
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/7360564.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Category:
      F/M, M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester, Jessica_Moore/Sam_Winchester
  Character:
      Sam_Winchester, Dean_Winchester, Jessica_Moore, Bobby_Singer, Jo
      Harvelle, Ellen_Harvelle, Meg_Masters, Ash_(Supernatural), Rufus_Turner,
      Benny_Lafitte
  Additional Tags:
      Wincest_-_Freeform, Teen_Sam_Winchester, Teen_Jessica_Moore, Accident,
      Underage_Sex, Underage_Kissing, underage_blowjob, Underage_Smoking,
      Underage_Drinking, First_Time, Anal_Sex, Anal_Fingering, Chloroform,
      Kidnapping, Rimming, Hair-pulling, Praise
  Series:
      Part 5 of Wayward_Sons
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-07-17 Words: 5066
****** Racing Toward A Red Light ******
by HalfwayToHell
Summary
     After Sam confronts the memories in Carencro that he had preferred to
     never let see the light of day again, the youngest Winchester feels
     as though a small chunk of the proverbial rock has been lifted from
     his shoulders--only he is not able to bask in it long before he and
     Dean return to Lawrence once more to face their father again and this
     time, it is different. This time coming home means that John knows
     something both of the boys--Sam especially--have tried so hard to
     keep in the dark.
Notes
     Playlist:
     Dorothy- Shelter
     Halestorm- Unapologetic
     The Pretty Reckless- You
     Shinedown- 45 (Acoustic Version)
                                                      
===============================================================================
 
It had been a rough few months after Dean had come home.
 
Not because it had been hard to adjust to having his older brother back, but
because the youngest Winchester had to bottle up what had happened to him in
his brother’s absence and it was not just that either.
 
Sam had started to push Dean away.
 
Each time they had tried to go farther than blowjobs or hand jobs, the youngest
became physically ill, remembering everything that had happened. Pastor Jim had
ruined the one thing Sam had wanted to share with his big brother and now that
had been taken away from him.
 
Although he was frustrated and upset and borderline murderous, there was a
slight silver lining--a blessing, if Sam could call it that.
 
John had required Dean to be more involved in the Wayward Sons, more involved
with club business that his big brother was too busy to spend any alone time
with him and sometimes Sam had wondered if John was doing it on purpose,
keeping his older brother so busy that he couldn’t be with him. Due to the
ample time the youngest spent alone, Sam was able to avoid the conflict brewing
inside of him only that much longer.
 
Until they came to Carencro.
 
It had been the first time since Dean had been back that they had been alone
for longer than a few moments.
 
The hotel room had been unbearably hot--that much the youngest Winchester
remembered clearly--even with the AC humming obnoxiously loud underneath the
one window. Sweat collected on his slender teenage body and the muscles in his
legs and arms trembled in anticipation chased with arousal.
 
He could feel Dean behind him, feel his older brother’s calloused hands
gripping bruisingly tight onto his bony hips. Sam’s hands had been digging into
the pillow that had been placed underneath his chest to prop his smaller body
up just a little bit. The eldest Winchester always considerate when it came to
his younger brother’s comfort.
 
“Dean,” Sam had whimpered, three lubed fingers knuckle deep inside of him.
“Please.”
 
“Be patient, Sammy,” the eldest had replied, twisting his fingers inside of his
younger brother, brushing against the sensitive ball of nerves that caused Sam
to whine. “I don’t wanna hurt you.”
 
“It’s going to hurt either way,” Sam had muttered into the pillow, but he
allowed his brother to finish prepping him as much as possible to avoid
tearing.
 
A moment had passed and Dean removed his fingers, only to replace them with his
hard cock rutting against the youngest’s hole, teasing. The sickness had hit
Sam hard, his hands lashing out to grab onto the wooden headboard with his
nails and he gasped; the twisting, ill motion in his stomach causing the
sensation of bile to rise in his throat.
 
“Wait, Dean. Wait. Wait,” The youngest had pleaded when he felt the head of his
brother’s cock.
 
“What is it, Sam?” His brother had asked, a concerned edge to his tone and
Dean’s entire body had frozen behind him.
 
“I’m—I’m not ready,” Sam had licked his bottom lip nervously before he
continued. “I’m sorry, De.”
 
