
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/9463940.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Character:
      Dean_Winchester, Sam_Winchester, John_Winchester, OMC
  Additional Tags:
      Season_3, Wee!chesters, Underage_Rape/Non-con, TW:_Suicide, No_MCD
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-01-25 Words: 7950
****** In the Small Places ******
by Sedentary_Wordsmith
Summary
     “It only takes one mistake,” John says. Twenty years later, Dean
     finds himself again in a place of his nightmares.
Notes
     Warning: Please heed the tags. Story contains explicit rape of a
     child. Please do not read if this disturbs you.
     Takes place somewhere early- to mid-season 3, definitely before Jus
     in Bello.
     (Schweinsty, if you’re reading this… Please don’t. I’m so ashamed.)
The sudden silence brought Dean back to awareness after five hours of the
Impala’s comforting rumble. He slowly sat up straighter in the passenger seat,
grimacing and pressing a hand to the bandaged gash in his side as he glanced
around. A white stucco wall with numbered doors sat directly in front of the
hood. “Where are we?”
“Dunno. Motel somewhere over the Wisconsin border. Couldn’t drive any further
tonight.” Sam rubbed his eyes wearily and Dean thought he looked almost as bad
as he himself felt. “C’mon, I already checked us in.”
Dean dragged himself from the car, worriedly eyeing Sam’s limp that seemed to
be worse than it had been five hours ago when they had made their hurried
escape. It could just be stiffness from the long car ride, but with their kind
of luck it was best to keep an eye on it.
Sam was watching him just as worriedly when they met at the trunk to gather
their duffels. “Just stiff,” Dean headed him off.
“I still want to check it when we get inside and bandage it properly since I
didn’t get a chance earlier when we were busy running from the cops.”
Dean rolled his eyes theatrically to hide the small grimace when he lifted his
bag. “Yes, Dad.” He turned and started shuffling the short distance to their
room. “But don’t think you’re getting out of me checking that bite, either.”
Sam huffed. “I think I’m capable of checking my own leg and cleaning one little
bite.”
But when they got inside, the two hunters had barely enough energy to wash the
dried blood from their faces before they collapsed on their beds, out for the
night.
oOoOo
Dean woke to late morning sunshine cheerily streaming through the window’s open
curtains directly onto his face. He shifted his head away, blinking heavily as
he mentally cursed the sun and curtains in general. Biting back a long groan,
he slowly pushed himself upright, lifting his shirt to check the bandage
beneath. Blood had soaked the once-white wrapping, but it appeared to be all
dried now. Dean was counting that one as a win.
He glanced at Sam on the neighboring bed, but his brother was still sleeping,
curled up in a ball on his side and breathing heavily. Dean quietly dug for
some clean clothes in his duffel and headed for the motel room’s tiny bathroom.
With the door closed behind him, he carefully peeled off yesterday’s ruined
shirt and tossed it to the floor before slowly unwinding his makeshift bandage.
In the privacy of the locked room, he let a small hiss of pain escape as the
last of the wrap came away, pulling flakes of dried blood with it.
He prodded gently at the long gash that ran across his right side under his
ribs, nodding in satisfaction. It wasn’t as bad as he had feared it might be
last night when there wasn’t time to get a good look at it after the hunt. It
had already stopped bleeding several hours earlier and looked well on its way
to scabbing over and knitting itself closed. Dean still kept it carefully
turned away from the spray of water as he showered, gently soaping it and
covering it with a clean bandage when he got out.
Clean and dressed and ready to start turning his thoughts toward breakfast,
Dean was slightly annoyed to find Sam still sleeping in the same position he
had left him in. After briefly debating whether or not to wake him and how
rudely to do so, Dean took pity and scrawled a quick note on the motel
stationery, leaving it on the nightstand between their beds where Sam would be
able to find it easily. He laced up his boots and grabbed the car and room
keys, slipping out the door as silently as the ghosts they hunted.
Dean locked the door behind him and turned, taking one step toward the car
before freezing in his tracks. His eyes went wide and his breath hitched as he
took in the motel’s familiar front office and conjoined tavern in front of him.
He stumbled back, hands shaking as he stuffed the key in the lock and nearly
fell back into the room, not taking care to shut the door quietly behind him.
One quick glance confirmed the room’s tacky bowling theme that he’d been too
tired to notice last night and had tuned out this morning as just another
unfortunate décor choice among thousands.
“Sam, wake up,” he demanded, injecting sternness into his tone to cover the old
fear. “Why are we here?”
Sam made no reply, not having reacted at all to the sudden noises.
“Sam?” Instantly, worry for his brother overrode Dean’s own panic as he strode
forward and dropped to a crouch by Sam’s bed. “Sam?” he asked again, shaking
his brother’s shoulder and noticing for the first time the sweat that dotted
his forehead under floppy bangs.
Sam groaned lowly and peeled open fever-bright eyes. “Dean. I think…maybe it
got infected.”
