Chapter Text
Dean doesn’t know how long he lies there, crumpled on the bed like something discarded. It could be minutes or could just as easily be hours before the silence is broken.
There’s a disturbance of some kind going on outside the door. He can hear the sound of the guards’ alarmed voices. As he turns listlessly in the direction of the commotion, there’s the sound of something large and heavy slamming against the door. It rattles in its frame once, twice - and then it splinters as the something large and heavy turns out to be Brock Samson charging in.
Brock shouts and launches himself at Underbheit, who’s caught off guard, only half squared up by the time Brock collides with him. Brock pummels Underbheit across the face and he goes stumbling back.
Dean curls up in the sheet and faces away. He doesn’t even want to watch Brock beat this guy up. He doesn’t want to see anything or be seen at all right now. He kind of wishes he could just stop existing.
He hears the sounds of a struggle for a brief time. He doesn’t know who’s doing what - sounds tangling into a backdrop of turmoil, the thump of a massive, solid body on impact with another man or the floor, grunts and shouts, the shuffle of movement.
And then a hand on his shoulder. Dean curls tighter into himself, but it’s Brock’s voice speaking to him. “Dean! Are you okay?”
Dean doesn’t answer. He doesn’t think he could make his voice come out if he tried.
“Are you hurt? Let me see you. What happened?” Brock is turning Dean over to face him, and Dean doesn’t have the strength to resist him, so he just goes limp and lets himself be moved.
Dean doesn’t want to look Brock in the face, but he can hear the change in Brock’s voice as he looks Dean over, seeing that he’s naked. “Jesus.”
Dean lets himself scan the room, and finds Underbheit is nowhere to be seen. He starts to put together the events of the blur of the fight that he didn’t see: scrabbling, shouting, running footsteps…he realizes that Underbheit must have escaped, and that Brock came to check on Dean first instead of chasing him. Something twists inside him at the realization. He doesn’t know how to feel about that.
“What’d that sick son of a bitch do to you?” Brock says.
Dean doesn’t want to tell him what happened. But he can see from the expression on Brock’s face, a look of realization that he doesn’t want to speak out loud - Brock knows.
A horrible, sick shame fills Dean. He feels dirty all over again.
“Please,” he begs Brock, his voice breaking. “Don’t tell anyone.” He’s getting a lump in his throat. It’s bad enough for Brock to see him like this - the idea of Hank or Pop knowing, or anyone else, it makes him - he wants to -
Dean squeezes his eyes shut, feeling tears start to roll down his face. His shoulders shake and his chest heaves as he tries to keep himself from sniffling. He waits for Brock to tell him to shut up and stop being a crybaby. But it doesn’t happen. Instead, Brock puts his arm around him.
“Hey, hey, kid. It’s okay.” Brock sounds almost…unsure? Lost? Like he doesn’t know what to do in a situation like this. But that can’t be right. Brock always knows what to do.
“Whatever he did to you, it’s over now.” Brock sounds more sure of that, and he pulls Dean close to him, almost in a hug. Dean knows it’s true, it’s over, and Brock’s here now which means he’s safe, but it’s all too much and -
Dean gives up on holding back and lets himself sob for real on Brock’s chest. “Alright, it’s alright,” Brock mutters, sweeping him up in a full hug.
His hold on Dean is firm but not choking or entrapping the way Underbheit’s was. He’s as big and strong as Underbheit was, but with a presence that means safety rather than fear. Dean buries himself in that presence, sturdy and unshakable even when Dean’s falling apart.
Brock holds him steady in his arms until his sobs die down. Dean sniffles and tries to even his breathing back out to normal, even if he doesn’t feel normal in any way. He has to show Brock that he can hold it together.
“Let’s get you out of here,” Brock says. Dean nods shakily.
Brock scavenges him a uniform from one of the guards to wear before they leave. It’s too big for him, and a little bloodstained, but it’s better than being naked. They head back down the same hallways that Dean came here through, Dean feeling safer this time with Brock’s solid presence at his side. He worries at first about running into more guards, but no one stops them - Brock must have cleared the place out pretty well on his way here.
They meet up with Pop and Hank at the X-1. Dean has a sinking feeling of dread as their eyes land on him, sure that they’ll see him and just know what happened. He doesn’t know how, but he feels like there must be something different about him, something tainted that they’ll sense and be repulsed.
He expects the distaste that will show on their faces, and the way they’ll stand back from him, not wanting to be near such a rotten, unclean thing.
But Pop just blandly remarks, “Oh, good, you found him. Let’s get out of here.” Brock briefly spins some story about having to disguise Dean as a guard to escape, and neither of the others seem to question it. And then they’re all in their seats, and Brock is preparing for takeoff, and no one else seems to know the difference.
Even Hank seems oblivious. He blathers at Dean in his typical cheerful way the whole way home, peppering him with questions about Underbheit. Even after the fifth or sixth time Dean’s avoided his questions, muttering something vague and looking and the ground, he keeps pestering him.
“Did he really want you to marry him?” he asks. Then, pulling a face, he says, “Did he make you kiss him?”
