all duct tape and safety pins inside

Title: THE HUDDLE

Author: Leigh Ann Wallace
Rating: PG-13
Genre/pairing: Gen
Characters: Sam & Dean Winchester, John Winchester
Word count: 1875
Summary: I loathe summaries. Suffice it to say that Sam gets on the wrong side of the local football hero and things go bad.
Spoilers: (if applicable) No spoilers. Pre-series

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

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

John stared at the deputy with disbelief.

"So you're telling me," he said carefully, "that even though my son gave you the name of the boy who attacked him, even though he clearly was attacked and nearly died, you're not going to charge the little bastard?"

Deputy Mack Gerard flushed. "It's your son's word against his, Mr. Cade. And the other boy has witnesses stating that he was with them at the time of the attack."

"And those witnesses," John said contemptuously, "I'm guessing they're also on the football team?"

Gerard didn't answer.

"Was he marked? Were any of them marked?" John asked.

Deputy Gerard looked confused for a moment. "

"My boy fought back. His knuckles were cut and scraped!" John snapped impatiently. "Some of them had to show signs of it."

"They're football players, Mr. Cade. It's football season. They're always cut-up and bruised. That's the nature of the game."

John turned away from him and paced angrily around the room.

Deputy Gerard sighed inwardly.

That little shit heel Randy Travens was lying. The shit heel boys who'd alibied him were lying. They'd beaten the Cade boy, nearly killed him and there was nothing he could do about it.

The Chief had had a quiet word with the principal, with the boy's father, and with him. The matter would be dropped.

End of story.

He'd like to tell this man that Sam had fought hard enough to break a few noses. That several of them were "marked" so badly they'd be out of school for as long as his boy.

He'd like to tell him that this wasn't the first time something like this had happened to an outsider.

He wouldn't, of course. He liked his job, except for times like this.

"It would help if Sam would talk to us, give us the names of the other boys involved," he said instead. "As it stands now, unless someone else comes forward, there's nothing we can do."

John stopped pacing and faced him squarely, warningly.

"I'm leaving town tomorrow for a few days. If anything happens to my son while I'm gone - I'm not going to be a happy man." His tone was menacing.

Gerard had been a cop for almost twenty years, fifteen of them in Los Angeles and San Diego before coming here. He knew a dangerous man when he saw one.

He had no having no trouble at all reading the message beneath the seemingly innocuous statement.

"It wouldn't be a good idea to take matters into your own hands, sir," he said carefully. "This is a small town. They can be - unfriendly to strangers."

John gave a short, sharp and bitter laugh. "Deputy, you haven't even met unfriendly yet ."

Dr. Creedy came into the room as Sam sank into the wheelchair and settled himself for the trip out to the car.

She put a gentle hand on his shoulder and smiled at him.

"I want you to be careful with yourself for a while, Sam Cade. I put a lot of work into those stitches and I don't want to have to redo any of them."

Sam didn't meet her eyes, just nodded jerkily, clutching the bag holding his medication.

Dean stuck out a hand. "Thanks, doc," he said with a grin.

She shook his hand, liking the friendly young man enormously. "My pleasure, Dean. I don't want to see you back here either, all right?"

Dean shook his head with a laugh. "Not likely, Doc."

Dr. Creedy left the Cades to finish her rounds, but she couldn't keep her mind off of young Sam. Though she was satisfied with his ongoing physical recovery, she was still very worried about him.

She'd seen a lot of rage in her job and this young man seemed to be carrying around a lot more than his fair share of it.

A lot more.

She spoken to his father about it. He'd understood her recommendation that Sam see a therapist to talk about what had happened to him, but she had no real hope that the man would take her advice.

She knew - she just knew - it wasn't a question of would the boy explode, but when.

And who was going to get caught in the shrapnel when he did.

"You ready?" Dean asked.

Sam nodded silently.

Dean frowned. "What the hell is going on with you, Sam?"

His little brother scowled at him. "You mean besides the fact that the whole football team tried to kick me to death and none of them are going to pay for it? What's with me besides that?"

Dean scowled right back at him. "Yes! Damn it, why are you acting like such a dick?"

"You're the dick!" Sam snapped at him.

"You better knock it off, spleen boy," Dean growled, "or I'll slap your dumb ass silly. Me and Dad aren't the ones who did this to you!"

Sam looked away from him, struggling for control. "Let's just go."

After a simmering minute, Dean pushed the chair forward.

"You're leaving?" Dean asked, stunned. He cast a quick look at Sam, sitting on the living room couch. His brother looked away sullenly, but did not appear surprised.

"'Can't we just go with you?" Dean asked.

