Too Far (What if they had Max's childhood? Dean's POV.)
My dad didn't always hurt my brother and I. He used to be normal, save for the demon hunting. But then, about a year ago, when Sam was six and I was ten, he changed. He started drinking a lot more and hunting less and less. Then the beatings started. They weren't that bad at first, but as the year progressed, they started getting worse. I tried my best to protect Sammy, but dad showed no mercy, to Sammy or me. Now Sam is seven and I'm eleven. Thanks to dad, that's the age we'll always be.
As the beatings got worse the bruises grew, and it was getting harder to hide them. Kids at school looked at us strangely, and teachers had worried looks on their faces. But no one said anything. Why should they? It's not their problem. And so we kept quiet, bearing a burden no child our age should have to bear.
For a couple of weeks now, I've been having these strange feelings. But I didn't know what they meant, which means I couldn't do anything about it. So I just ignored it. But as the days got closer to our Judgment Day, the feelings got stronger. But I still didn't know what it meant.
As I stand here, looking up at our house with Sammy beside me, I know what that feeling was. Why I couldn't figure it out before, I have no clue. Maybe if I had figured it out sooner, I could have stopped it. But it doesn't matter now. It's over. Maybe it's better this way.
The police and an ambulance have arrived at our house. The neighbors are rushing out of their houses to see what's going on. As the paramedics carry out two small body bags, I cringe, and I can feel Sammy cringe beside me. Some of the neighbors are crying, but I don't know why. We didn't know them very well. But what our dad did to us, just mere minutes ago, surprised me. And yet it didn't.
Me and Sammy were in the living room when dad burst through the door. He was more drunk than usual. The most drunk I've ever seen him actually. And as he ran through the house, yelling and screaming at the top of his lungs, I knew something was wrong. I grabbed Sammy's hand and ran up the stairs and into our room. I set him on his bed and hugged him and told him that everything would be okay and that he shouldn't be scared. Because, in a way, it would be okay.
As I expected, dad stormed up the stairs and busted through our bedroom door. He grabbed both of us by our necks, threw us across the room, and beat us both to hell. What surprises me is that whenever he beat us, I knew there was some part of him that knew that what he was doing was wrong. And that kept him in enough control to not get carried away. That's why no matter how badly he hurt us, I never thought he would actually kill us. I guess you never know what people are capable of. Because tonight he lost that control. Tonight he went too far.
At least there isn't any pain anymore.