“Hank!” Brock finally barks from the pilot’s seat. “Leave your brother alone. He’s had a rough time.”
Hank sulks at being told off by Brock, and stays mostly quiet for the rest of the ride home. Dean feels kind of bad about him getting yelled at, but he’s grateful to be left alone.
As soon as the jet touches down and they disembark, Dean makes a beeline straight for the shower. He strips out of his borrowed clothes and gets in.
The warm water on his skin feels kind of nice. He can’t say he feels good, but it’s a small relief. Dean grabs the soap.
He reaches gingerly between his legs, where he’s still sore. He scrubs at the skin, wincing a little; it’s tender even to the light touch of his own fingers.
He goes over the area again, a couple times, even after he can no longer feel anything there to wash off. He washes the rest of himself just as thoroughly. His legs, his chest, his arms - everything, between each finger.
After he’s scrubbed every inch of his body, Dean continues standing under the shower spray. He’s done washing, he should get out, but…he doesn’t want to. He feels rooted to the spot.
He lets the water run over him. Drops of it roll down his arms and stomach. He feels detached, like he’s watching it happen to someone else. That strange, sick feeling that he hoped would go away, hoped it for the whole plane ride back, is starting to rise inside him again.
He’s interrupted by the sound of banging on the bathroom door. “Dean!” his father’s voice calls from outside. “How long are you planning to stay in there? Hurry it up, you’re going to waste all the hot water.”
Dean startles back to himself. “Sorry,” he calls, shutting the water off and getting out.
He towels off, goes back to his room, and dresses. It feels better to be back in his own clothes, and to be showered and not have stuff dried between his legs anymore. But even after the shower, he still doesn’t really feel clean.
It’s late, and Hank is getting ready for bed. Dean knows that he should probably sleep, but the prospect of being shut under the lid of the learning bed for eight hours makes him antsy. So when Hank goes to brush his teeth, Dean sneaks off downstairs.
He doesn’t really have a goal in mind, but he slips out the front door, into the night air. He wanders across the front lawn, over to the fountain, and sits.
It’s quiet out here. The night is clear, and the stars are bright when Dean looks up to the sky. He leans against the stone base of the fountain and pulls his knees up to his chest.
He stares up at the night sky. He traces the familiar shapes of constellations and the bright points of planets. The blinking light of a distant aircraft passes slowly across them. Dean wants to be able to just sit there quietly and appreciate the stars, which he’s always found awe-inspiring, but he still has that unsettled, heavy feeling inside him.
There’s a sound from somewhere behind him. Dean whirls around and almost falls over, a moment of adrenaline flooding him, but it’s just Brock.
“Hey,” Brock says.
“…Hey,” Dean responds.
Brock comes over and sits with him, settling all two hundred-odd pounds of his bulk on the ground beside Dean. “You doing okay?” Brock asks after a moment of quiet.
“Um. Yeah. I guess,” Dean mumbles. Brock never asks outright if anyone’s okay, he realizes. Something’s up.
“Am I in trouble or something?” Dean asks softly. His throat feels tight. He doesn’t know why.
Brock sighs. “No. You’re not in trouble.” But he’s frowning, and Dean doesn’t know if it’s at him or at something else.
“Are you really not going to tell anyone?” Dean thinks of what Brock might have said about him behind closed doors since getting home, and his stomach twists. He imagines Brock telling Pop, and his father’s disgust and disapproval at his disappointment of a son. And then Hank would find out, and he’d know that his brother is weak and dirty and has something wrong with him, and he’ll think Dean’s even more of a loser, and things won’t be the same between them…
Brock is wearing another unreadable look. Dean doesn’t think he’s mad, not at him anyway, but he doesn’t know what’s going on. “Not if you don’t want me to,” Brock says.
Another question sits on the tip of Dean’s tongue. He feels tears threatening to well up, and tries to fight them back. He really doesn’t want to cry in front of Brock again.
“…Do you think less of me now?” he chokes out.
“No. I don’t.” Something in his voice sharpens. “Dean.” Dean has been looking at Brock out of the corner of his eye, mostly staring at the ground, but now the intensity in Brock’s words makes him turn to face him.
“I’m never going to let that happen again. It was my job to protect you. I’m sorry.”
Dean is kind of shocked to realized that Brock looks upset, his voice sounding nearly overwhelmed - almost like he might cry.
Out of instinct, Dean puts his own hand on Brock’s knee. He feels a little foolish right after he does it, as if Brock has ever needed comforting, and as if Dean could possibly be the one to reassure him, but Brock doesn’t push him away.
“Okay,” Dean says, his voice small. “…Thank you. For coming to get me. And for - for everything.”
Brock doesn’t say anything else. But he lays his own large hand over Dean’s. They sit there in a more comfortable silence for some time, and Dean finds that he can look at the stars and feel something like calm again.
By the time Brock brings him back to his room, where Hank’s already asleep, Dean feels better. Less alone. Not like he did before all this, but closer.
“Goodnight,” he whispers to Brock. His bodyguard’s frame fills up the doorway, watching over him, a reminder that he’s safe here.
“Goodnight,” Brock says.