mimblexwimble

Title: You Tied Me to Your Bed
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Sam, (Dean)
Pairings: (implied) Sam/OMC & Sam/OFC, (brief) Sam/Jess
Word Count: 1330
Warnings: Dark, underage, non-con, PTSD. May be triggery.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: It's been ten years since he was tied to that bed but he can still feel the rope around his ankle.
Notes: Title from Patrick Wolf's The Childcatcher.

If only they knew the kind of things he thinks. If only they could hear even a quarter of what runs through his mind every day; they'd never let him out in public.

Sometimes he looks at someone – someone with the right kind of hair or the right color eyes or a certain kind of smell about them – and it doesn't even matter who they are. He just wants to rip into them, tear them apart. He wants to—

It scares him, what he wants to do. It scares him so bad that he can send himself into a panic attack if he concentrates on it hard enough.

Sometimes he does, just to feel something besides anger. Just to prove to himself that he can.

There was this guy, once. Outside a bar. He hadn't even done anything, not to anyone. Just looked at Dean the wrong way, muttered something crude under his breath as he shouldered past Sam. And Sam just grabbed him, started beating the shit out of him. Right there, in front of anyone. And he didn't stop when he'd finally won, no, he kept on going. Threw the guy down and stamped a foot into the back of his head. Shattered his nose, sent it halfway into his skull.

Sam's pretty sure that if Dean hadn't dragged him away then, he would have killed the guy.

It wasn't even about the guy, Sam thinks later, while Dean cleans his knuckles and tries not to show how freaked he is. It was something else. Rage. Not about the look the man gave Dean or what he'd said to Sam ("fucking little whore") or – anything. But Sam had looked at that man and his vision had tunneled and something had lodged itself in his throat. He'd wanted to hurt the guy. He'd wanted to make him scream and cry and beg.

And if he'd gotten to that point, he wouldn't have shown any mercy. None at all.

It keeps him up late into the night, the realization that it's not them, it's him. He doesn't have to worry about waking Dean up; this has happened enough for him to have learned the art of crying soundlessly.

What they'd do, if they found out, is hand him a gun. They'd kick him to his knees and watch as he pushed the gun into his own throat.

He wouldn't even choke; he's much too good for that.

Just before he pulled the trigger, they'd whisper, "May God have mercy on your soul," and Sam's last breath would be more of a laugh than anything else.

It scares him even more than his own violence, the idea that someone will find out about him. Especially, especially Dean.

So when Dean looks at him with more than the usual amount of concern, Sam knows exactly what to say and do to appease his brother. He knows exactly how to act. He knows how much is too much and how much is too little.

Sometimes the truth works too, like that time years ago after the date with Amber Riley. Dean had come home to find Sam at the kitchen table staring into space, and when he asked what was wrong, Sam just looked at him and replied, "She said my dick wasn't the biggest she'd seen."

Dean's eyebrows had shot into his hairline but he obviously thought Sam was joking because he simply snorted and headed to the bathroom to shower. Maybe Dean had somehow translated Sam's words into a legitimate reason to be feeling down. Maybe he figured that Sam just couldn't say that Amber hadn't liked him or had broken things off with him, because it's the kind of flippant thing Dean would have said if one of his girls made him feel like shit.

Whatever the reason, Dean didn't mention it and didn't ask Sam if he was okay and Sam never had to tell Dean that he really had asked Amber about his dick and she really had looked at him like he was a lunatic, then told him he wasn't the biggest she'd been with and suggested, quite gently, that maybe they should slow down a little.

And Sam never had to tell Dean how that stupid little thing made him feel like dog shit. Like – what was he going to do if no one even wanted to fuck him? Where was he going to go?

Because everything else was a lie – he wasn't a good person. He wasn't strong. He wasn't smart or kind or sweet. He wasn't any of those things. And this? This was something he was. People had seen it in his face when he was twelve fucking years old and shown him how good he could be. And if he couldn't even – if somehow he lost that too – then what was left?

Jess thought it was weird, Sam knows. He'd chickened out of sleeping with her over and over.

"You're not even scared?" he asked her once, probably more than half-drunk, and she'd given him a funny look.

"Angel, why would I be?"

It scared him that even more that she wasn't scared. What if he did something? What if he hurt her? Didn't she care? This wasn't just... nothing.

He got over it eventually, stuffed the panic somewhere deep enough that by the time it resurfaced, they'd already finished. Jess was curled against him, arm around his waist and Sam was trying to swallow that guilt that plagued him after coming, the feeling that he should be shot for doing something so sick.

He's pretty sure Jess suspected something, probably connected it to how little he talked about his dad and Dean. And it made him feel even worse to let her keep thinking that, but he couldn't tell her. He couldn't.

The curtains are drawn in the room when he walks in. A couple of people are smoking. It's daytime, so even though there are no lights on, there's still light in the room. It's orange and misty and mixes with the smoke and shadows. It feels like a secret place, a special place only certain people are allowed to enter.

He keeps walking, skirting around people talking in murmurs and laughing softly. He's taller than them now, the men and the women. They shouldn't be able to make him feel so small.

At the back of the room is a bed. And on the bed is a boy. His face is sunken in; it looks like someone suctioned out everything he had in him, left behind the skin and bones to paste against each other in search of health and warmth and life. There's a rope around his ankle, tied to the bedpost.

He moves forward and the little boy looks up, right into Sam's eyes.

His eyes are dark and scared. His hair is longer than usual and brown. He's got a little mole next to his nose.

Sam looks at him and wants to reach out. He wants to take that boy in his arms and wrap a hand around his thin, thin neck and he wants to squeeze. He wants to kill that twelve-year-old, wants to strangle the life right out of him, wants to feel a crushed larynx under his thumbs.

That stupid, stupid little boy who is still more alive than Sam is now, that boy who did this, who let all this happen.

He got tied to a bed and he's still tied there and Sam wishes him death, slow and painful, wishes him every agony he deserves.

Someone's shaking him gently. Sam opens his eyes.

"You okay?" Dean whispers, kneeling next to the bed.

The lamp on the table is on. Dean looks worried.

Sam swallows. He raises a hand to rub at his face.

"I'm fine," he says. "I'm good."

Dean's eyes are too knowing so Sam reaches out and switches off the lamp. He rolls over and when he finally hears the sounds of Dean getting back into bed, he closes his eyes and tries to go back to sleep.