No Use in Crying
A/N: I don't own the boys.
This was made readable by Jenn1984, thankies very much bro for all your help and your constant awesome.
"He tries to please them all
This bitter man he is
Throughout his life the same
He's battled constantly
This fight he cannot win"
-Metallica "Unforgiven"
Dean Winchester was slumped against the bathroom wall when he heard the first crash. He thought it might have been an accidental lamp breaking until he heard another.
"It's about damn time," he muttered, dragging himself painfully to his feet. The effort caused him to grunt, and he had to hold still until the pain subsided.
The sound of breaking glass from the main room stopped and Dean could only assume that his father had run out of things to break. The anger inside the man didn't seem ready to quit however as a series of dull thuds that Dean recognized as fists impacting drywall began.
He knew that if his father continued like this there would soon be irreparable damage not only to the cheap motel room, but also to his father. He also knew it was dangerous to interrupt, because the last time John had blown a fuse nothing had been able to get through to him.
But he had to try.
Turning on the faucet Dean quickly washed the salty streaks off his cheeks. He had to put his game face on, it was the only way to help his dad through this issue. Squaring his shoulders and turning to the door, he pulled it open.
John was pounding on the innocent wall near the bathroom door, his eyes unfocused as he put punch after punch into the faded and once cheery wallpaper.
"Dad," Dean said softly, his hands held out non-threateningly as he attempted to calm the bull known as John Winchester. However it wasn't John who reacted, but the anger burning inside him.
Dean took the punch, backpedaling into the bathroom from the impact as he threw a hand up to his eye. He watched as the anger dropped from his father's face and was replaced by shock as the man stammered out his name.
"D-Dean?!"
John followed him into the bathroom, any hint of anger lost to fatherly concern. The rug beneath Dean's feet slipped as he stepped onto it and he wildly flailed for something to keep his balance.
His father grabbed his arm, but the older man's hand was slick with blood from beating on the furniture and Dean wasn't able to hold on. He felt himself slipping and next thing he knew, his head was connecting with the edge of the tub.
--
When Dean awoke, his entire head was throbbing so intensely, he thought he might be sick. The sudden sensation of wet across his face had him gasping for air, his arms thrashing in an attempt to grab something solid. One hand twisted into the bed sheets as his other pulled the melted bag of ice off of his face, flinging it as far away from his body as he could manage.
He lay still, his eyes closed as he attempted to calm the intensity of his heart beat as it pulsed painfully against his chest. He took in the familiar scent of motel room, a scent that, oddly enough, was present in every motel room no matter where in the country they happened to be.
He could feel another person in the room, and his panic began to rise again. Grabbing the knife secured under the mattress, he cracked his eyes open only to find his left eye refused to obey him
He stared at the mirror on the ceiling, realizing only as he saw his reflection that he had been stripped down to his boxers. He frowned as he looked from the colorful new bruises forming on his face, down his body to the fading yellow ones marring his torso. Most of those were hidden beneath the tight bandage that was holding his ribs in place. His frown depended as he noticed the bandage wrapping the gash on his thigh had been changed recently.
"Why didn't you tell me Dean?"
His good eye found the source of the quiet voice. On the other side of the room his father leaned against the wall, a drink in his hand as he matched Dean's gaze.
He couldn't hold his father's eyes and he instantly searched for something, anything else to look at. He'd been hiding the damage to his leg and torso for almost a week now, not wanting his father to know about his screw up.
They sat that way for several minutes, the only sound being the occasional sloshing of John's beer as he finished the bottle off. Dean kept his gaze averted, waiting for his father to make the first move.
John did make the first move, only it wasn't the one Dean had been expecting. He listened as his father shrugged on his jacket and picked up the keys. The creaking of the door allowing a gust of chilled wind into the room.
"Don't go anywhere."
Dean nodded, his gaze still locked on the bedding he was stretched out on, the flower pattern starting to make him sick.
"Dean?" His father practically growled and Dean knew the man was attempting to keep a leash on his anger.
"Yes Sir."
He cringed as the door slammed shut, listening as his father locked the door. It wasn't until the gentle rumbling of a departing Impala passed the window did he allow himself to tear his gaze from the disturbing quilt.
