PLEASE READ FIRST: Author's note: I don't usually write a/u, teenfics, or continuations of other people's work. But after I read "Taken" by shadowarwen on this site--www (dot) fanfiction (dot) net (slash) s (slash) 3457582 (slash) 1 (slash)--while I was intrigued by the idea (12-year-old Sam gets kidnapped and lives for 3 years with his captor), I felt it ended just as it was getting to the best part. When a friend felt the same way and asked me to fill in the blank, I did, just for the two of us. Or so I thought. After I shared the epilog with shadowarwen, she encouraged me to post it and perhaps introduce her work to others. So here it is, not part of my Wed/Sun posting because it's such an odd egg and does not stand alone. It isn't for everyone, and I don't suggest reading it if you've not read "Taken." But if you have...well, here's my take on what came after.

Taken Epilog
K Hanna Korossy

John kept stealing glances at the rear view mirror as he drove, unable to get enough of the sight of his youngest. Unable to believe Sammy was really there again, sitting in the back seat with his brother. John had never stopped looking and never would have, but sometimes…late at night and unbeknownst to Dean, his faith had wavered.

The godforsaken town well behind them, John finally slowed, looked back once more. “Sammy, you hungry? We can stop to get something to eat.”

Sam took a moment to answer; his eyes had grown heavy-lidded and he looked half asleep. But he finally shook his head, longish hair swishing against Dean’s jacket.

John’s gaze swung up to his eldest, and Dean met his eyes sober and wide awake. The nineteen-year-old’s arm tightened around his little brother, and Sam nestled closer, eyelids growing even weightier. I’ve got him, Dean silently promised, and John nodded.

He drove another hour to be safe, finally pulling off into a nondescript strip motel in the middle of nowhere, parking the Impala around back just to be sure. He went in to get them a room, considering and rejecting asking for two: it would be a tight fit but he wasn’t ready to be separated from Sam, and was pretty sure he spoke for Dean, too.

By the time he returned to the car, Dean had roused Sammy and was talking low to him. John could see the occasional jerked nod in response. It was only when he opened the back door that he realized Sam’s hand was twisted several times in Dean’s shirt. The squeak startled the kid, and his hand tightened even more, drawing a nearly invisible wince from Dean. But he didn’t make a sound, just coaxed Sam out, toward the room.

John stared up at the sky a minute in their wake, blinking back strange wetness in his eyes and rubbing a hand over his beard, before getting their bags out and following his boys.

Dean was asking his brother if Sam wanted to shower or sleep first. Sam just stood in the center of the room looking disoriented and skittish. John tossed the bags down by the nearest bed, also making his youngest jump, then crossed to him, slowly reaching out to grasp the boy’s thin arms.

“Why don’t you go take a shower,” he ordered gently. He wanted the smell of that monster off his children.

Dean was watching them both, looking a little uncertain himself. But it didn’t take a glance from John for him to know what to do here. As Sam stumbled dazedly into the bathroom, his brother trailed after him, giving John one last inscrutable look.

John breathed out slowly as the door clicked shut behind them. Sammy was back. Traumatized, obviously, not the kid he remembered. But alive and his again and…God, his eyes were burning once more. He rubbed them with aggravation and started unpacking, Dean’s duffel first. Sam would need something to wear until they could go shopping for him. The low hum of voices in the bathroom soothed his heart as he worked.

The water turned on after a long time, and John wasn’t surprised when the bathroom door clicked open softly soon after. He was already prepared with a pair of Dean’s sweatpants and one of his t-shirts, and he crossed to the bathroom to hand them in.

Dean took the clothes, eyes dark. Hurt and anger, John could see, and he buried his fears and waited in silence.

“He’s got some scars,” Dean said, low, hard. “Looks like he was beaten a couple of times and tied up a lot.” He swallowed. John kept waiting. “He hasn’t said, but I’m pretty sure he was…” Dean’s jaw bunched. “…he was raped.”

His voice shook on that last, and John almost missed it in the pure wave of hatred that swept through him. He’d suspected as much, but his heart plunged at the confirmation of his worst fears. Only Dean’s shattered look kept John from doing something violent he probably wouldn’t regret later on, and grief quickly replaced rage. He longed to sweep both his boys into an embrace, just hold them forever and protect them against the horrors of this world. He’d been so busy with the unnatural ones, he’d let one of the more mundane slip past him.

He was never letting that happen again.

John put his hand on Dean’s shoulder, feeling the fill of hard muscle; Dean had become a more stripped-down version since Sam had disappeared, too, all determination and fight and sinew. “We’ll help him,” he said in a firm voice. “We’ll fix it.” It was part bravado, but he needed Dean to believe it was if they were to do Sam any good.

The boy—man—hesitated, then nodded, a little of his helplessness shifting into resolution.

John squeezed his shoulder, then let him go back to Sam.

By the time the water stopped, he’d hidden away their weapons—no need for the reminders of violence right now for Sam—and got the beds ready. Dean would have to start sharing again, but John rather doubted that would be a problem. The boys hadn’t been more than five feet apart since they’d found Sam, and John couldn’t help think again how hard the last three years had been on Dean, in ways John would never fully understand.

Sam emerged from the bathroom almost hesitantly, looking oddly small in Dean’s clothing even though he was nearly his brother’s height now. His gaze still bounced around, his frame tense, like he was waiting at any moment for that bastard to show up and yank him away from all this. John had seen victims before, traumatized and tortured and suffering from PTSD, and he had no illusions that edginess wouldn’t be going away overnight.