There had been a long moment of silence and the sixteen-year old’s heart beat
hard enough that he had felt it in his throat. He had thought that perhaps he
had angered his brother—although later he would realize that it was a trivial
thing to even believe for a moment that his brother would be—when he felt
Dean’s weight shift forward, his brother’s lips brushing against his right
shoulder blade.
 
“You don’t have to apologize, Sam. Not to me,” Dean had said into his brother’s
sweaty skin. “If you’re not ready, then you’re not ready. I would never wanna
push you into doin’ somethin’ you aren’t comfortable with, but at least let me
make you feel good, okay? I won’t penetrate you. I promise.”
 
Tears had stung in the youngest’s eyes. Tears of anger, tears of frustration,
tears of sadness and tears of happiness all mixed together. Sam had wanted
nothing more in the entire world than to give his virginity to Dean, he had
wanted nothing more since he was a preteen to be with his older brother this
way, but Pastor Jim had ruined it, ruined him, ruined what he had wanted most.
 
“I trust you, De,” Sam had whispered after a long while of bittersweet silence.
 
The symphonic sound of the bedsprings, Sam’s whimpers, and Dean’s murmured
words of encouragement and praise had filled the hotel room, barely audible
above the loud hum of the AC. The youngest had come untouched with only the
sensation of his older brother’s cock rutting against him and not even a few
moments later, the eldest had painted the curve of his little brother’s back
with white.
 
It would be a full year and a half after that night that Sam would allow Dean
to touch him like that again.
 
Junior year of high school, a girl with soft blonde hair and gentle blue eyes
would move to Lawrence, Kansas and she would quickly capture Sam’s attention
with her sense of otherworldly insights and the mere fact that she reminded the
youngest so much of his older brother that he could not have in the way that he
had wanted.
 
In many ways, Jessica Moore had replaced Dean, but not where it had mattered.
Sam had still thought about his brother when he would hold her hand as they
walked down the halls of his high school. He would still think about Dean when
he and Jessica sat underneath the bleachers that he and his brother shared and
smoked a few cigarettes and drank a few beers. He would still think about Dean
when they shared their first kiss on Jessica’s front porch. He would still
think about Dean when Jessica had dropped to her knees for the first time in
front of the youngest Winchester while her father preached God’s word, unknown
to the sins his own daughter was committing behind the house of the Lord. And
he would still have Dean on his mind when Sam had given away part of his
virginity to Jessica in the back seat of the broken down Chevelle in Uncle
Bobby’s junk yard.
 
Dean would still be the first thing on his mind when Sam had first come to in
the hospital bed with a broken collarbone, a fractured arm, a shattered
cheekbone and bruised ribs after the accident. The one accident that had ripped
Jessica away from him, ripped away his once chance to forget what Pastor Jim
and his father had done, ripped away that one person that made Sam feel as if
he was still with his brother without feeling the sick sensation each time Dean
touched him in ways that brothers should not.
 
It would be six months after Jessica’s funeral, six months after Sam healed
from the accident, six months after Dean repaired his little brother’s mangled
motorcycle that Sam would give away the other half of his virginity to his
older brother between his own bed sheets.
 
Even after all that time, Dean had welcomed Sam back with open arms. The
youngest—to this day—still felt a twinge of guilt for pushing his older brother
away, but Dean did not harbor any ill feelings toward him and that had made Sam
wonder on multiple occasions if his brother had known that something had
happened in his absence that caused his little brother to become distant. Sam
knew he had hurt Dean in some way and he still continued to hurt him by keeping
his secrets on his tongue, but he could not bring himself to tell his big
brother—not yet. Not until he was ready.
 
The sensation of his brother’s calloused hands caressing the round flesh of his
ass pulled Sam back to the present with a startled jump of nerves beneath his
skin, fingers twisting in the pillowcase and a silent pulse of anticipation
bubbled in his throat as the youngest felt his brother spreading his ass
cheeks, which was quickly chased by a whimper when Dean’s tongue flicked out,
brushing against his hole. Sam repositioned himself, opening his legs wider for
his brother in order to allow the eldest Winchester better access.
 
Breathy whimpers and throaty whines escaped from the youngest Winchester with
every nip and scrape of his brother’s teeth over sensitive flesh and the
brushing of his tongue around Sam’s hole caused his moans to pitch an octave.
 
It took the youngest Winchester locking his knees and bowing his back to
prevent him from grinding back on his brother’s tongue, knowing full well that
in the bedroom--regardless of his brother’s sinfully skilled tongue and
fingers--he was Dean’s marionette, his to control and bend however he wanted.
 