Dean huffed out a worried breath. “Yeah, no shit, Sherlock. Lemme see.” He
threw back the covers, making the younger man shiver at the sudden draft, which
Dean ignored as he rolled up Sam’s pant leg and examined the bite on his calf.
Puffy red skin, hot to the touch, surrounded each of the many small punctures
that delineated a vampire’s bite mark.
“Yep, that’s infected, all right,” Dean informed him. Sam groaned. “I’ll go see
what antibiotics we’ve got in the med kit.” Dean turned to the door,
immediately remembering his reason for coming back inside in the first place.
He glanced back down at Sam, miserably shifting in a futile attempt to get
comfortable, and steeled himself.
No monsters lurked around the corner as he stepped out of the room, which Dean
took as a good sign. He still hurried to the Impala’s trunk, scanning the
parking lot every few seconds as he searched through their med kit, coming up
disappointingly empty. He sighed deeply, hanging his head for a moment before
slamming the trunk closed, straightening and striding back into their room.
“Good news, kid. Looks like you get a free ride to the hospital,” Dean
declared, hastily gathering up their things. There wasn’t a lot to stuff back
into their duffels, as they hadn’t had the chance to unpack much the night
before.
Sam stirred in his bed. “What? No, we can’t.”
“Gotta. We’re out of antibiotics. You need treatment before your leg falls
off.”
“No, Dean, we can’t,” Sam retorted, coming more awake and ignoring Dean’s
attempt at black humor. “The police got a good look at our faces last night.
We’ll be lucky if we’re not on wanted posters between here and Texas with
Henriksen back on our trail. They’re probably pinning all the vamp’s victims on
us, too.”
“Okay, so it doesn’t have to be a hospital,” Dean bargained. “We can find one
of those little free clinics.”
“Dean,” Sam said, and Dean marveled at the amount of condescension Sam could
put into one word, “it’s a vampire bite. Even a country bumpkin doctor will be
able to tell it’s not from a dog.”
“So we’ll say you fell on a porcupine. We’ll come up with something,” Dean
reasoned.
“Why can’t you just go grab some more meds?” Sam huffed, rolling over and
grimacing at the pain radiating up from his leg. “We need it for the kit
anyway.”
“Because it’s first thing in the morning and you can’t wait until after dark
for me to go rob a pharmacy.”
“Figure it out then,” Sam commanded, groaning into his pillow. “No hospitals.
I’m going back to sleep.”
Dean rolled his eyes hard enough that he hoped Sam could hear it. “Only you
would manage to get bitten by a vampire on your leg of all places, anyway,” he
muttered. “Fine. I’ll be back. Don’t die while I’m gone.”
In the car, Dean had to fight the urge to check the rearview mirror as he drove
out of the motel’s parking lot, shoulders hunching inward as the slimy feeling
of being watched prickled up his spine. He knew he was overreacting. The odds
of the same man being there after all these years were at least somewhat
unlikely. Probably.
oOo
Sam was still sleeping when Dean returned an hour later, though he at least
stirred awake at the sound of the door opening.
“Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty. I’ve got your magic potion,” Dean called,
waving a small glass bottle and packaged syringe.
“Mmph…What took you so long?” Sam muttered, words slurred and voice worrisomely
weak.
“How would you know how long it took me? You were sleeping the whole time,”
Dean replied, definitely not adding that he had driven past their motel twice
before forcing himself to pull into the lot and park. Only the knowledge that
Sam was sick and waiting for him had finally convinced him to return.
“Felt like…a long time,” Sam answered blearily, closing his eyes again.
“Hey, wake up,” Dean ordered, coming to sit on the side of Sam’s bed next to
him. “I don’t want it to be a surprise when I stick you with this needle and
end up with your fist in my face.”
Sam obediently dragged his eyes open, watching as Dean tore open the new
syringe and filled it from the vial of medicine. “What is it?”
“Ampicillin.” Dean rolled up Sam’s shirtsleeve and carefully jabbed the needle
into his shoulder muscle.
Sam fought a wince at the tiny pinch. “Where’d you end up getting it?”
“Dog pound. Told them my brother was bit by a radioactive Rottweiler and they
gave me everything I needed.” Dean brushed his sleeve back down, standing and
tossing the used needle into the small trashcan across the room.
“Really, Dean.”
“Little vet clinic in the town up the road a ways. You’re lucky it’s a Sunday
and they were closed today.” He retrieved a glass of water and helped Sam drink
it before tucking the covers back around him. “Get some more sleep. You’ll need
another dose in a few hours and then we’ll see about maybe getting out of here
tomorrow morning. I’m gonna go get us some breakfast.”
“I want pancakes.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Dean made sure Sam’s cell phone was in easy reach before heading
back out the door. He locked it securely behind him and glared for a moment at
the motel office in front of him before stalking towards it.
The little bell on the door tinkled when he entered and the man behind the desk
looked up with a pleasant smile. He was in his late middle years with balding
grey hair and small brown eyes, dressed in khakis and an old knit sweater over
a button-up plaid shirt. “Yes, sir, how can I help you?”
