A/N: Trigger Warning! This story contains thoughts of suicide. Please read responsibly.

Okay, kiddo's.

This is not the story I thought I was going to start posting today.

This is not a part of my "Confessions" 'verse.

This is some AU shit right here. This is dark. This will be long. I'm guessing 12-15 chapters. This story examines the idea of what would happen if Dean and John had gotten exactly what they wanted from a teenage Sam-compliance. This story plays very heavily on the ideas of "Be careful what you wish for." It also deals with some mega daddy issues. I'm not anti-John Winchester. I just think he's a douche. Maybe more so in this story than my normal ones.

So, I had trouble with this plot bunny.

I had this really strong image in my head, of a desperate Sam feeling like he was fighting for his life, from the very people who should have been protecting him. It started off exploring the darker side of humans. Then my evil brain took the same plot bunny and re-worked it featuring Demonic interference. Than the other side of my evil brain presented the same plot bunny, only featuring Angelic interference.

This is the strictly human version. If I like how it goes, I may work the other two dueling ideas up, using the same basic frame but different details.

Anyway, reviews are love.

P.S. -If you tilted your head, and squinted your eyes j-u-s-t right, this story could possibly be seen as containing the very, very early beginnings of Wincest. No smut in this story whatsoever, but Dean and Sam don't seem to have a very clear idea of what personal space means on a good day, so... yeah. This story will definitely feature Dean coming to the conclusion that he chooses Sam above everything else, which is pretty much canon to the show's Sam-and-Dean-are-Soulmates theory. If that's not your cup of tea, just tilt your head the other way. It's all in your mind anyway.

As Always,

Ever Reader

Standard Disclaimers Apply, blah-blah

Prisoner of War, Chapter no.1

"Two Weeks Notice"

Dean hesitated at the door, duffel already packed and slung over his shoulder. Sam wouldn't meet his eyes, sullenly flipping through TV stations in the way only an angsty sixteen-year old could. His reluctance only increased when he saw the determined look on his father's face. John was adamant that Dean take this hunt, insisting that Dean help Caleb with the ongoing ghoul problem spreading across several small towns in South Carolina. It was easily a two man hunt, preferably a ten man hunt, from the sound of it. John, however, insisted that he and Sam remain behind.

To train.

Just the thought of his father and little brother alone together made his stomach clench. Sam was becoming more and more difficult by the day. John was becoming more and more like a drill sergeant in response. John was convinced that he and Sam needed some time one on one, to get Sam back on the reservation, so to speak. Dean was more than a little convinced that they would simply end up killing each other. Sam had never responded well to John's military tactics. Sam was easily just as stubborn as their father, if not more so.

Dean had taken to the hunter's life with little issue, easily excelling at shooting, running, and other aspects of training. Sam had more difficulty, first being incredibly small for his age, then shooting up so quickly he spent years just trying to figure out where to put his feet. John had little patience for any of that, nor with Sam's demands for things like staying at one school for a whole semester, or playing soccer.

Now that he was finally settling into his body, training was coming more easily. Or, it would if Sam wouldn't fight it so hard.

Dean swallowed palpably, physically swaying in his indecision. He felt guilty, as if he were abandoning Sam. But that was crazy. Their father hadn't spent a lifetime of preaching to Dean about caring for Sam (protect Sammy, keep an eye on Sammy, watch out for your brother, Dean) just to break him the first time Dean left them alone together.

Yes, when it came to Sammy-care, Dean was the expert. But it was only two weeks. Two weeks, and Dean would be back. What could go wrong in two weeks? Dad would surely call him back if Sam got sick or hurt (don't think about that, Dean, Sam's gonna be fine).

And truthfully, Dean was tired. Tired of being the rope in the tug of war between his brother and his father. Tired of being the peacemaker, of always disappointing someone.

Perhaps Sam and his Dad did need this. Needed to readjust, now that Sam was hunting almost as often as Dean was. Needed to find their footing with each other. Maybe Dean's constant attempts at peace keeping was actually hindering them, instead of helping.

Resolutely he pushed out the door, refusing to make any final eye contact with his younger brother.

It was only two weeks. What could happen in two weeks?

SupernaturalSupernaturalSupernaturalSupernaturalSupernaturalSupernatural

Dean had only been gone two days, and Sam was honestly considering hating him. He'd been woken up by their father at four a.m. the first morning.