And the eldest Winchester knew how to pull Sam’s strings just right with each
broken sob he elicited from his younger brother, with every twist and prod of
his fingers buried deep within his brother, with each brush of the pad of his
fingers against the sensitive bundle of nerves, Dean was slowly pulling Sam
apart.
 
In the most gentle way that he knew how.
 
After a long while, Dean removed his fingers from his brother, causing a
disapproving whine to bubble in his throat. The eldest draped his body over
Sam’s, his mouth against the outer shell of the youngest’s ear.
 
“Turn over, sweetheart. I wanna see you,” Dean said, his tone low and gravelly
in his throat, his hands caressing his sides convincingly, the rough edge of
the callouses on his fingers causing shivers to travel through his younger
brother.
 
“So beautiful,” His brother praised, tracing an invisible line across the
youngest’s bottom lip before he caught his mouth with his own in a bruising
kiss.
 
Sam had never seen what his brother saw. He could see the purple and blue and
sometimes red flowers the flourished on his flesh, he could see the pink and
puffed bottom lip each time his brother’s teeth bit too hard, he could see the
sexed-out hair the next morning.
 
The youngest could only see the outside, he could never see nor begin to fathom
what his brother saw when he was above him, praising him like he was a young
God or the greatest creation to ever grace the Earth with his presence.
 
There were rare times that he could see a faint glimmer, a light in the span of
his brother’s endless green abyss, but that was as far as the youngest had ever
come close to seeing what his brother saw in him.
 
The eldest Winchester broke away from the kiss to spit into his palm before his
hand disappeared between the space between their bodies. He braced his weight
on his hands, each of them planted firmly on either side of the youngest’s
sides and Sam slid both of his hands up his brother’s inked arms, fingers
gripping tight at the eldest’s biceps.
 
With an easy but firm roll of Dean’s hips, he buried his cock into his younger
brother, air hissing through Sam’s clenched teeth. The youngest could feel the
burn from his inner muscles up to the lower curve of his back as the eldest
thrust into him.
 
Sex between the two Winchester boys had never been gentle. It was full of nails
biting into flesh, teeth snipping at throats, fingers pulling tight at hair.
Most mornings the boys awoke with bumps and bruises and even cuts from nails or
teeth from being a little too rough from the night before.
 
If  they were being honest, the only times either of them had been gentle would
have been when Sam gave the other half of his virginity to his brother for the
first time and when Dean was opening him up--and even then sometimes the eldest
was a little rough with his tongue or his fingers. Not that Sam had or ever
would mind, because they both got high from the dull and sharp pain during sex.
 
The youngest's nails bit into his brother’s biceps, a small bubble of blood
blooming between the edge of his nails and the open petal of his brother’s
flesh. With each roll and thrust of the eldest’s hips, Sam could feel the
muscles in his brother’s arms flex beneath his fingers with each hard, powerful
snap of his brother’s hips into him. Litanies of; “Dean” and “Please” and
“Fuck” fell from the youngest’s lips each time the head of his brother’s cock
prodded against his prostate, the hot coil of arousal in the youngest
Winchester’s abdomen slowly unwinding. Some of the words that Dean effortlessly
pulled from Sam sounded like a soft prayer while the other words that tumbled
from his little brother’s mouth sounded like the razor’s edge of sin.
 
“Dean,” The youngest keened, his back arching up off the sweat soaked sheets as
heat pooled into the trembling muscles of his inner thighs.
 
The eldest’s fingers slipped into Sam’s damp hair, wrenching the younger man’s
head back, cutting off a whimper from him as he exposed the long curve of his
brother’s sweat sheened throat. Dean’s tongue blazed up his neck, tasting the
salt of Sam’s sweat on his lips before his mouth pressed against his younger
brother’s ear, his voice thick and rough.
 
“I got you, Sammy,” Dean rasped, his fingers twisting harder in his little
brother’s hair. “Come for me, sweetheart.”
 
All the youngest needed was his brother’s request to send him over the edge.
 
Hot, thick come painted Sam’s stomach and his entire body seized, a silent cry
trapped in his throat. Dean helped his younger brother ride out his orgasm
before the tightness of Sam’s inner walls caused him to tumble into his own
orgasm.
 
The only sounds left in the muggy hotel room was the terrible humming of the
Air Conditioner beneath the window and the Winchester brother’s breathless
pants. The boys stayed that way for a little while before Sam unclenched his
nails from his brother’s arms and Dean crawled off of the bed, making his way
toward the bathroom.
 