Dean pasted an amicable expression on his face. “Need to renew room 517 for
another night,” he said, slapping the cash down on the counter. “And I was
wondering if you could tell me where a good place might be to get breakfast
around here.”
The motel owner smiled cheerfully, showing off slightly crooked teeth. “Of
course! There’s Mickey’s Diner just a mile up the road, best French toast in
the state.” He held out a flyer. “Tell them the Roadside Motel and Tavern sent
you and get ten percent off your bill.”
Dean didn’t reach to take the flyer. “Awesome. Thanks.”
oOo
Dean returned half an hour later with pancakes and an egg white omelette for
Sam, claiming that he’d already eaten in the car on the way back since it was
now well past both breakfast and lunch time. He kept a careful eye on Sam
throughout the day, cleaning and bandaging the bite mark and administering
another dose of the antibiotic, relieved to see that it seemed to be working as
Sam’s fever was slowly coming down.
“I think you should be well enough to travel by morning,” Dean told him that
evening over their dinner of delivered pizza. Sam had already scarfed down four
slices, always a good sign. “Provided we wait a few days before actually taking
on a new case.”
“It’s probably best to get away from the Midwest before we do another job,
anyway,” Sam replied, gulping down half a bottle of Gatorade in one long
draught. “Let the manhunt die down before we come back this way.”
Dean nodded in agreement. “Get some sleep while you can. We’ve got a long drive
tomorrow.”
Six hours later, Dean stared up at the dark ceiling above him, one hand behind
his head with fingers resting on the hilt of the hunting knife under his
pillow. Sam’s breaths nearby were deep and even, marking his rejuvenating rest.
The hours crawled by in the dim red numbers of the clock radio, but Dean
couldn’t sleep. Didn’t want to. This was a place of nightmares.
oOoOo
1989
“It only takes one mistake, you got that?” John had said. “Lock the doors and
windows and watch out for Sammy,” John had said, and Dean had had every
intention of obeying him, he had, but it’s been days and Dean is going to start
climbing the walls if he doesn’t get out of here soon. He barely forces himself
to stay inside until Sammy’s asleep before he slips out, taking a deep breath
of fresh air and feeling freedom wash over him as soon as he locks the door
behind him.
He won’t go too far, of course, even if there were some other place to go on
this barren stretch of highway, so he heads for the motel’s office and
adjoining tavern. There’s always a pool table somewhere in places like this,
and maybe, if he’s lucky, an old Pac-Man station stuck in some dark corner.
He’s very lucky, and finds a rec room filled with various arcade games behind
the office, down the hallway and around the corner from the tavern. The bar’s
country music is a distant twang and the room is blissfully empty of other
visitors. Though it might have been nice to have some interaction with a person
over the age of six for the first time in three days, Dean relishes the rare
opportunity to let his guard down and just be a kid for a few minutes before he
has to return to guard duty. He pops a quarter into Andro Dunos and starts
mashing at the controls. He’s never played this one before, but the rocket on
the side looks promising.
Time slips away unnoticed as he blasts space ships, burning through most of his
spare change without noticing. He can replace it easily enough—he’s always
finding pennies and dimes by the gas pumps, under the convenience store
shelves, in the small, dirty places that other people don’t look.
“Hey, kid.”
The sudden voice at the doorway startles him and he fights the urge to reach
for a gun that isn’t there.
“We’re closing up,” the motel owner informs him.
Dean sighs a little but doesn’t complain. He knows he was lucky to steal this
time away as it is. He turns back to the game to finish the last round he’s on
and doesn’t notice as the owner hesitates and turns back toward him.
“Hey, how old are you, kid?”
On the screen, his rocket is shot and explodes in a fiery blast as Dean’s
attention is diverted again. “Thirteen,” he lies easily, and at the man’s
frown, hastens to add, “My parents are in the tavern.”
“And they let you wander off by yourself?” Dean can only shrug in response, not
entirely sure what normal parents let their kids get away with at any time,
much less while they’re off drinking in a shady motel tavern. The owner takes a
step into the room, and Dean is keenly aware that his much larger body is now
blocking the only exit.
The man’s eyes narrow a bit in thought as he wags a finger in Dean’s direction.
“No, I remember you. You came in a few days ago with your old man in that big
black car. Car like that’s hard to forget.” A switch seems to click in the
man’s head and Dean’s spine tightens. He knows that look. It’s the look that
precedes phone calls to CPS and a hasty relocation over state lines. “Come to
think of it, I haven’t seen that car in the parking lot for a few days now.” He
takes another step forward, now fully in the room. “Did your old man leave you
here alone?”
“Of course not,” Dean answers swiftly, and it’s true enough, even if Sammy
hardly counts as proper supervision.
The owner’s not buying it. He crosses his arms, adopting a stern expression. “I
think he did. He can get in a lot of trouble with the government for that, you
know.”
“I’m old enough to look after myself—”
The man scoffs. “Kid, if you’re thirteen then I’m Janet Jackson. And your
little brother is even younger than you are.”
