Good Little Soldier- Chapter One- Waking Up Thursday

Disclaimer: How does that old saying go? I don't own Supernatural, blah, blah, blah… (Yes Crowley reference)

So I went to the eye doctor and got my pupils dilated and I LOOK LIKE A DEMON THIS IS THE BEST THING EVER so I was feeling more evil than usual and was thinking about the whole "John Winchester is an abusive alcoholic father" thing and this happened. PLEASE review I love feedback and I'm horrible at writing abuse scenes so any advice is appreciated.

Child abuse, implied language (I stick to the show's rules on that stuff), extra depressing Wee!chester and Teen!chester moments. You've been warned.

Shouting. Him, mostly. How no one hears through the thin motel walls, I have no idea. Maybe someone does.

Beep. Beep.

Someone brings up tomorrow's date. Probably me, probably trying to get him to stop.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Then he grabs Sam. Then the bastard starts hitting my brother.

Beep.

So what am I supposed to do? Let him? Sam's not me.

Beep. Beep.

I pull myself across the floor, clumsy fingers finding the phone on the bedside table. Carefully, so carefully, so I don't wake him up.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

I call someone. Bobby. 911. I don't know. Anyone who can get to the motel before he wakes up.

Beep.

Where the hell is all that beeping coming from?

Opening my eyes feels like way too much effort. Breathing feels like too much effort, but I guess I have to keep doing that. For Sam. That's my only motivation these days. If it weren't my nine-year-old bookworm of a brother, I would've been gone a long time ago.

I still don't know where I am, but it smells like hospital. Like antiseptic and anxious waiting. Vaguely I realize that if I am in a hospital then he knows I called someone, but I'm too tired to care. He can't do anything until we leave, anyway. Which means we won't be leaving until after November 3rd. If regular breathing wasn't so hard, I'd sigh with relief. Me and Sammy, we're safe for now.

Of course, Sammy should've always been safe.

He slams me against the wall, and I bite back a scream when my back hits the hard surface. "See that?" he says, voice turned copper with alcohol, pointing behind him at my brother's unconscious form. "Couldn't save him this time, could you? Can't even protect yourself, much less your brother. Useless."

I force my eyes open, staring at the bright fluorescents above me and shoving the memory down with the thousands of others just like it. I glance over at the heart monitor, watching the green peaks and valleys and reminding myself that yes, I'm still alive. Eventually the beeping starts getting to me. In movies, it isn't so beeping annoying. I don't know how long it is before the door opens, but I can tell who it is before I can see him. No one else can open a door that quietly.

I don't realize just how bad everything hurts until Sammy tackles me.

"OW," I shout, fiery pain shooting through my torso. Sam quickly jumps off me, standing by the bed with the same scared-puppy look he gets on the rare occasion he yells at Sam and not me.

Crap. I've been awake for five minutes, and I've already screwed something up.

"Hey," I say, pushing myself into a sitting position and ignoring the burn that courses through my wrists and shoulders and ribs and everywhere. "Sorry. I… sorry."

"For what?" he asks, crawling up next to me and nudging his head into my shoulder.

For not coming back in time. For letting him give you that black eye. For being too scared to protect you. For letting that monster walk all over me, again and again. "For last night," I say finally, wondering if that really sums up everything. For last night and the night when you were seven and every other time I've ever let him hurt you.

"Dean," Sam says, "You were in here last night."

"I was?"

"Uh-huh. And the night before that."

"So it's Thursday," I say, smiling at the wall opposite us.

"Yup."

Thursday is now officially my favorite day of the week. If Wednesday is over, then November 3rd is over and we're even safer than I thought. Because he won't be stumbling through the motel room door sometime after midnight and-

"It was all your fault. She told you he was your responsibility, didn't she? It should've been you, you worthless little-"

"Dean?" Sam says, shaking my shoulder. I turn and focus on him, automatically looking over his injuries even though it's already been done. "How come you slept so long?" he asks.

I shrug. "I was tired, I guess. Really tired."

Sam nods and wraps his arm around my chest. "Once I was so tired I slept a whole day," he says.

"I remember that." I smile, which seems weird after… that. Monday. "I tried everything. You wouldn't wake up."

The door opens again, and I feel myself tense up. It's a reflex, and someday someone is going to notice it and start asking questions, but I can't help it.