He returned a few moments later with a cold washcloth that he used to clean
Sam’s come from his stomach. When he was finished, the eldest carelessly tossed
the rag onto the floor before he crawled back into the bed with his brother.
Sam shifted onto his side, his brother’s arm winding around his waist, pulling
him up until his back rested against Dean’s sweat-soaked chest.
 
                                   † † † † †
 
The ride back to Lawrence seemed to be significantly shorter than the ride to
Carencro.
 
The Four Horsemen escorted the boys to the Louisiana-Texas state lines early
that next morning. The Winchesters rode until Sam could feel his fingers
growing numb and his inner thighs and lower back started to ache, but even then
they continued to ride. They stopped at a small speck of a town when they
entered Oklahoma to grab a bite to eat but did not stay long before their tires
hit asphalt once more.
 
There was a silent, urgent agreement between the two to get back to Lawrence as
soon as possible. Neither of them understood why, but it was as if there was
this invisible string tugging them back home. It was an odd feeling and it
caused Sam’s intestines to knot and twist into impossible shapes in his
stomach.
 
The uncomfortable twisting in his gut unwound the moment they crossed the
Kansas state lines, greeted by a few members of the Wayward Sons and Rufus. The
Winchesters fell back into their rightful places at the beginning of the line
as Rufus and the other bikers followed in behind them as they rode the highway
up to Lawrence.
 
John had been sitting at the throne of the table--like a Goddamn king, Sam
thought bitterly for a moment--when the boys walked into the Bunker’s library,
their knapsacks tossed over their shoulders. After a short while of standing
near the table, the boys dumped their bags full of cash bundles onto the table
and their father’s eyes finally lifted from the paperwork in front of him to
meet their gazes briefly.
 
“Glad to see that you boys are both back in one piece,” John said, his voice
lacking any emotion.
 
He opened his mouth again, but whatever he planned to say died when his eyes
locked onto the nail marks in Dean’s arms and then onto the blooming bruises on
Sam’s neck. John’s jaw flexed for a brief moment, his eyes like two hot,
burning coals as he flicked his gaze up to meet the youngest’s, who adverted
his own gaze nearly as quickly as his father’s eyes had turned on him,
pretending to inspect the toe of his boots.
 
“Looks like you boys had some fun,” Their father continued after a little
while, a deadly sharp edge to his voice. “Didn’t cause a scene, did you?”
 
Dean gave John his glass-smooth grin, unaffected by the tone in his father’s
voice. “We were like two Boy Scouts.”
 
John was silent for a moment, mulling something over in his mind. “I see,” said
their father at last. His attention swiveled onto his youngest son. “Is that
what happened, Samuel? Were you two just like Boy Scouts?”
 
Sam had been poised to answer his question initially, until he caught the way
his father was looking at him, until he caught the way the man’s fingers were
white knuckled around the pen, until he caught the way that John’s entire body
was turned toward him.
 
The realization spilled over the youngest like chilled water, piercing him to
the marrow of his bones:
 
John knew.
 
The coldness Sam felt rendered him speechless, causing him to flounder for
words underneath his father’s blazing gaze, but all he could do was return
John’s stare with widened kaleidoscope eyes and a mouth that was slightly
parted, waiting for words to fall from them.
 
Sensing his little brother’s discomfort, Dean stepped into John’s line of
vision, shielding Sam from their father’s heated stare.
 
“That’s what I said,” The eldest replied, his voice low and blunt with an
edging of a dare--daring his father to speak against him, daring their father
to even glance in Sam’s direction again.
 
John grinned, the smile on his lips as cold and as sharp as ice. “Good.
Wouldn’t want to stir up trouble.” Their father turned his attention back onto
the paperwork in front of him. “Bobby said he needed to speak to the both of
you when you got back. So you two best not keep him waiting any longer.”
 
It was John’s form of dismissal and the boys gladly took the hint, Sam being
especially grateful. Although his grateful demeanor only lasted until the
Winchester boys reached their bikes and his older brother stopped suddenly,
turning to slowly glance at his brother.
 
“Answer me this,” Dean said, his words cautious and calculated. “Why has Dad
been houndin’ you so much? I mean--I feel like it’s back the way it was before
he up and left.”
 
“Not sure,” lied Sam as he climbed onto Jess, strapping his helmet on. Trying
to convince his brother, the youngest smiled at him. “We better do what Dad
says and not keep Uncle Bobby waiting.”
 