Dean feels his defenses rise at the mention of Sammy, but there’s little he can
do at this point other than beg. “Look, Mister, you don’t hafta call anyone. My
dad’s due back any time now, and we’ve got plenty of food and the room’s paid
up through the end of the week. We’re fine on our own.”
The owner frowns, though Dean thinks his small brown eyes are grinning. “I
don’t know about that. It would be irresponsible of me not to report your
father’s negligence. It can be dangerous for two little boys to be on their
own. What if something happened to you?”
Dean can feel his heart rate kick up a notch. He knows what would happen if
Child Protective Services ever actually caught up with them—his father’s
drilled it into him often enough. John would be thrown in jail for neglect and
probably abuse, the boys would be taken from him and sent to separate foster
homes, and Dean would lose the only two people that matter to him in one fell
swoop. He won’t let that happen.
He also has no idea how to stop it.
The owner can see the fear on Dean’s face, and the grin escapes from his eyes
to tug at a corner of his thin lips. “Of course, I might be persuaded not to
call the cops, but you have to do something for me.”
At Dean’s hesitant nod, the owner closes the rec room door behind him and locks
it. The sound of the deadbolt thudding into place echoes Dean’s heart dropping
into his stomach. “Come here.”
Dean has to force his heavy feet forward, trudging through invisible molasses
to stand in front of the motel owner. The middle-aged man seems to be studying
him, running his eyes up and down his body and reaching out one hand to finger
the open flannel shirt at his chest. “I’m going to do something you may not
like,” the owner tells him, “but you’re going to do whatever I say, because if
you don’t, I’m gonna call the cops and they’ll come arrest your daddy for child
endangerment, got it?”
Dean can’t bring himself to speak, all the spit in his mouth dried up. He nods
jerkily. He does things he doesn’t like all the time. His whole life is doing
one thing he doesn’t like after another. If it protects John and Sammy, what’s
one more?
The man’s grin spreads over the rest of his mouth, showing his crooked teeth.
“Good. Now get on your knees.”
Dean slowly drops to his knees, unsure where this is going as the owner fumbles
with his own belt and unzips his fly. He pulls out his penis, already half
hard, and Dean recoils. “What the hell—”
The man grabs him by the shoulder before he can scuttle away, hot breath
panting in Dean’s face. “Remember our agreement. If you back out now, your
dad’s going to jail and baby brother is gonna get taken away. You’ll never see
either one of them again unless you do what I say.”
Dean swallows hard and steels himself, wary eyes glued on the man’s genitals
hanging out of his pants as he lifts himself back to his knees.
“There’s a good boy,” the owner tells him with sickening pride. “Now put your
mouth on it and suck.”
Dean gapes up at him in horror and disgust. “What—no, I’m not doing that!”
The man sighs deeply. “Well, I tried to help you, kid. It’s your dad’s own
fault for leaving you behind like he did. Clearly he didn’t care enough about
you and your brother to take you with him wherever he went…” As he speaks, he
turns to head for the closed door and, presumably, the office phone behind it.
“Wait!” Dean calls, panicked, and misses the satisfied smile that spreads over
the man’s face. “I’ll…I’ll do it. Just don’t call anyone.”
The owner returns to stand in front of him, wordlessly pushing his semi-
erection towards the boy’s face. Dean takes a deep breath, inwardly bracing
himself. It’s wrong and completely disgusting, but Dean will sacrifice this too
if it means keeping his family safe and together. He opens his mouth and slowly
leans forward.
“And no teeth.”
Dean closes his mouth around the tip, repulsed by the musky, fleshy taste and
fighting the roiling urge in his stomach to be sick. The owner groans from
above him, fisting his fingers in Dean’s short hair and pushing his head
forward. Dean panics as his mouth is quickly filled and the tip presses against
the back of his throat, bringing his hands up to push against the man’s thighs
as he gags. The paunchy man gives him no chance to breathe or adjust, pulling
his head back and forth as he thrusts into his mouth. Dean can’t maintain a
proper suction and saliva spills from his open lips, dripping down his chin and
the length of dick that won’t fit in his mouth.
After a few long minutes, when Dean is sure he’s about to pass out if he
doesn’t start getting more air soon, the man finally releases the tight hold in
his hair and allows him to fall backwards onto his ass. Dean gasps for breath,
warily eyeing the man’s penis, now fully hard and red and gleaming with his
spit. That had been horrible, but at least it’s over now, he tells himself.
“Now take off your pants.”
Dean’s eyes snap up to meet the owner’s. The man’s cheeks are flushed and his
own breath is coming in ragged pants. Surely he’s not planning on doing that to
Dean now?
“W-why?” he can’t help asking, though he almost regrets it when the owner
frowns sharply.
“Did I tell you to ask questions? No, I told you to do as I say.”