"Bobby!" Sam shouts, running to hug him. I must've called him at some point that night (which wasn't last night, apparently), because he wouldn't have ever asked someone for help.

"Hey, Sammy," he says, ruffling his hair and walking over to me. "How's you ankle, kid?"

"My…" He pushes me to the side, and I fall down hard, my ankle twisting painfully under me. Dizzy, I try to stand back up and stop him, but it hurts too much. "Oh. Right. Better than it was."

"That's good. Your dad told me what happened."

"He did?" What the hell?

"Yeah. Demon found your motel. Must've been horrible."

Oh. Of course. He lies professionally. "Um…. Uh-huh." I stare out the window, hands shaking, and try to force down the words on the tip of my tongue. I remember what happened last time, when the school nurse asked the day before we were leaving, when he'd gotten even worse and I wanted, needed someone to know. There was hell to pay when I got home and saw him, a phone in one hand and an empty bottle in the other.

"One thing I don't get," Bobby starts, pulling me out of my thoughts. "How did John leave his phone at the motel? He takes it everywhere."

"The one time I forget it," I hear him say, stalking through the door with a worried look on his face. It's a mask, that look, and as soon as he gets Bobby to leave it's coming off. I can't remember ever being so grateful for security cameras. "Dean. You're doing okay."

It's not a question, or sympathy. It's an order. "Yes, sir," I reply, looking down at Sam. He's smiling up at his Dad, completely oblivious to what happened Monday. I lean my head against the wall and stare at the ceiling as he makes up some story about leaving his phone and demons attacking us and I couldn't reach them in time and other worried-parent crap that makes me want to puke. Eventually Bobby leaves, giving Sam a quick hug, and it's just us and him.

Family reunion. Awesome.

He walks over and puts one hand on the wall above my bed, leaning in close so no one outside hears it. "What was that?" he asks, voice lower and darker than usual. "There are rules, Dean. And I've made it very clear that the first one is don't tell anyone."

"I know, sir," I say, miraculously managing to keep my voice even. The beeping on my heart monitor picks up the pace. "I didn't tell them about… what else was I supposed to do?"

"I don't know," he says, his words building in a dangerous crescendo. "For one thing, you could've stayed away from the damn phone!"

His free hand slams into the bed, a little too close for comfort, and I carefully inch away, looking pointedly up at the camera in the corner. Sammy takes a step back, wrapping his arms around himself with the scared-puppy look in his eyes. It's horrible, seeing Sam scared. "Now," he whispers, leaning even closer. "Sammy doesn't remember what happened, so I told him the doctors that someone broke in Tuesday night. They were wearing a mask, and I was out. If they ask about anything from other than last night, you don't know what they're talking about. If another hunter asks, tell them what I told Bobby."

"Yes, sir."

"And Dean."

I push myself farther away, hoping he can't see how bad my hands are shaking. Sam looks like he's about to pass out. "I will. If you do," he hisses, and I stare up at him. How he still remembers that, from three years ago, I have no idea. And I had just convinced myself it was empty, like all the others.

I'm about to say something when a nurse comes in. "Oh," she says as my father hurriedly straightens up and smiles at her. "You're all here. Dean, if you're feeling better, you're all set to leave."

Wait. What? No. Dear god no. I just woke up. I can't even get five damn minutes?

"Um…"

"He's feeling great. Aren't you Dean."

It's not a question. "Yeah," I say, forcing a smile. "I feel a lot better."

"That's wonderful," the nurse says. "You're going to need crutches for a few weeks, but otherwise you're all fixed."

He's just going to break me again, I want to say, but instead I just nod.

"Great. Take it easy until your ribs heal, too."

"Thanks," John barks, obviously wanting her to leave. They lock eyes for a few seconds, and she turns back to the door."

"Oh, and Dean?" she says. Damn. This girl has no idea how to leave. "We're looking for him. The man who did this to you and your brother. And if you remember anything-"

"He was wearing a mask," I interrupt, glancing up at him.

"That's what your father said. I'll leave you to it."

God, please don't, I think desperately, hoping I have ESP, but she closes the door behind her.

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I will, if you do.