Before Sam turned his motorcycle on, he heard Dean mumble beneath his breath,
“Since when do you listen to Dad.”
 
                                   † † † † †
 
Harvelle’s Roadhouse smelled the same way the last time the Winchester boys had
been there--the scent of roasted peanuts, crisp scent of leather and the sharp
tang of nicotine from cigarettes greeted them in a strong rush of air the
moment they stepped inside of the bar. Dean’s arm was nestled snuggly around
Sam’s waist as they made their way across the floor.
 
Out of the corner of his eye, the youngest Winchester caught sight of the pool
table where there was a large dark stain in the green felt and he couldn’t help
the smirk that curled at the corner of his mouth. He had to admit: Brady was
fun, especially since he was able to stir the jealousy in his brother up so
quickly, but he was still rather disappointed that Brady’s throat never split
open like a flower’s petal underneath his brother’s cold blade and deadly hand.
 
Had the Winchesters been paying attention, they would have seen the woman
before they heard her.

“Oh, no. No no no,” Ellen Harvelle stepped in front of the boys, temporarily
stunning them. It was not her presence that caused them to stop, but the
shining end of the shotgun that was pointed at their chests. “I refuse to have
you boys back in my bar,” She paused a second to point her chin in the
direction of the pool table. “Not after what you did. I have respect for Bobby,
but no amount of respect will keep you two devils from raisin’ hell in my bar.”
 
The youngest could feel the tension in his brother’s muscles as he shifted
forward, pushing Sam back and at the same time, he could see Dean’s fingers
slowly reaching for Michael strapped against his side. Sam should have been
concerned for him and his brother, but he knew better. They had an uncanny
ability to get themselves out of dangerous situations.
 
“Listen real close, darlin’,” The eldest began, his voice clear and flat. “I
can guarantee you that you’d be dead before you could pull the trigger. Unless
you’d like your daughter to know what it feels like to bury her mother, I’d
really appreciate it if you’d put the gun down.”
 
There was a tense moment of silence between them, the air so thick that it
could have suffocated them all. There was a flicker of an emotion that crossed
Ellen’s facial features that initially made the youngest believe that she would
come to her senses and put the gun down as his brother had requested, but that
emotion was fleeting as the woman cocked the shotgun and said, “Try me.”
 
If it would have been a second longer, the eldest would have reached for his
knife and thrown it at the woman. Sam had seen Dean’s impeccable ability to
throw knives with deadly accuracy. He had seen his older brother throwing
Michael at the Bunker walls, old car tires, and tin cans and each time his
brother had hit his mark perfectly. Had their Uncle Bobby waited a fraction of
a hair longer, Ellen would have had the six inch blade plunged into her throat
or her chest cavity or her skull.
 
“Put the gun down, Ellen. That boy would kill you if you gave him the chance,”
The older man warned as one of his hands gripped tightly onto the barrel,
pointing it down at the wooden floor. There was a flicker of betrayal in the
woman’s eyes, as if she could not believe that Bobby would defend the
Winchester boys after what they had done, but then there was another glimmer of
understanding--although it was a bitter one. “This will only take a moment.
I’ll keep an eye on’em.”
 
Ellen’s eyes slid between Bobby and the boys, her eyes narrowed in disdain, but
the woman stepped back, keeping her shotgun pointed at the floor. “That’s what
you promised me last time,” The woman said before she walked back toward the
bar, where her daughter and Ash had been frozen behind the counter.
 
There was a silence in the air and Sam could feel everyone’s eyes turned in
their direction, the weight of their stares piercing the back of his neck. Dean
must have felt the same way as his younger brother because the grip on Sam’s
hip tightened and the eldest cast a warning glare over his shoulder.
 
“Go back t’ what y’all were doin’,” Uncle Bobby said, trying to keep the peace
as usual. The older man turned his pale eyes onto the brothers, pursing his
lips in slight disappointment. “I need t’ talk with you boys.”
 
Sam had expected the meeting Bobby wished to have with them would entail
something of importance, given the urgency in which he had ushered them into
the back room, but the meeting was the typical mundane update on the club’s
financial quotas, where the club stood with other neighboring clubs and so on.
 
The youngest had checked out a long time ago while Uncle Bobby droned on, his
eyes staring ahead with an incoherent haze in them. It was not until the older
man turned his attention onto Sam that he stepped back into reality, flicking
his kaleidoscope gaze onto his Uncle.
 