He felt nauseous, the emptiness of his heart wanting to take out his suffering on his stomach. He was barely able to lean over the edge of the bed before he began retching. The meager contents of his stomach were soon decorating the floor as he continued to dry heave.
Although the position and spasms of his body were excruciatingly painful, it wasn't due to his physical suffering that he cried. The tears stung his swollen eye as he allowed the onslaught of emotions to escape for the first time in what seemed like years.
--
It was two days before John came back.
Dean was in the process of changing his bandage when John walked in. His hands froze in mid wrap as John dumped his duffel on the ground inside the door. Dean kept his eyes on the white bandage partially wrapped around his leg.
He could feel John's eyes on him as the hunter closed the door. "Unwrap that." Dean did as he was told, his eyes remaining averted as John moved to his side. "What have you put on it?" John asked as he inspected the close stitches that were drawing the wound shut. Stitches that Sam had put into his brother's leg mere days before abandoning his family.
"Nothing Sir." Dean winced as John prodded the area.
"You do these?"
"No Sir."
Dean could feel his father tense beside him, but neither of them mentioned Sam. They hadn't brought up the youngest Winchester since he left. His father's hands rested painfully on his wound, but neither of them moved for several long minutes.
"I have some antibiotics in the car." John said, silently moving out to get the product. Dean remained where he was, silent and unmoving until his father returned and began squeezing the goop onto the partially infected injury.
John worked in silence and Dean felt like he was a little kid again, allowing his father to bandage him up. John finished and placed the antibiotic cream back in the small medicine bag.
"Off with the shirt, I wanna see those ribs."
"Yes Sir." He moved to pull the shirt off, the action shifting his ribs painfully. He could feel John's gaze on him as he grimaced.
"How many?"
Dean dropped the shirt to the floor and allowed his dad to remove the bandage. "Two broken, one cracked," he said matter of fact, his façade only broken when his father pushed gently on one of his broken ribs.
"You did a good job wrapping these." He bit his lip as the bandage was replaced, pretending it was because of the pain. He wanted to tell his father that Sam had wrapped them, that he hadn't taken a shower since then because he knew he would never be able to wrap them again the same way.
John sighed as he finished re-wrapping and sat in silence for a moment beside Dean. "L-let me see your face."
Dean knew his father didn't really want to look at the damage he had caused to his eldest son and so he shook his head. "It's fine."
"Dean." Although he knew it would hurt his father, he couldn't ignore that tone. With a defeated sigh he turned his head, his one good eye averted from his father's face. "Son, look at me." He took a deep breath and looked up, instantly locking eyes with John.
He was surprised to see sorrow in the eyes that looked back at him. The same sorrow he usually saw associated with anything that reminded John of Mary. John looked over the damage, his face stoic.
"We're past the ice stage, but it should heal alright." John cupped the side of his face, as if he had more to say but couldn't bring himself to say it. "You want something to eat?" he finally asked. "I'll go get us something."
Without another word the elder Winchester got up and was quickly pulling away in the Impala.
Dean stayed on the edge of the bed, not having the energy to move nor the knowledge of what he should do with himself. The silence consumed him, the unnatural lack of little brother or father noise chilling him to the bone.
He jumped when the motel phone rang.
He picked it up slowly. Although he knew his father couldn't have gotten in an accident that fast, he couldn't help the haunting feeling inside him.
"Hello?"
The other end of the line was noisy; too noisy for a hospital or a morgue. It disgusted him that he knew that.
"Dean?"
He let out the breath he hadn't known he was holding, his body relaxing as much as his damaged ribs would allow.
"Sammy."
He could almost picture his brother nodding foolishly on the other end of the line. "Yeah man, I made it."
"Stanford everything it's cracked up to be?" He could tell by the way Sam's breathing hitched that the younger man had taken the question the wrong way and he instantly regretted asking it. "Sam, I-"
"No Dean." His brother's voice was no longer excited; it had dropped to the angry voice that had been used just days before with their father. "I'm doing this, I don't care what you say."
"I know Sammy." But he only heard the constant sound of dial tone on the other end. With a sigh, he glanced around the empty room. "I know."