The thought makes me hold onto Sam's shoulder that much tighter as we drive through the second state of tonight. It's eerily silent; no thinly veiled insults or threats, no lectures about trust and following rules. The calm before a storm. And it's going to be one hell of a storm. I'm starving, and I can tell Sam is, too, but he's not showing any signs of stopping. I lean my head against the window, staring at the trees on the side of the highway until they blur together and I have to blink. But once my eyes are closed, I'm too tired to open them again; the tiny burst of claustrophobia and adrenaline that got me to the car is gone. Instead, I let Sam's steady breathing and the white noise of the car wrap around me and I fall half-asleep.

I will. If you do.

Five words. Five words, and the bastard can get me to do whatever he wants. Five words and I turn into a goddamn puppet. Because the only thing keeping me sane, the only thing that I let myself trust, is the nine-year-old kid dozing off on my shoulder.

"Sam, does Dad ever-"

Before I can finish my sentence, he's stormed into the room and grabbed my shirt. "Can I talk to you, Dean?" he spits, half-dragging me outside. "What's rule one?" he asks, shoving me against the wall outside the hotel room door. I look around for security cameras; there aren't any. Crappy cheap hotels.

"Don't tell, sir," I say, looking down at my feet.

"So what were you about to ask Sam?"

"Wait, so you don't…"

He slams me against the wall again, so hard black spots swirl in front of his glare. "No, Dean, I don't, because he's not a worthless retard."

"But I-"

"Dean, I swear to god, I'm going to kill the six-year-old brat behind that door if you tell anyone. I swear. I will, if you do. Do you understand?"

I freeze, too scared to answer.

"I said, do you understand?"

"Y-yes si-sir."

"Good. Now get inside and make something up to finish that question of yours."

"Yes, sir."

I pull my eyelids open so fast it hurts. It's nighttime now, and raining. He pulls the Impala into a motel parking lot and orders us to stay in the car. Sammy wakes up when he slams the door, his sleep-filled eyes gazing lazily into mine. "Are we there yet?" he asks, pushing himself farther into my chest. It hurts like hell, but I ignore it.

"Yeah," I say. His stomach growls too loudly to ignore; hopefully he gets hungry enough to get dinner soon. "Hey. I'm sorry."

"For what?"

For never standing up for you, or myself. For not breaking through that door fast enough on Monday. For not being brave enough or strong enough to protect you from that monster. "For not getting Dad to stop for food. You must be starving."

"Yeah. Maybe he'll get us pizza. Daddy," the kid says innocently as he gets back in the car. "Can we have pizza?"

"Sure, Sammy. Now, when we get to our room…"

"You and Dean go in first, and make sure it's safe."

"Good."

If I wasn't on crutches, he'd drag me in. that's what always happens. We're not making sure the room is safe, I'm making sure that Sam's safe.

"After everything I do for you…" he starts, pushing me back against the door as soon as it closes. I land on my ankle and swallow a scream as he shoves me further into the wood. "You know where'd you be if I'd done what I should've and left you on a random street somewhere?"

Happier, I think. But I don't say it out loud. God, I'll never say it out loud.

"Dead. But no, I keep you, because I don't know why. It used to be to protect your brother, but now you can't even do that." He pushes me into the room, and I fall when my weight lands on my ankle. I land on one of my crutches, fresh pain stabbing my sore ribs. I start to get up, but my ankle gives out again and all I can do is lay there and I feel so weak and pathetic and-

"Worthless," he says, grabbing my shirt and yanking me to my feet. "SAM!" he calls, loud enough to be heard through the door. "IT'S SAFE. BRING IN THE STUFF." He lets go, and I fall back on the nearest bed, staring at the dark ceiling and wishing he had left me on a random street somewhere. I know I haven't heard the end of this; my broken ankle's not going to stop him when he zigzags in a one a.m.

"I'm going out," he barks, tossing me the room key and the TV remote. "Someone up the road spontaneously combusted. Don't wait up. And Dean…"

I will, if you do.

"Yes, sir?"

"Take care of your pain-in-the-ass little brother."

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What kind of sadistic, messed-up person writes about child abuse for fun? You know who does that? Crazy people!

Anyway, hope you're liking this. Should there be more Sam abuse? I don't know. And if anyone has any suggestions, I'm listening. Thanks for reading, next chapter posted soon, etc.

PS: for anyone reading This Isn't Home, I have a really great chapter… idea. That I can't find words for. I will post before Labor Day. Probably.