxes before stepping out of the room. He sits on his own bed heavily, springs groaning in protest, and puts his face in his hands, allowing the tears to run freely down his face. "I miss you, Mary," he whispers into the dark of the room. "Christ, I miss you so damn much."
As the months crawl by, things get better, slowly but surely. The development of a routine and the change in the weather lifts spirits and makes every day feel like less work, becoming more like the way things were.
Dean starts kindergarten, and John sighs in relief when Dean's entire demeanor seems to change. He comes home from school smiling and laughing. He's talking almost as much as he was before... before. John thanks God for small favors, even when he occasionally finds Dean quietly talking to himself as he plays in his room. He asks him about it once, and Dean beams at him and says, "I was talking to momma!" and something in John's chest tightens. Dean still sleeps with Sam more often than not, John too afraid to suggest otherwise.
Dean's teacher loves him, showering John with praise at their parent-teacher meeting. She tells him about what a smart, sharp boy Dean is and how well he interacts with the other children. Dean sits quietly next to John, swinging his legs and smiling at something just over his teacher's shoulder. John thanks the teacher gratefully. On the way back to the car, John ruffles Dean's hair and smiles. "Hey, sport. Want to get an ice cream on the way home?"
Looking up at his father, Dean smiles and nods. John wonders what happened to cause such a turnaround in his son, but he is happy to see him growing and thriving in a new environment.
The next time that John is required to go to Dean's school, Dean is seven and it is not because Dean is doing well. Mrs. Castleman has her arms crossed over her chest, Dean and another boy, whose nose has crusted over with blood and a scrape on his cheek, are sitting in chairs outside of her office when John arrives.
"Mr. Winchester?" she greets and John nods. "I'm Mrs. Castleman, the principal. It's unfortunate that we should meet under these circumstances."
John nods, eyes darting to Dean who is fixated on the floor in front of him. "What happened?" John asks as he kneels down in front of Dean. There are tear tracks still visible on his cheeks and an angry red-turning-purple mark under his eye.
"Dean and Rhys got into a fight this afternoon out on the playground."
"What?"
"There was quite a scuffle before any teachers were able to intervene."
John lets out a heavy breath. "Any idea what started it?"
Mrs. Castleman shakes her head. "Neither of them is willing to confess to anything." Her attention shifts to Dean. "I hope I won't be seeing you in my office again any time soon, Dean."
Embarrassment colours Dean's cheek and John leads him out into the hallway with a polite thanks to Mrs. Castleman as they leave the office.
"Jesus, Dean. What's gotten into you?"
Dean stares straight ahead, stoic and silent.
"I won," is the only answer that John receives as the front doors of the school shut behind them.
Back at home, John does not know what to do with the situation. He can already hear Sam screaming before the door is open, and Kate looks exhausted, trying in vain to get Sam to calm down. "He's been like this for the last two hours. I can't get him to stop."
Dean jerks away from the hold his father has on his shoulder and moves across the room to tug gently at Sam's foot. Almost instantly, the crying stops, and Sam blinks glassy eyes. Kate and John share a look. Sam casts around the room to find Dean, and when he does, he squirms out of Kate's arms and wraps small arms around Dean's waist.
"Dean," he mumbles into his brother's stomach.
That is how it works as the boys get older, Dean the only one capable of calming Sam when he is upset. That is how it works. Until it doesn't.
Sam is twelve and comes home from school with a black eye and a bleeding nose. Dean is two steps behind him, shouting Sam's name in a vain attempt to get his brother's attention.
"SAM!" Dean shouts and Sam whirls around.
"WHAT?" he shouts back, his eyes blazing. The collar of his shirt is crusted with blood.
Dean takes a step back. "Jesus. I've been calling you for like, twelve blocks. What the hell happened to you?"
"It's none of your fucking business," Sam snaps before marching up the stairs, quickly accompanied by the sound of a slamming door.
Dean, sixteen and feeling the need to push and push even though he shouldn't, grits his teeth and marches up the stairs after his younger brother. He barges into Sam's room without knocking, and Sam glares up from the mirror where he's poking at the purpling bruise under his eye. "God, Dean. Can’t you knock?"
"Watch your mouth, you little shit. What the fuck happened to your face?"
"I already told you. It's none of your business. Now get out!"
Dean's face hardens and he makes it so that he fills the entire doorframe. "You're my little brother. That makes it my business."
Sam is glaring so hard that his nose has started to bleed again. He wipes his arm across his face, leaving a wet rusty blood trail across his cheek.
"I got in a fight." He sets his jaw like that's all he's planning to say, as if it's enough and Dean raises an eyebrow.
"Wow, really? Because I thought that maybe you ran into a tree or something, what with you being a total klutz." he replies meanly.
"Fuck you, Dean. I told you what happened. Now get out."
"Who'd you get in a fight with?"
"It doesn't matter?"
"What'd you get in a fight over?"
"It's not important."
Dean snorts out a laugh. "It just figures you're the type of kid to start a fight over nothing, Sammy."
"Don't call me that!"
"Jesus, I just can't do anything right today, can I, Sam?" He shrugs a shoulder and smiles meanly before leaving Sam's room, door left standing wide open.
"Dean," Sam lets out a heavy, defeated sigh. "Wait."
He finds out that Rhys is the one that had an intimate encounter with Sam's face. They have a few classes together, but due to past circumstances, they don't travel in the same social circles - mostly because Rhys is a bully. And a meathead jock.
One day, after school, Dean finds Rhys at his lock surrounded by his sycophantic admirers. "Hey, Rhys."
Rhys looks up, and all of his cronies turn to look. Rhys sneers at Dean and leans heavily against his locker. "What do you want, Winchester?" A few of Rhys's buddies snicker into their fists.
"Just to talk, s'all," Dean replies lazily.
Rhys narrows his eyes. "Yeah? So talk."
Dean's nostrils flare. "Keep your paws off my brother."
A confused crease forms in between Rhys's eyebrows. "And who the fuck is your brother."
"Sam," Dean growls and the other boy lets out a sharp bark of laughter.
"That's so sweet of you, Winchester. Fighting Samantha's battles and defending her honour."
"You shut the fuck up, asshole. Keep the fuck away from my brother."
"Or what?" Rhys challenges as he steps away from the group. His eyes flash angrily and Dean swallows.
"Or else I'll tear your balls off through your fucking throat, that's what."
Rhys takes a step back, face registering surprise and maybe a little fear. Then his face transforms into a smirk. "Is that so." He straightens his letterman jacket. "Well, I guess we'll just have to see you try."
A muscle in Dean's jaw twitches as he clenches his teeth. "Believe me, Rhys. None of your buddies are gonna stop me if I want to get to you. You can count on that."
Next
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