"I've called you in sick to school for the whole week, Sam." John had announced as he pushed a still sleepy eyed Sam out to the yard.

"Apparently, you made it this far in life without getting the chicken pox. I want four miles by breakfast, or you don't eat. Oh, and Sam, if you want to go to school next week, you better look alive. I promised your brother I'd have you straightened out by the time he got back home. Now kick it into gear, soldier!"

"Yes, Sir" Sam had gritted out with as much malice as his un-caffeinated brain could muster. He reluctantly started the jog up the drive of the old farm house they were renting. His shivered in the cold morning air, under-dressed for pre-dawn calisthenics. His father had equipped him with a hunting knife, but no jacket.

"Time to toughen you up a little, Sam. Monsters don't care if you're cold." He'd said as Sam had put on his threadbare sneakers.

Sam hated running, hated the shooting pains that went up his legs (Just growing pains, Sam, get a move on), hated feeling breathless (if you ran more often, it wouldn't hurt so bad, Sam), hated running period.

Despite all that, his pace picked up even as his brain slowly woke up. It was going to be a long, hot day, despite the damp chill in the air currently, and Sam could already feel the beginnings of a headache stir in his head.

He sped up his pace, hoping that if he could just get some breakfast and an Advil in him soon enough, it wouldn't progress too far. His father had no patience for Sam's headaches. John thought they were nothing more than an excuse to skip training and hog Dean's attention when it should be elsewhere.

Dean understood that they were more, of course, but Dean wasn't here.

Just the thought of his brother's abandonment brought angry tears dangerously close to the surface. Sam swallowed them down resolutely. Dean had left him. Left him at the mercy of their father, hadn't taken his side, hadn't stood up for Sam.

Again.

Dean could never see it, how wrong their father was. How they both (not just Sam, dammit, but Dean too!) deserved real homes, with beds and sheets and enough food to eat.

Their father should have tanned Dean's ass for dropping out of school. John knew more than anyone just how smart his eldest was, yet he allowed, no, encouraged Dean to drop out.

How many times growing up had Dean given Sam his portion of food, before an eight-year old Sam had caught on to the fact that there wasn't always enough?

Sam still remembered how furious Dean had been when he realized that a guilty Sam had turned the tables on him, sneaking some of his own portion back when Dean wasn't looking. Dean had been positive that the reason Sam had been so small for so many years was because Sam hadn't eaten everything Dean had tried to give to him.

But he hadn't been upset with John, no. Hadn't considered that no matter what size your bowl of spaghetti-O's, or how much macaroni you ate, you still weren't getting nutritious food. That being forced to train for six hours every Sunday didn't make up for weeks left in hotel rooms when John had to be out of town.

No. He had been mad at Sam for lying. Mad at Sam for fighting with their Dad. Mad at Sam for standing up for himself, for standing up for Dean.

Sam had fought tooth and nail for every inch their father had ever given him. Had fought for every shred of normalcy. Fought for scraps of what other kids just took for granted.

He was so tired of having to fight. Tired of feeling angry, tired of feeling scared. Tired of feeling like the enemy.

He chest was burning by the third mile, and he wished he had a water bottle to combat the cough that had started about half a mile back. He pushed on though, comforting himself with thoughts of coffee and a shower.

Finally, he trudged wearily up the back steps as the sun finally crested. He didn't get far.

"Dean could have done that in half the time." His father said without looking up from the morning paper.

"Dean's not here." Sam said angrily.

"No." His father agreed, finally looking at him. "He's not. So this afternoon, you can take his run for him."

Sam's eyes widened. His breath hitched and helpless fury coursed though his body.

His father stared back implacably.

He's enjoying this, Sam realized. He likes this power. He thinks if he can just break me down into enough pieces, he can build me back into whatever shape he wants. He wants to turn me into just another good little soldier. A tool, a weapon. Just another recruit in John Winchester's army.

He doesn't even see me.

"Why wait?" Sam said tightly. Ignoring the flash of surprise on his father's face, he turned back out to the yard. Stopping only to get some water from the rusty faucet in yard, he started running again, stripping off his t-shirt in the process.

Heat stroke, pneumonia, asthma attack. Anything was better than staying in that kitchen with John Winchester one more moment.