Dean very slowly stands and unbuttons his fly and lowers the zipper, but makes
no move to push his jeans down. The owner doesn’t seem to mind, quickly
stepping forward and tugging them down himself. Dean flushes in embarrassment
as the man unabashedly stares at his underwear. When he moves to pull those
down, too, Dean briefly resists but is silenced with one threatening look. He
stands exposed from the waist down, eyes averted, fighting to keep from
covering himself with his hands.
A hungry look lights the man’s eyes and his penis strains forward, an angry
swollen purple now. Dean stiffens as the owner reaches out a hand to lightly
run over his limp penis and cup his smooth, hairless balls. The owner releases
a low whine from his throat as the hand drifts over Dean’s waist and around his
ass, sliding down the crack to prod at his asshole.
Dean yelps at the touch and twists away. “What the hell are you doing? Don’t
touch me there!”
The man pulls back, gaze darkening in anger. “I thought you wanted to protect
your family. You’re not willing to do this one little thing for them? You’re
gonna visit your daddy in jail and tell him how you sucked a man’s dick for
nothing and then chickened out at the end? He’s the one who put you in this
position, but it’ll be your fault you’re never gonna see him or your brother
again.”
Dean feels helpless tears rising, but pushes them back with a monumental effort
of will. He’s not going to cry. He’s old enough for John to trust him to look
out for Sammy, and that’s exactly what he’s going to do. He swallows hard and
wordlessly turns, shuffling with his pants and underwear around his ankles, to
expose his back to the owner. The man thankfully says nothing else and Dean
tries to shut out the sound of his heavy breathing, concentrating instead on
the flashing lights and glowing screen of Andro Dunos that he had been playing
just a few impossibly short minutes ago.
He jumps and tenses when a wet finger brushes over his asshole again, and
grimaces when it pushes inside. The sensation is entirely unpleasant as the
finger strokes in and out and quickly becomes uncomfortable when another one is
added. Dean whimpers when a third finger is introduced a minute later and sighs
in relief when they’re finally removed. But then the man’s other hand is on his
shoulder, pushing him down onto his hands and knees on the rough carpet and
gripping him by the hip as the man kneels behind him.
The man pushes forward and Dean’s vision nearly blacks out at the pain of the
slow burn. He chokes down a scream and tries to pull away, but the man’s heavy
hands hold his small hips in place, his own pleasured groans drowning out
Dean’s noises of pain. Finally the owner is fully seated inside and pauses
there, allowing Dean one small moment to adjust to the intrusion and attempt to
catch his breath. But then he’s moving again, pulling out and pushing back in,
slowly speeding up his thrusts until Dean’s teeth clack together with every
rough jolt forward. He falls onto his elbows, unable to keep himself upright
under the onslaught, but the man doesn’t pause in his movements, uncaring if
the cheap carpet scrapes rug burn into the boy’s knees and elbows.
The minutes pass in slow agony and Dean doesn’t notice when his tears stream
down his cheeks to drip off his chin. He only notices when the man finally
stops, coming to a juddering halt and roughly pulling out. There’s a deep groan
of pure ecstasy before something wet and disgustingly warm splashes over Dean’s
ass and lower back. Without the support of the man’s hands holding his hips up,
Dean crumples limply onto the carpet, pants still bunched around his ankles and
his face hidden in his arms.
A long moment passes where the only sound is the owner’s heavy breathing. Then,
a zipper being pulled up.
“You did well, kid,” the owner tells him, and Dean finds himself cringing away
from the hated voice. “You protected your family. I won’t call the cops.”
At the news, Dean feels the first faint stirrings of hope in his heart. It paid
off after all. The horrible nightmare is over and everything can go back now to
the way it should be. John and Sammy are safe and as soon as John gets back
from his hunt, they can leave this place far behind them and Dean can forget
any of this ever happened.
“Clean yourself up and get out of here now,” the man orders and Dean hastens to
comply. He scrubs his arm over his face to rid it of tears and roughly yanks
his underwear and pants up, fumbling with shaky fingers to close the button.
The material smears the sticky come on his ass unpleasantly, but Dean ignores
it. Everything hurts to move, but he’s not about to let that slow his escape
from this awful place. He keeps his head down as he tries to dart around the
owner, but a quick hand shoots out and grabs him roughly around the bicep. Dean
gasps and looks up to meet the owner’s dark eyes in fear.
“If you ever tell your dad or anyone else about this, I’ll make sure the cops
and CPS know all about how your dad left you two alone in a motel room for days
on end. He’ll go to jail for child neglect and then I’m gonna find that sweet
little brother of yours and do the same thing I just did to you to him. Got
it?”
Terrified, Dean can only nod in mute horror. He’s hurt and scared enough at the
moment to believe him. The man releases his arm and Dean scrambles for the
door, throwing open the lock and nearly tripping in his haste to escape. The
cool night air on his face is like a blast of freedom. He remembers thinking
the same thing when he left the motel room earlier that night, but now the
confining walls seem almost like a safe haven away from the motel office
building.
