Disclaimer: I (unfortunately) do not own Supernatural or any of the characters. Just the brain that comes up with this stuff.
Author's note: So, I'm re-watching Supernatural (again) and came across a line that I know I've obviously heard before, but never really gave much thought to. Season 7, Episode 3: The Girl Next Door. The line is when teenaged Sam and Amy are at Amy's house, talking about their parents:
Amy: She has a temper…sometimes. It's no big deal.
Sam: My dad does, too. You don't want to see him when he's drinking.
The comment that Sam makes, combined with the look he gives started me wondering what Sam could've meant by that, so here it is. This is my very first ever attempt, so I hope it's not too horrible. Just something that's been rattling around in that big empty space I call my brain. Criticism, even if it's harsh, is always appreciated. It only helps me improve!
Triggers: This story does contain some triggers, so I want to be upfront about them. It mentions heavy alcohol use, child abuse (purely physical, there is no sexual anything at all in this), and some coarse language. As you can guess, this is not a John-friendly story. Although I actually do think that John probably did the best he could raising the boys, there have been a few episodes that make me think he made some pretty monumental mistakes as well, especially when he would drink. If any of these aren't your cup of tea or are serious triggers for you, I just want everyone to be informed beforehand.
Dean is 18, Sam is 14.
xxxx
"Sam, no!" John and Dean yelled at the same time.
Both stood, helpless to do anything but watch as Sam barreled out of nowhere, throwing himself between Dean and the vengeful spirit he and Dad had been hunting.
Dean had been standing guard with a shotgun filled with salt rounds while their father dug the grave and the bitch had materialized about two inches in front of him. One toss of her hand and he'd gone flying, slamming into a headstone, and losing his grip on his shotgun. The spirit had been advancing on him and he was just reaching for the gun and realizing he wasn't going to get to it in time when Sam ran between them, holding nothing but a short iron bar.
Sam swung the iron bar at the spirit with all of his strength and she disappeared. They all knew that was very temporary, though. Dean scrambled to his feet and scooped up the shotgun, quickly snatching a handful of Sam's jacket and pulling him close. Both brothers looked around with wide eyes, trying to look everywhere at once and anticipate where she was going to appear next.
Dammit, Dad hurry up! Dean mentally cursed at his father. He knew he should probably let go of Sam's jacket. If the kid swung that iron bar, he was going to wind up getting hit, but he didn't care. Stupid kid had just taken ten years off of his life by pulling that stunt and he wasn't going to give him the chance to do it again.
"Dean!" Sam yelled, trying to pull away.
The spirit, apparently having decided that the eldest Winchester was the easiest target, had reappeared just a few inches from her grave. Sam broke free and ran for her, Dean right on his heels.
"Dad! Drop!" Dean screamed, knowing that even though the gun was loaded with rock salt he couldn't fire that close to his father's head without killing him.
John was currently pouring gas all over the bones in the now-open casket though and couldn't drop. Not without dousing himself in gas, which could cause any number of problems. Dean had just enough time to imagine the spirit taking John's head off when Sam lunged in front of it again. He swung his iron bar at it again, but this time she was faster. With another flick of her hand, she sent Sam tumbling towards the open grave just as John rolled out and tossed a flaming match.
"SAMMY!" Dean snatched for his arm, the back of his jacket, his belt, anything he thought he might be able to get hold of to keep his little brother from falling into the flames shooting up from the grave.
For a heart-stopping second Dean thought he was too late. He wasn't going to be able to catch Sam and he was going to have to watch his brother burn to death, just like their mother. Then his fingers snagged in Sam's hair (and god help him, Dean was never going to complain about the kid's long hair ever again) and he pulled as hard as he could, not caring if it hurt. He dragged him back and then collapsed, shaking and clutching Sam to him.
The spirit gave one last yell and attempted to surge forward at the boys one more time before she disappeared in a shower of sparks. Dean quickly covered Sam's body with his own and felt the brief blast of heat. And just like that, it was over.
All three of them froze right where they were for a few seconds, each processing the monumental disaster this hunt had turned into and how badly things could have gone. Dean managed to take a deep breath and stop shaking, but he still wasn't willing to let go of Sam just yet. Not with the kid apparently on an I'm going to throw myself into danger as often as I can kick.
"What. The hell. Was that?" John spat through gritted teeth.
The brothers traded a look and slowly stood. Neither of them liked the tone in Dad's voice. It was the tone that meant the blazing fire in the open grave was cool compared to their father's temper right now.
"Get this cleaned up," John ordered, not waiting for either boy to respond. He turned and stormed back to the Impala.
"He's really, really mad, isn't he?" Sam asked.
"Uh, I think that's a safe bet," Dean rubbed at his eyes for a second and then realized that he wasn't exactly helping Sam to feel better right now. "But I think he might be more scared than mad. This was supposed to be the easy part of the hunt and instead you almost got killed three times. Scared the hell out of me, that's for sure."
"Great, because that's so much better," Sam grumbled.
It wasn't uncommon for Dad to leave him and Sam to clean up after a hunt, whether it was to re-fill a dug up grave or burn whatever creature they had just finished with. Normally, they didn't even really mind the grunt work since it gave them time to goof off together without getting yelled at for goofing off. This time both boys were uneasy, though. They worked in unaccustomed silence, both of them wondering just how pissed off Dad was, wondering what to be prepared for when they got back.
Two hours later they finally finished and Dean swung his shovel onto his shoulder before grabbing Sam's and carrying his, too. That earned him a half-hearted argument from the younger boy, but Sam really didn't have the energy for arguing that he was old enough to carry his own damn shovel, thank you very much.
