Full Summary:
There hasn't been an end to the beatings Dean's received his whole life. From age 4 to age 25, he's been terrified of men and terrified of getting close to others. When one beating too many takes him to the hospital, he meets the one things that may make it all right. Dean would call it love at first sight, but there's a complication. Read to find out.

The Innocent

Chapter 1: A Promise Means Never

"You can't even cook a fucking steak right!" Sam yelled, hurling the plate towards Dean's head. Dean ducked just before it shattered into a million pieces on the wall behind him, ceramic and food raining down on him. He whimpered and covered his head with his hands, wishing he could melt into the floor.

How could he have messed up again? It was his entire fault. He ruined everything he touched. That's what Sam told him, and Dean believed him.

"Say something, bitch!" Sam screamed. He was drunk and Dean knew it, which only furthered his terror. When Sam was drunk, he would hit him. And kick him. Dean cowered as Sam loomed over him.

"I-I'm sorry!" Dean stuttered. He felt a hand on his head and he was suddenly being yanked to his feet by his hair. He whimpered but made no other sounds, that would only make Sam angrier. He flinched as Sam raised his fist, and then brought it down, connecting sloppily, but violently with Dean's cheek. Dean cried out from the blow and tried to shield his face.

He'd never known what he was in for when he'd started dating Sam. He'd seemed so nice, so caring, so understanding. After being in a relationship with Sam for less than three weeks, Dean realized his couldn't have been more wrong. Sam wasn't always angry, but Dean always was careful to walk on eggshells around him. He'd been to the hospital twice because of Sam, but he never left. He was terrified of what Sam would do if he tried to break up with him.

Sam knocked Dean's hands away and rushed forward, turning Dean and slamming him against the wall, crushing him under his weight.

"I'd tell you to make it again," Sam growled low in Dean's ear, causing him to shudder in fear. "But you'd probably fuck that up too. Just like everything else you do." Dean heard the sound of Sam unbuckling his jeans and squirmed, trying to find a way out of Sam's grasp.

"Oh no, you're not getting away that easily. You're going to let me fuck you," Sam snarled, yanking Dean's hair again. Dean cried out and saw stars as Sam slammed his face back into the wall.

He felt his loose sweatpants being pulled down and whined, biting his lower lip to stop the tears he felt were about to fall. If he cried, Sam would hit him again; he didn't want to be hit.

Sam's hardened tip was guiding along his entrance and Dean tensed, terrified.

Terrified.

He was always terrified. Terrified of Sam. Terrified of what he would do to him. Terrified of other men, scared of any type of contact. He flinched away from handshakes and congratulatory pats on the shoulder. He kept finding it harder and harder to hide the bruises at work, harder to ignore the pain. Another employee at the coffee shop, Gabriel, was getting concerned, Dean could tell. He would ask him questions about the bruises on his face.

They also went to the same gym together and Gabriel would question him about the scratched and cuts on his back. Dean would come up with a cover story and leave early, wandering around until his required time to be home rolled around. If he walked in the door one second later than 4:00, he was in big trouble with Sam.

Sam surged forward and Dean screamed. With no preparation, the pain was excruciating. He cried out again as Sam pulled back, then slammed back inside him. He couldn't hold back the tears any longer and they spilled down his cheeks, stinging the cut Sam had given him earlier for emptying the wastebasket at 6:50 instead of 6:45, like he was supposed to.

"Stop your crying, whore. Enjoy it," Sam commanded and Dean tried to stifle his tears, biting his lip hard enough to draw blood. It ran down his chin and mingled with his tears on the kitchen floor.

Minutes later, Sam came deep inside him, increasing the pain. He released Dean and let the older male fall to the floor in a shuddering mess or blood and tears.