“I need t’ speak t’ your brother in private, son.”
 
The way in which Bobby had said it, the way in which he sat across from him,
the way his hands were folded in front of him on the table, briefly reminded
Sam of the school counselors he used to have to sit down and talk with an hour
a day during school--although it had more or less been Sam sitting silently in
a chair too large for his small body and listened silently and blinked
robotically while the counselor tried to get the youngest Winchester to speak
or interact in some sort of way that lead them to believe he was comprehending
what they were trying to convey to him.
 
The counselors he had been forced to speak with because his teachers were
“concerned” about his well being when really, they did not want to deal with
him for eight consecutive hours a day, who did not want to be under constant
barrage of the youngest Winchester’s cold and unwavering stare, who did not
want to feel that they were being picked apart by a child who could very well
at a moment’s notice, could stab a pencil through a peer’s throat if
aggravated, who knew all too well about John’s reputation and who--in some
sense--feared the Wayward Sons.
 
So instead of participating in group activities and lesson plans, Sam was left
alone in the far back corner of each classroom, his nose stuck in a book or his
pen scratching across his diary and even though Sam never participated in class
discussions, he was still able to pass each class, each subject, each test
without difficulty.

The youngest Winchester’s uncanny intelligence intimidated every teacher, every
adult figure he had growing up. Sam quickly became a force to be reckoned with,
even as a small child in kindergarten and his older brother became the one
child no teacher wanted to catch stares with.
 
Sam grinned, flashing a mouth full of white. “Sure, Uncle Bobby.” The youngest
stood from his chair and leaned down to press a quick kiss into his brother’s
temple, murmuring against his hairline, “I’ll be waiting for you outside.”
 
Sam did not have an inkling of an idea as to what their uncle needed to speak
to his brother about in private, but he was more than confident that Dean would
fill him in on the details later. The youngest had not walked farther than a
few steps away from the back room of the Roadhouse, when a woman caught his
attention at the island. Even from the distance between them, Sam could
conclude that she looked oddly familiar and she sat at the bar, one slender leg
cross over the other, a drink in her hand and her body clad in all figure-
fitting black.
 
Suddenly--as if the woman could sense him staring--she turned to look in his
direction. Startling recognizable dark eyes and blood red lips pulled into a
coy smirk faced him. She lifted the drink in her hand--almost like a silent
toast or a silent acknowledgement that she was greeting him like an old friend-
-and gave him a wink before she turned her attention back onto Ash, who took
the money the woman slid across the island toward him. Without even a moment’s
hesitation, the realization sank into Sam’s bones.
 
The woman was Meg.
 
Against his better judgement, Sam followed her as she turned away from the bar
to head outside. More than anything, the youngest Winchester felt a sense of
unease and confusion as to why a woman he had met only once down in Louisiana
could possibly be here now.
 
It did not make any sense to the youngest Winchester, although there was a part
of him--a small, infinitesimal part--that was in complete denial and he was
sure it couldn’t be Meg, that would be an astronomical coincidence, but Sam had
to know if it was her.
 
The moment he stepped outside, the moment the warm Kansas summer air hit his
skin, was the only other time the youngest Winchester had ever been caught off
guard. Hands were on him in an instant and something wet and sweet smelling was
pressed firmly against his mouth and nose. Sam could not see who had a hold on
him, but he could tell it was a man--more than one, in fact--by the strong arm
that was locked around his throat, hauling him back.
 
The youngest’s primal instincts kicked in almost milliseconds after the men
grabbed him and he started to fight and thrash and writhe in their grasps,
trying to get free. Because Sam could not call out to his brother for help, it
was up to the youngest to fend off the men.
 
He tried to hold his breath to keep from inhaling the sweet smelling liquid as
he kicked and fought and tried to twist his body this way and that and he tried
to get purchase on the wall or the wooden posts--or  something  to give him
leverage against the men.
 
It seemed all his fighting was starting to pay off when one of the men lost
hold on him and the one with his arm around his throat cursed loudly, but
before Sam could get the other man off of him, fingers twisted in his hair and
he was thrown to the side, his temple slamming hard into one of the wooden
walls of Harvelle’s Roadhouse.

 The youngest’s body instantaneously went slack in the man’s arms, pulled under
by the darkness and the sickeningly sweet scent of chloroform in his lungs.
===============================================================================
 
                                                        
 
 
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