The motel was only a few miles from the cemetery, so they made it back fairly quickly and Dean stopped to toss the shovels into the trunk of the Impala before unlocking the door to their room.
He had a split second to acknowledge the fact that the room smelled like a bar and then a fist connected with his cheekbone. He stumbled backwards, but Dad was already reaching out grabbing his collar in one hand and Sam's in the other and dragging them into the motel room.
"What the hell went on out there tonight?" John roared, throwing both boys forward, further into the room.
"Dad, give me a second to explain," Dean instinctively grabbed Sam's arm and shoved Sam behind him. Their father was even drunker than the smell of the room foretold and he was not someone you wanted to be around when he was drunk. Angry, violent, antagonistic. Those were all words that Dean could use to describe his father's temperament when he started drinking.
Without looking Dean started to move Sam towards the little bathroom. Fortunately, this was not something that happened often. Unfortunately, it was something that had happened at least often enough to necessitate a plan. Sam, of course, had complained that it wasn't fair for him to hide away in the bathroom while Dean dealt with their father, but Dean had been unwilling to budge on a single aspect of the plan he put together.
"I just…I know I screwed up back there," he had to say something, as he realized Dad was actually waiting to hear his explanation. "I let her get the drop on me, I lost my weapon, I…"
Sam's fingers tightened on the back of his shirt. Dean was, as usual, shifting every part of the blame onto himself. As expected, John lashed out again, viciously backhanding Dean. It was all part of the plan, though because the backhand gave him an excuse to reel several more steps towards the bathroom. Another step or two and Sammy would be safely behind a locked door and Dean could let his guard down and just let Dad vent his drunken rage on him.
"I know all of that!" John let loose another punch, this one landing on Dean's jaw. "But what is your number one, top priority?!"
"Take care of Sammy," he recited.
"And how many times did your brother almost get killed out there tonight?" John had suddenly gone from loud and yelling to a soft, silky voice that both boys actually knew was the more dangerous of the two.
Dean flinched, knowing. All at once he took a deep breath, shoved Sam into the bathroom, slammed the door, and said, "Three."
"Three," John seethed. "He threw himself in front of that spirit with nothing but a tire iron! It almost pushed him into that fire. Now tell me, how is any of that 'taking care of Sammy'?"
"I…I don't…" Dean shouldn't have bothered. He knew full well that Dad wasn't actually interested in an answer to that question.
His knowledge was confirmed when Dad completely ignored his stumbling attempts at an answer and simply let his fists be enough answer for the both of them. He stepped forward, hitting Dean probably half a dozen times before he landed a particularly brutal punch to the side of Dean's head, dazing him and dropping him to the floor.
Dean curled into himself, just trying to protect his vital organs from the kicks he was taking from Dad's steel-toed boots. Dad kicked him once more and Dean felt a snap. There goes a rib, he thought, feel oddly detached. At least one. Probably two.
"Are you even listening to me?!" John reached down and dragged Dean to a semi-standing position before slamming him into the bathroom door hard enough to make his head bounce off.
Blood flowing from his nose, mouth, and a cut to his cheekbone, not to mention broken ribs Dean still managed to look his father in the eye. He wasn't going to lie to the man and claim he had been listening, but he could damn well give himself at least that much dignity.
Things had been silent for a few seconds and he felt the doorknob start to move just slightly against his back. He kicked back at the door, hard, and even managed to work up a little annoyance for the kid.
We worked this out, Sam! Dean mentally yelled at him. You don't come out of that damned bathroom until I give you the all clear.
Dad slammed him against the door one more time and finally let him drop. Dean collapsed into a heap and wiped blood out of his eyes. He sat quietly and watched Dad yank his jacket on and slam out the door. Then, the sound he'd been waiting for. The distinctive rumble of the Impala.
He gave it another minute, just in case, and then signaled the all clear for Sam to come out of the bathroom. Sam ripped the door open so fast he almost didn't see Dean still lying curled up right in front of it and nearly tripped over him.
"Dean!" Sam dropped to his knees beside his brother. "Jesus. Are you okay?"
"I'm fine, Sammy," if it had been anyone else he didn't think he'd be able to, but for Sam he managed to work up a small smile. "I'll be sore for a few days and then I'll be good as new."
"This isn't right," Sam fumed as he started poking around, looking for broken bones. He winced and muttered an apology when he found the broken ribs. "I'm going to get you cleaned up and then I'm calling Uncle Bobby or Pastor Jim. This has gone on long enough. I jumped into that hunt to keep you and Dad from getting killed and instead of being glad that we all made it back in one piece he had to go and beat you all to hell."
"No, Sammy," Dean grabbed his little brother's fingers. "No. If this was a regular thing with Dad, then I'd be all for it, but it's not. It's only when he gets drunk. He was scared tonight and he just doesn't know what to do when he gets that scared so he drinks. You don't want to see him when he's drinking, but can you really tell me that you're scared to be around him any other time?"
Sam clenched his jaw and looked like he wanted to argue, but gave in and shook his head.
"Then we let this be and we don't talk about it," Dean settled himself into more of a sitting position.
Sam still clearly wasn't happy, but he looked willing to go along with it. He grabbed the ice bucket and started to head out to get ice for Dean's ribs.
"Hey, thanks for saving my life out there tonight bitch," Dean mumbled from his spot against the bathroom door.
Sam looked down and gave one of his dimpled half-smiles, "Anytime, jerk."
xxxx
I hope everyone enjoyed my first story attempt. I'm my own biggest critic, so naturally I think the entire thing is horrible, but I'm going to go ahead and publish it anyway because I told myself I would. I'd love to hear all of your thoughts on it. Again, I can take harsh criticism. I just look at it as a learning opportunity. Thanks!