Sam pulled his pants back up and glanced at the clock. "I'm going to bed. This kitchen better be clean when I wake up tomorrow. Clean yourself up, you look like a slut." And with that, Sam walked down the hallway and into the bedroom they shared. But Dean rarely slept at all, with Sam asking him to move over, crowding the entire bed with his large frame and nearly sending Dean to the floor.

Most night, Dean slept on the couch and made sure to have his make-shift bed put away before 3:00 A.M., when Sam woke.

Dean curled into a ball and sobbed, wishing he could disappear entirely and rid himself of the guilt for upsetting Sam again.

"I'm going to work," Dean said quietly from the doorway to Sam's study. He was already dressed in his barista apron, emblasoned with the Cup O' Bliss logo. He stood exactly three inches away from the doorway, just like Sam had instructed and now expected him to.

Sam only grunted in response and continued working on his papers.

Dean took that as his dismissal.

Dean had to walk from their small New York apartment to the coffee shop, nearly four miles, because Sam never let Dean use the car. It was strictly forbidden because Sam believed Dean wasn't competent enough to drive. Sam reminded Dean of his father, John.

John used to beat him just like Sam. But the beatings only got worse when Dean's mom died, leaving Dean with no protection. He'd like to say he hated his mother for leaving him all alone, with no one to cling to. But that wasn't the case. His mother had died after being brutally beaten by his father. He'd watched helplessly, only six years old.

His older brother, Jensen, had passed away from stomach cancer. He'd looked up to Jensen and strived to be like him, aside from being a homosexual.

Jensen had been kind and understanding when Dean came out to him. He'd comforted Dean as he'd sobbed, the younger brother only just having turned fifteen, was helpless and unsure of what to do, how to deal with it.

'Shh, it's all right. I've got you,' Jensen had said, holding his little brother.

'Please, please, don't tell dad. He'll only hit me harder,' Dean had pleaded, shaking from the fear.

'I won't let him touch you. As long as I'm around, he won't lay a hand on you,' Jensen had promised.

And then he died, taking away the one thing in Dean's life that had been good. Dean kept telling himself it was his fault. After all, that's what John told him. And just like with Sam, Dean believed him.

Dean hugged his small coat around his shoulders, his old one from last year because Sam wouldn't buy him a new one until this one was in shreds. And even then, it would be a long wait. The chilly December air seeped into Dean's bones. He rubbed his arms and blew into his hands.

A light snow was falling, dusting everything in white. Dean would have thought it was pretty, but he didn't really know what the word meant. He was always belittled. Only once in his life had he met someone other than his mother or Jensen who would compliment him with words that weren't heavily laden with sarcasm.

He'd been fourteen.

FLASHBACK

He was at the dance studio, the only place he felt safe and secure. His father thought he was at the library, studying to keep up his straight A's.

Dean flew gracefully across the floor, the toes of his dance shoes barely brushing the hardwood floor. Dean slid into an innate split, his big finish, and then leaned forward and onto his hands, lifting his legs completely off the ground to swing slowly upward, until they were fully parallel with the floor. Dean lifted one hand then flipped, landing smoothly on his feet. He raised his arms then bowed to his reflection.

He used the hem of his T-shirt to wipe the sweat from his face and reached for his water bottle.

It was then he noticed the older man standing in the doorway, his arms hanging limply at his sides, his face frozen in amazement.

"That was amazing, young man. There are very few people who can complete that without injuring themselves."

Dean stood stock still, feeling the instinctive fear crawl up his spine. The man took a step forward and Dean took a step back, his back hitting the mirrors that lined the walls.

The stranger held his hands up in surrender. "Sorry, didn't mean to barge in on you. I come here every day at five. My name is Michael." He held out a hand and Dean realized he expected him to shake it. Dean just stared at the offered hand.

"Did you say it's five o' clock?" Dean asked, panicking. Michael nodded. "Oh no, oh no." Dean hurriedly picked up his brother's old jacket that was draped over one of the bars.

"What's the matter, son?" Michael asked.