John shook his head. "Sam won't be ready to travel for a week or so. I've got a job to finish up. Once that's done, I'll come back and we'll be moving on."

Okay, now that had to get a reaction, Dean thought expectantly, looking again at Sam.

Nothing.

At hearing that they would be leaving town before he finished out the school year, something that normally would have had him screaming for days, Sam just looked down at the floor.

"Doctor Creedy said you'd be okay to go to school next week if you want to, Sam," John went on. He waited for an answer, then continued, pressing the point. "It's up to you whether you go or not."

Sam looked at him, eyes veiled. Then, waving away Dean's offer of help, he pushed himself to his feet, wincing at the pull on his stitches.

"When are you leaving?" he asked his father.

John hesitated. "About an hour, after I pack and get something to eat."

Sam nodded. "I'll be ready to leave when you get back." He turned away and walked slowly down the hall to his room, closing the door firmly behind him.

The two elder Winchesters stared at each other, worry shadowing their faces.

"You stay with your brother," John said finally. "Take care of him. We'll take care of the rest of this - them - when I get back."

Dean nodded. "I will, sir."

Better than I did before was the unspoken but clearly heard message beneath his reply.

Conflicted, as always, between love for his sons, and duty, John left that afternoon.

Dean stood sentry.

Sam slept.

It is a cool night, but his jacket is warm and he doesn't mind the cold. He kind of likes it; it makes everything seem fresh and clean.

As he enters the east end of the football field, he hears a shout in the distance, but it doesn't alarm him. It's just kids getting rowdy - nothing unusual around a school.

He walks on, thinking about dinner. About how much homework he has to do tonight. About the chem test tomorrow.

Another shout. Closer this time. He turns to see Randy Travens running to catch up. Morey Simpkins is with him, and Castle Durning, two other kids from the football team.

"Hold up, Cade!"

Moaning, Sam struggled up toward the surface of his dream.

Hearing him, Dean poked his head into the room.

Sam was sprawled across his bed, asleep. He still wore his jacket and shoes. Smiling, Dean tugged Sam's shoes off, then pulled a blanket over him against the slight chill in the room.

He reached down, touched his brother gently on the cheek. Then, satisfied, he went back to cleaning his gun in front of the living room T.V.

Sam stirred uneasily.

"You think you're too good to play on our team? Think you're too good for my money?" Randy shoves Sam and he falls back against Morey and Castle. Laughing, they grab his arms and, though he struggles, he can't break free.

A fist sinks into his stomach and Sam gasps for breath. He can hear laughter all around him as more boys gather round to join in the fun.

Furious, desperate, he pushes hard with his feet against the ground, thrusting himself back against his captors. He is strong and his momentum carries them all to the ground, hoots and catcalls following them down.

Free now, he jumps up and starts swinging, not caring who's in front of him. All he can see is angry faces. He hurts them. He can feel the crunch of cartilage under his fists; the spray of blood from split lips. But they are hurting him, too, and there are a lot of them.

Suddenly they're all on top of him, so many of them that the ones on top can't even reach him to hit, but that doesn't matter because the ones underneath are more than getting their blows in. He can't get them off and he can't breathe, they're crushing him, god, help, he can't breathe!

Then they're off of him and Sam sucks in a deep breath. He coughs, gagging with pain and he knows that at least one rib is broken.

He can't stop gagging. He rolls over onto his side and vomits and he can see through the pain that there is blood in the vomit and he wonders hazily what else inside him is broken.

A sudden, sharp kick knocks him onto his back and a sudden flurry of punches and kicks are raining down on him. He tries to fight back, he tries, but there are too damned many of them, too many, and oh god it hurts!

When the darkness finds him, he's more than happy to fall into it.

Dean finished cleaning his Colt. Then, bored, he cleaned his sawed-off, the Remington, and the Beretta.

When he finally finished, it was getting late and he was starting to get hungry. He went into the kitchen and rummaged around, but there wasn't much in there.

Knowing that there was nothing to eat in the house made him even hungrier.

Deciding to go get some take-out, Dean went to Sam's room to see if he was awake yet, if he felt like eating. The kid's appetite was pretty much nonexistent these days, what with the surgery, but he needed to eat something.

He pushed the bedroom door open a couple of inches; the bed was empty.

"Sam?"

He opened it open the rest of the way and saw Sam at the closet door.

"Hey, Sammy, you hungry?"

Body thrumming with tension, Sam turned to face him. His mouth was set in a hard, angry line. His hazel eyes, when they met Dean's, were molten with fury.

Dean's gaze dropped down to Sam's hands and his own eyes went wide.

Sam was holding the .45 that their father had given him for his last birthday.