Dean fights not to limp as he quickly crosses the parking lot, casting furtive
glances around him. He lets himself into the motel room and locks it securely
behind him, breathing a small sigh of relief against the solid wood before he
realizes something’s wrong. The light in the bedroom is on though he knows it
was off when he left. The Impala’s not in the parking lot, so John’s not back,
but if Sammy woke up to find Dean gone, he could still get in trouble. The idea
of being punished for his disobedience after the ordeal he just endured is
almost unbearable.
He slowly creeps forward, silently pushing open the bedroom door to find all of
his nightmares incarnate leaning over an unresponsive Sammy on the bed.
Instantly forgetting his own pain, Dean reaches down to lift the shotgun next
to the doorway, shakily aiming it at the robed figure. The sound of the gun
cocking draws the creature’s attention and it rises up to hiss threateningly at
the intruder. Dean freezes, fumbling with the gun, when the front door squeaks
open behind him. He spins to face it, terrified that his newest nightmare has
followed him back to the room.
“Get out of the way!” His father’s voice is a crashing relief even as it jerks
him into motion, spinning out of the doorway and ducking for cover as John lets
loose a hail of bullets. There’s the crash of breaking glass followed by more
gunshots and the clicking of an empty magazine before Dean hears John worriedly
calling Sammy’s name. He pokes his head out around the edge of the doorway,
relieved beyond words to see the creature gone and Sammy sitting up in their
father’s arms with his eyes open. Dean sets the gun down and steps forward,
heart beating frantically, before his father’s angry gaze suddenly pins him in
place.
“What happened?”
“I—I just went out,” Dean stammers, unable and unwilling to put words to the
night’s full activities. He shuffles forward, desperately needing the comfort
of his father’s strong arms around him.
John’s face is disbelieving. “What?”
Dean can feel panic and vomit rising in his throat. Please don’t be mad at me.
I’ve already paid so much for my mistake. “J—j—just for a second,” he says
instead. “I’m sorry.” More sorry than you’ll ever know.
“I told you not to leave this room.”
Dean looks at Sammy, clutched tightly, protectively, in John’s arms. Please,
Dad, can’t you see I’m hurt too?
“I told you not to let him out of your sight.”
Please.
(“It only takes one mistake, you got that?”)
His father’s baleful glare is all Dean receives before John turns his full
attention to Sammy, leaving Dean standing silent and alone in the middle of the
room. His carpet burns sting where they brush against his clothing, his
underwear is drying scratchy and stiff against his skin, his whole body aches
with the pain shooting up his spine, and he knows with certainty that he’ll
never disobey another one of his father’s orders as long as he lives.
oOoOo
Dean sat up with a gasp, ragged breaths harsh in the stillness of the dark
room. He glanced to the side, but Sam lay still, sleep undisturbed by the
nightmares in his brother’s head. Dean slowly lowered the hunting knife in his
hand, retrieving its scabbard from under his pillow and resheathing it as he
struggled to bring his uneven breathing back under control. He slipped out of
bed, slinking to the window and peering through a crack in the curtains to the
parking lot outside. All was silent and still. He dragged a chair in front of
the door and sat with his knife in his lap, keeping watch until the sun rose.
“It only takes one mistake,” John had said. “You got that?”
Dean got it.
oOo
Sam finally dragged himself out of bed shortly after sunrise the next morning,
claiming dire need for a shower after rolling around in sweat-soaked sheets all
day and night. Dean waited until the bathroom door was closed before knocking
on it, calling in a light voice, “Go ahead and pack up once you’re out. I’m
gonna go check the fluid levels in the car and check us out.”
“What about breakfast?” Sam asked, voice slightly muffled through the thin
wooden door.
“We can pick something up once we’re down the road a ways. I want to hurry and
put some distance between us and Chicago.”
Sam’s displeased grumbling floated through the doorway but he didn’t argue the
logic. Dean waited until he heard the water running and then grabbed his keys
and the motel stationery and pen, locking the room’s door behind him. Instead
of popping the Impala’s hood, he unlocked the trunk and lifted the false
bottom, sifting through knives, shotguns, and bags of salt until he found a
long, sturdy length of rough brown rope. He shut the trunk and turned toward
the motel’s front office.
Already knowing the lack of security cameras from his previous reconnaissance,
Dean slipped in through the quiet tavern’s front entrance, passing the empty
tables and untended bar towards the hallway that would lead to the back of the
front office. He listened carefully and peered around corners before rounding
them, meeting no one on his way. Most of the motel’s weekend customers had
already checked out the day before and new ones, few as they were, weren’t
likely to start arriving for several hours yet.
The office and check-in desk were similarly empty, the owner likely having
breakfast in the break room or checking on some small problem elsewhere. Dean
was relying on the motel’s small size and low income to guarantee a minimal
staff and long hours for the owner.