"I have to get home. My dad, he'll-" Dean's voice broke as he realised it was too late, he was fifteen minutes late.

Michael cocked his head to the side. "Your father will what?"

Dean averted his watering eyes. "I can't tell you." Dean tried to push past Michael, but the bigger man grabbed Dean's arm.

He bent down to Dean's height and looked him in the eyes. "Your father will what?" he repeated slowly.

Dean whispered, "He'll beat me." Dean heard Michael suck in a breath and he immediately thought the worst. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I didn't mean to make you angry!" Dean exclaimed, stumbling away from Michael.

Michael looked down at Dean, who was now cowering against the glass, shaking uncontrollably. It was then that he noticed the fading and fresh bruises on the smaller boys face. The marks on his wrist that resembled large hands.

"I'm not angry. I'm beyond pissed. But not at you. I'm angry at your father." Michael crouched down in front of Dean again. "Have you told anyone?" he asked. Dean shook his head. "Why?"

"I'm scared. Please, don't tell anyone. Please."

"But if you want it to stop, you have to tell someone," Michael urged. Dean shook his head.

"No, I have to be a good boy. I have to do my homework and come home on time. Then he won't hit me," said Dean. "Don't tell anyone. Please, please, please don't," Dean begged.

"All right, then. I won't tell anyone. But you have to promise me something," Michael said, going against ever instinct he had to take this kid away from his father. Dean nodded, his shaking beginning to subside, but he was still fearful.

"You will come here every day. I want you to teach me that last move. In turn, I won't tell your father and I'll make an excuse for you tonight. Sound like a deal?" Michael stood and held out his hand. Dean flinched, expecting a hit. When none came, he cautiously grasped Michael's hand and shook, allowing him to pull Dean to his feet.

"Deal."

The excuse worked. Michael told Dean's father he'd been helping him out with shelving the new books. His father bought it, but said it better not happen again.

Dean shuddered when he was a block and a half away from the shop. But not because of the cold, but from the warmth of remembering his first real friend. And his third real betrayal. First his mom, then Jensen.

Then, Michael left him too, just like everyone in Dean's life. He'd come to the studio one day, eager to start their daily routine. All he found was an empty studio and a note taped to the mirrors. All it told Dean was that Michael was sorry for leaving him like this.

He hoped he turned out well.

He would miss him.

He had to go take care of his mother who had a brain tumor.

It was the kind of 'take-care-of-until-they're-gone' type of take care. Dean knew the feeling.

At the bottom Michael had written a phone number, but Dean had never had the courage to call and soon, he'd settled back into his old way of cowering in fear and being a speck of dust in a tornado.

Dean stopped in front of the coffee shop door and took a deep breath, feeling his ribs protest. He poked gingerly at his chest. He was sure one of his ribs were broken. He took a shallow, steadying breath and pushed open the shop door, hearing the bell above him tinkle.

"Dean! You're late!" Alistair called from behind the counter.

"I'm sorry. I I'll come in early tomorrow to make up for it." If Sam will let me. Alistair shook his head.

"Don't worry about it. How's everything with you?" Alistair asked, refilling the coffee containers. Dean shrugged, feeling the soreness in his shoulders.

Dean removed his coat and stretched to hang it on the too-high coat peg. He gasped as he felt something pop in his chest. He crumpled instantly, the pain bringing him to his knees.

"Dean? Are you all right?" Alistair exclaimed, rushing to Dean's side.

"I-" he coughed heavily, and covered his mouth, feeling his palm become soaked. He pulled it away and glanced at it, fear piercing his chest as he processed the blood.

"Don't tell me you're fine. Come on, we're going to the hospital," Alistair said, half dragging, half carrying Dean outside and into his car.

This was just an idea that popped into my head. Reviews are accepted, not required, but loved. I feel bad for Dean.

Salt and Burn,
Dublin O'Malley

XOXOX

Song of the Chapter: Faint- Linkin Park