But it still hurt to watch, and he was the Dad: he had to try to at least make it a little better. John crossed to Sam and worked hard not to loom as the kid visibly shrank back. Oh, God, he’d never wanted his children to be scared like this. Not ever, certainly not of him. He was slow and careful as he pulled Sam close to him, wrapped him in both arms and just held him like he hadn’t had a chance back at the house. It was like a key that fit a long-unused lock, the feel of his baby in his arms, and John closed his eyes and breathed deep. Dean had stepped back to give him room, watching in silence, but John wasn’t even thinking about him for that moment, just Sammy. Thank God, Sammy.

The thin body very slowly thawed in his hold, from near-panic to uncertainty to trembling longing. Sam had learned the hard way his father couldn’t protect him from everything, and John would never be the sanctuary again every kid deserved in their dad, but he could and would try.

He drew back when he felt Sam start to sag a little, drained. Cupping his boy’s cheek in one hand for a moment, John finally relinquished him to Dean. His eldest took over immediately, one arm going back around Sam to encourage toward bed.

John realized something was wrong when Sam’s trembling suddenly increased. He had stalled a foot away from the mattress. Dean bent around to try to peer into his face, but those damn bangs hung in the way. All they could both hear was Sam’s murmured. “No, no.”

“Sammy?” Dean asked, now fully in front of his brother, hands gripping his biceps. Gentle but firm, which seemed to be their only operating instructions with Sam now. “What’s wrong?”

“He’ll come.” Sam’s chin finally lifted, and John heard Dean suck in a breath. “He comes when…when I’m sleeping. Dean, he can’t find you—he’ll kill you. I have to…” He turned vaguely in place.

John’s jaw shifted and he stepped forward, Sam’s attention jerking to him immediately. “Sammy, son, he won’t come. I promise. You’re safe now.” God, he hated even having to say those words.

Sam’s head was still moving side to side. “No. He’ll kill you, he said. He won’t let…”

Dean was still trying to keep an arm around him, but Sam was shaking too hard and trying to free himself, to step back. To protect them, John thought with a lump in his throat.

“Dad—” His eldest, warning him to do something, now.

John winced. He hadn’t been sure he wanted to tell Sam, especially not when the kid was still in shock, but it looked like he didn’t have a choice. “Sam,” he said firmly. “He’s not coming after you ever again. Frank’s dead.”

Dean’s head swiveled to him before Sam’s did, but there was no real surprise in his older son’s face, just a neutral acceptance. Maybe, John thought with an invisible flinch, even approval.

But Sam…Sam’s eyes were huge, not quite comprehending. “Dead?” he repeated woodenly.

“Yes, son. I made sure of it. He’s never going to hurt you again.” Physically, anyway.

Sammy’s mouth moved soundlessly, and he was so pale, John was half worried he was going to collapse. It was too much for one day, this huge shift in his world, and John cursed himself again for having to have put this so soon on the lean shoulders, too.

He’d almost forgotten about Dean. But even as he watched Sam worriedly, his eldest was already in action. Dean showed none of John’s uncertainty as he stepped up in front of Sam once more, took the fifteen-year-old’s chin in his hands, and looked steadily into his face. “You hear that, Sammy? It’s over. You’re back with us and no one’s gonna take you again, ever. You’re safe, you’re home.”

Sam’s chin wobbled, eyes too bright.

John longed to hold him again, but this was Dean’s play now. He just watched in silence as Dean’s hands traveled up to Sam’s shoulders, kneading lightly on the way, to the back of the neck, the side of his face. So sure now of what he was doing, like familiar territory, unlike John.

“It’s over,” Dean repeated. “You’re safe.”

Sam hiccuped.

Dean’s hand on the back of his shoulder blade tugged lightly. “You’re ours, Sammy,” he said. “I’m not gonna let anything else happen to you.”

A small keening sound escaped Sam, and he instantly looked stricken, like it was something he might be punished for. But Dean wasn’t letting him go, and a second later when Sam collapsed against him, sobbing, his brother was ready, encompassing him in a protective hug much as John had. This time, however, even as Sam shook and cried, arms wormed their way free of Dean’s hold to clutch at his back, again grabbing handfuls of his shirt in a painful grasp as if he feared being torn away.

Dean clung back, rocking, soothing with soft words and sounds, nothing existing in his world right now except for his damaged little brother.

John’s throat was tight as he sank down on the bed and watched his sons with no little awe. He’d always known they were close, but… Dean was already starting to heal what John hadn’t even known where to begin with. And Sam was letting him. John wanted to touch again, to hold them both tight, but Sammy had always found his comfort more in Dean, and his brother was what he needed now. And just maybe it would be enough.

The crying took a long time to wind down. At the end, Sam still breathed in shuddering little gasps, the occasional tremor of reaction coursing through him. John shifted to see his face, and he looked as glassy as he had in the car, exhausted beyond feeling.

“Dean,” John murmured.

His son startled back to the present. “Yeah,” Dean agreed, and started moving Sam the last distance to the bed, directing shuffling and obviously unaware motions. The only time Sam reacted was when Dean sat him on the bed, separating them a little. The tiny whimper had Dean wincing, hastily kicking off his boots to curl up with Sam on the bed, his brother’s long, too-thin body tucked against him, floppy damp hair nestled under Dean’s chin. Sam’s congested breathing slowed, drifting toward sleep.

John watched Dean rub his brother’s back for a few moments, the long sweep of his eldest’s arm mesmerizing, before recalling himself and tucking his sons in. He’d almost forgotten this side of Dean in the last three years, the gentle, unabashedly caring one that only his younger brother brought out of him.

Dean’s eyes met John’s over Sam’s shoulder, and they were old and pained and, underneath, steel resolve.

“We’ll fix this, son,” John whispered.

“Yeah. We will,” Dean said firmly, then buried his face in Sam’s hair.

Sam, for the first time since John had gotten him back, maybe for the first time in three years, sighed softly against his brother and relaxed.

And for the first time in almost three years, John felt hope return.

The End