He slipped through the door behind the office and glanced around at the room
from his nightmares. Everything was just as he remembered it, down to the Andro
Dunos game sitting tall in the corner, now dark and dusty with disuse. Dean
tossed the coiled rope onto the foosball table in the middle of the room and
backtracked a few steps to grab the rolling desk chair from the office. He
pushed the chair up under the room’s large ceiling fan and carefully stood on
the seat, giving the fan a solid two-handed tug where it connected with the
ceiling. Satisfied, he hopped down and wheeled the chair to be visible from the
doorway before moving to stand in the corner behind the door.
He pulled out his cell phone and dialed the number he had memorized that
morning, though he didn’t bring the phone to his ear. After a few rings, there
was the distant tinkling of a bell over a door swinging open and hurried steps
rushing for the office.
“Coming, coming,” a man’s voice muttered to himself, and it was exactly as Dean
remembered. The office receiver was picked up and the voice chirped out, “Fort
Douglas Roadside Motel and Tavern, how can I help you?”
Dean hung up.
“Hello? Hel—oh, well.” A short pause. “Wha—where did my chair get off to?”
Clothing rustled as the man shuffled around and then quick steps fell on the
rough carpet toward the game room. “How did it get in here?”
The owner spun in surprise at the sound of the door swinging closed behind him,
his face displaying open confusion as he caught sight of Dean. “May I help
you?” he asked carefully.
Dean didn’t answer, holding eye contact as he slid the deadbolt home. He closed
his eyes for just a moment as the dull thud sounded like a child’s heart
dropping into his stomach. “There it is. I dreamed of that sound for years.”
“Do…do I know you?” the owner asked, wariness and a little fear beginning to
replace the confusion on his face.
“Oh yes. Very well. You should have remembered me and started running for your
life as soon as that big black car pulled back into your parking lot. After
all, a car like that’s hard to forget, right?”
“I—I have no idea what you’re talking about,” the man stammered, though Dean
could see a slow light of understanding beginning to dawn in the small brown
eyes.
He shook his head. “Well that’s even worse. That means there were others. Tell
me, Doug—is it all right if I call you Doug? I’ve always hated the name
Douglas.” The man didn’t reply and Dean continued. “So tell me, how many other
little kids have you raped over the years?”
The owner immediately paled, all blood draining from his face as he wobbled a
little on his feet, before he flushed and gestured angrily at the door. “Get
out of here right now. I’m calling the cops!”
“Yeah, that’s what you threatened back then, too,” Dean mused. “And I was dumb
enough to believe you. You really think it’s wise to call the cops to come
sniffing around the home of a child molester? I may have been a victim of
opportunity, but I’m betting there were others, and I’m betting you keep some
kind of souvenirs from most of them, am I right?”
The man swallowed hard, his eyes darting to the door and, presumably, the
locked file cabinet sitting innocently in the office.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Dean answered himself. “See, I know guys like
you. You’re all the same.”
“I don’t have to stand here and listen to this,” the owner spat, marching
angrily for the door. He pulled up short as Dean unsheathed his long hunting
knife from inside his jacket and pointed it loosely at him.
“Yes, you do. We’re playing by my rules now. This time, you’re going to do
exactly as I say.” Dean gestured with the knife to the rolling chair. “Why
don’t you have a seat?”
The man hesitantly sat, completely rigid and looking ready to spring up at a
moment’s notice. Dean stalked the few feet toward him, slowly running the point
of his knife from his paunchy belly up to his flabby neck. Not much had changed
about the man’s appearance over the years, only the greyness of his hair and
the number of wrinkles on his soft face. He even wore the same type of woven
brown sweater Dean remembered from that night. The look of terror was new,
however, and Dean relished it.
“I should gut you for what you did,” he hissed in the man’s ear, sliding the
razor sharp tip of his knife between the buttons on his shirt. “My brother and
I—you remember my baby brother, don’t you? The sweet little kid you threatened
to rape if I ever told anyone about what you did to me? Well, my brother and I
have become quite proficient over the years at the art of pain and death. Who
knows? Maybe it was always in my blood, or maybe you put it there that night
twenty years ago.”
The man’s arms were frozen to his sides, gripping the seat of the chair under
him with white knuckles. “P—please. That was so long ago. I’m sorry for what I
did to you. Just, please, let me go and I’ll never touch anyone again, I
swear!”
Dean chuckled darkly. “I wish I could believe that. But monsters like you, you
don’t change. And the only way to protect people from a monster is to destroy
it.”
“What…what are you going to do to me?” The man’s shaky voice was a mere rasp.
Dean roughly fisted his fingers into the owner’s short grey hair, pulling his
head back and exposing his neck. His other hand brought the huge hunting knife
up to his throat, scraping against the skin but not cutting, not yet. “I should
slit you from ear to ear. Nothing would make me happier than to see your blood
spraying out like a waterfall onto the fucking carpet.” He dragged the knife
tip down over his belly. “Or maybe I should gut you like the animal you are,
let you feel your intestines spill out over your hands as you try to hold them
in.” He dropped the knife lower, resting lightly over the man’s crotch. “Or
maybe I should just chop off your dick, let you bleed out nice and slow while
you think about all the innocent kids you’ve hurt over the years.”