A mile in to his second run, he had to stop and throw the water up. By the next mile his head was pounding like a drum. The mile after that, the blisters on both feet had broken open and were possibly bleeding.

Sam didn't care. He had reached a point where the ragged-painful-numbness of everything held him firmly in it's grip. A car could hit him, and asteroid could land on him. Let it come.

"I won't let him break me." The thought reverberated through his mind with every footfall. He'd felt like prisoner his whole life, like a caged bird beating itself in frantic rage against the bars. He'd give anything for someone to look at him and just see him, see Sam, see his pain, see the desperate screaming in his mind.

He didn't want to be a hunter. He didn't want to chase monsters and live out of dirty hotels and make his money off of credit card scams. He didn't want this, any of this, the blood, the pain, the fear. He didn't want to sew his brother's leg closed after a poltergeist threw a carving knife at him. He didn't want to know what a hell gate was.

He wanted Thanksgiving, with a turkey, and to fill out college applications. He wanted to go on dates. He wanted to be acknowledged for who he actually was, instead of being judged by his father's hopelessly high standards.

Sam wanted out.

He'd thought about it a hundred times. Going away to college, running away from home. Ask to stay with Bobby, hitch hike to Blue Earth. Turn himself into family services. Every possibility, every scenario running through his busy mind in every quiet moment.

Sam had thought about how hard it would be to actually walk away from his dad, away from Dean. To become the ultimate disappointment, the boy who walked out on his family.

He'd even, at his lowest points, thought about suicide. When the pain got too be to much, and his father was looking at him in anger, and Dean with tired disappointment, he'd considered it. The means, the ways. Sometimes it seemed like the only real way out.

Eat a bullet, and then no more pain. No more disappointment. No more broken family, broken dreams, broken life. No more fighting for every small bit of happiness. No more having to earn every-single-breath.

No more father trying to break him, beat him down, re-build him into someone else. No more unanswered prayers and violence and vengeance.

No more fear.

Sam didn't even consider the idea all that crazy. If his family got their way, he was going to grow up to be a hunter, and hunters didn't exactly have a long life expectancy anyway, after all.

Sam had never been able to wrap his mind around the hypocrisy of it all. Be stronger, faster, smarter than the monsters. Be ready, be prepared for the monsters.

Then go hunt the monsters. Seek the monsters out, walk in the dark, dangerous places. A lifetime of target practice just to play a game of Russian roulette.

But if his father and brother truly wanted him to be safe, why want him, no, why insist on him hunting?

Weren't parents supposed to protect their children?

Sam finally stopped, simply collapsing on the side of the road, dizzy with exertion. He breath came in ragged gasps and his cough had worsened.

He could end all this.

He could do it. Like his father always said, the only way out is through.

He could just...end it.

It seemed more and more like his only choice. He could walk away from his father. He could abandon hunting.

But what about Dean?

He could never just walk away from Dean. Sam didn't have it in him to abandon the brother who'd changed his diapers, made his bottles, taught him to tie his shoes. The brother who went hungry so Sam wouldn't. Sam would never be able to just run away. He'd be pulled back, back to Dean like a moth to a flame, like iron fillings to a magnet.

He didn't want to leave Dean. He wanted to save himself, sure, but he wanted to save Dean, too. Dean would never willingly leave their father, however. Wouldn't come with Sam if he left, wouldn't choose Sam over John. No words would ever be enough to free Dean from his cage.

But if Sam stayed, stayed in the life, stayed a hunter, it would eventually end him. Maybe not physically, but mentally, emotionally. It would eat away at all the things that made him Sam. It would reach a point where a violent spirit would make a welcome end.

Sam felt like a prisoner of war, under torture for the crime of being born on the wrong side. He didn't ask for this life, but he couldn't find away to escape without leaving Dean.

Then next day, John again woke him up before sunrise, adding an obstacle course and target practice to the line up. And the running. Always with the running to nowhere, the endless running-running-running but never escaping.

Despite his worsening cough, in time it came to be almost soothing. A place Sam could go where his mind, at least was free. When Sam was running, John wasn't yelling, wasn't judging. But with every step, the same three thoughts echoed in his head.

A brother or a bullet.

How could he leave Dean?

How could he stay?