The owner whimpered, terror making his body tremble as tears sprang to his
eyes.
Dean abruptly pulled the knife away. “Unfortunately, I’m already wanted for
murder in twelve other states and don’t want to add Wisconsin to the list,”
Dean informed him, lying even easier now than he did back then. “We’re on the
run now for a triple homicide in Chicago and I don’t want to point the cops
onto our trail.”
The man dared to lift his head to meet Dean’s eyes, the first tendrils of hope
beginning to blossom in their dark depths. “Y—you’re letting me go?”
Dean smiled, the sharp grin of a predator. “No. You’re just going to kill
yourself for me.”
The owner’s mouth fell open. “What? No, I’m not doing that!”
Dean gave a longsuffering sigh. “Look, Doug, there’s only one way this is gonna
end, and only two ways of getting there.” He gestured at the length of rope
atop the foosball table, and the noose he’d knotted at the end of it. The other
man’s eyes bulged, only just now noticing it. “One, you do it yourself, and
it’s over nice and quick, nearly painless.” Dean brandished the knife. “Or two,
I do it myself, slowly, and damn the cops. We’ve got lots of experience running
away.”
When no answer was immediately forthcoming, he leaned forward and rested the
razor edge of his knife on the man’s right index finger. “I think I’ll start
with the hands that touched me, and work my way up from there.”
“Stop! Stop!” the owner cried, terrified sobs bubbling out from his throat.
“I’ll do it. Just please don’t hurt me.”
Dean nodded. “Good choice. Oh, one more thing.” He pulled the pen and pad of
motel stationery from his back pocket and tossed them at the man’s face. “Make
it poetic. Something like, ‘I’m sorry for all the children I’ve ruined. May the
devil have mercy on my soul.’”
The man scratched out a brief message with shaky hands and Dean took the pad
back from him to read it. “‘Sorry for all the people I’ve hurt. Please forgive
me.’” He shrugged and tossed the paper onto the corner of the foosball table.
“Not quite the admission I was looking for, but it’ll do. The cops will find
your stash eventually when they tear through here and then they’ll know. Now,
stand up.”
The owner stood slowly, eyeing the knife that Dean waved in an impatient
gesture. The hunter recognized the look in his desperate eyes and before the
owner could take more than one rushing step forward, Dean’s ivory grip gun was
in his free hand, aimed at the other man’s face and stopping him in his tracks.
“Didn’t know you were in such a rush to die slowly.”
Dean pointed the knife again at the rope and the man hesitantly picked it up in
trembling fingers. “Tie the other end around the top of the ceiling fan,” Dean
instructed, kicking the rolling chair over for the man to stand on. “Tie it
good. I promise you’ll be in more pain if the knot comes loose and you strangle
to death instead of breaking your neck quick.”
The owner slowly climbed on top of the swiveling chair, wobbling dangerously.
Dean steadied the seat with one foot. “Careful, now. Wouldn’t want you to fall
and bump your head.”
The man slowly tied a thick knot around the base of the fan where it connected
with the ceiling, sobbing all the while. “Please don’t do this. You don’t have
to kill me. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please don’t kill me.”
Dean ignored him, only gesturing with the gun again when the man hesitated to
slip the noose over his head. Everything ready, Dean asked, “Well? Any last
words?”
A wave of desperate anger washed over the man’s blotchy red face. “Go to hell!”
Dean laughed sharply. “I’ll see you there.” He kicked the chair out from under
the man’s feet.
The owner’s full weight crashed downward, cracking the plaster ceiling and
jerking the fan down an inch, but the old construction held. His eyes widened
and bulged and his hands made an aborted move to come up to his throat before
they dropped back down, his feet twitching and eyes dimming.
Dean watched the man’s body sway for a long minute before he resheathed his
knife and tucked his gun back into the waist of his jeans. He strode over to
the door and let himself out, locking it behind him again with the keys he
found on the office desk. He tossed them back onto the paper-littered surface
and stuck his hands in his pockets, humming to himself as he strolled back to
their motel room.
Sam looked up as he entered, hair still damp from his shower as he tucked his
toiletry bag back into his duffle. “Get us checked out?”
“Yep. Ready to go?” Dean asked, grabbing his own duffle that he had packed
before Sam woke that morning.
“Yep.” Sam hefted his bag, wincing just a little as he put his weight on his
still-sore leg.
“All right then, let’s blow this popsicle stand.” Dean wedged his shoulder
under Sam’s arm, wordlessly offering his support as they shuffled out to the
car. He didn’t glance back once as he revved the engine and pulled out of the
parking lot.
oOoOo
Thirty-one years later, the quivering soul of a paunchy older man cowers on the
rack beneath Alastair’s caressing palms.
“P-please,” the man whimpers.
Alastair shushes him with one finger drawn across thin chapped lips. He smiles.
“I brought a present for you, Deano, as a reward for being so good.”
In the darkness of the doorway, white teeth gleam in a predatory grin. “Well,
ain’t this just my lucky day.”
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