Thanks to lenail125 for your review! I'm glad I'm back too. Also, thank you people for your favorites and follows! I love getting the alert for them, it makes my day. You'll find out what the boys got each other eventually, because things are about to go down...warnings for emotional, physical abuse, and ableism. John's an asshole and I'm sorry. You'll see that's how I usually write him, because...I just don't like him at all, in canon or anywhere else.
Also, cautions for next chapter! I know that mental age regression isn't very common at all with head injuries, from what I know and have seen. But after all this, Dean's damaged brain/mind takes a bit of a break for itself, protecting him from the hit and all the abuse he's suffered, his mind will be in a temporary state of further regression. Not too much, but a few years at most, putting him around three or four, in a sense. He'll bounce back to where he was before at the beginning of this story, don't worry!
"'S'okay, Dean. We're going to be fine. I know it," Sam reassured, helping his brother into the Impala, an angry bruise marking Dean's cheek, making him look smaller and more vulnerable than ever. Buckling his brother's seatbelt, the teen shut the door softly. Walking a bit further down, he threw two small bags containing their few possessions into the trunk, slamming it shut as fury and frustration built up inside. This was the first time their dad had ever hit Dean.
And it would be the last.
Not too long before...
Putting the finishing touches on Dean's present, Sam carefully applied the last piece of tape onto the shiny blue-silver, snow-flake adorned wrapping paper. It had taken him longer than expected, and while the box containing his brother's gift was rectangular and tall, he wanted it to be perfect. And finally, it was. The paper curved over the corners like water against rocks, and looked impeccable.
Needless to say, the youngest Winchester was proud of himself, and smiled fondly at the look of pure glee that would reward him on Christmas morning when Dean opened it.
In the room next to him, through the thin walls, the teen could hear sounds of frustration as Dean himself tried to wrap Sam's present. As stubborn as ever, he refused to have anyone help him, muttering "I can do it m'self, Sammy." and shutting the door behind him.
At the store, after they had parted ways in the search for a present for the other, the older had hidden Sam's gift behind his back, and went to the self-checkout section himself, using money he had saved up himself from working at Bobby's during visits. Watching the gruff man working on cars was one of Dean's favorite things, and was more than happy to help. Of course his motor skills and the like sometimes got in the way, it didn't prevent him from passing a tool or fixing something minor like a gear.
Honestly, Sam would rather just take Dean to Bobby's for Christmas instead of staying here...
Tucking the present beneath his bed, as they had no tree this year, like always, and this would be the most sufficient way of hiding it from Dean. Last year, the sneaky jerk managed to find where Sam had hidden his present and peaked inside, childish (for his part) impatience getting the better of him. Classic Dean Winchester. But, towards the end of that day, he felt a tad guilty and whole-heartedly apologized.
Eventually, the huff and sputters of frustration ceased, later followed by a giggle and a sound of pride. A halfway smile crept onto the younger's face, glad nothing bad was going to come out of that whole scenario.
Sometimes, Dean's inability or difficulty with certain tasks or...anything could cause semi-violent outbursts. He never hurt anybody, just occasionally threw things or shouted himself hoarse. But those days/moments were few and far between, leaving behind a tough yet fragile, kind and sweet-hearted brother that Sam was glad to call his own.
The shuffling of uncoordinated feet prodded themselves at Sam's ears, and as much as he wanted to follow Dean wherever he went, just to make sure he was okay...he knew being the complete mother hen was the last thing either wanted. Of course he was the caretaker in a sense, but the teen was also his brother, his sibling, and treated him as such. Never following behind him; watching all the time.
Laying on top of his bed, sinking the comfort of the blankets and mattress, it sagging slightly beneath the gangly, tall weight of the teen's body. Breathing a large sigh, feeling the air build up in his lungs before letting it go with more control than ever; enjoying the pressure against his chest as it left. Staring up at the ceiling, Sam thought about nothing as the whirls of winter wind blew against his windows, rattling the branches against them and scratching the ancient glass.
He felt at peace, just being able to lay back and let the world go by. Maybe it wasn't too bad to relax and let go. If you wanted to get poetic about it. The twitches of a smile tugged against Sam's lips, and time slowed a tad.
That was, until he heard a thump or two, something go clunk, and a familiar yelp from downstairs: namely the kitchen.
In a flash, Sam was off his bed and headed down the stairs, feet pounding with the speed and intensity at which he was moving. John was still asleep when they came back around one that afternoon. It was now around four-thirty, and there was no doubt he was now awake. From whatever that was.
Shit, shit, shit! Dean better be okay, were the only thoughts that raced through Sam's mind as he flew down the stairs. He couldn't even feel his feet hit the steps, they were so fast. It was only air between them. Anger began to boil inside the teen's soul as images of his incredibly protective, yet fragile older brother wounded, with their father looming over. Dread churned inside, threatening to pull him under and consume him. Sam wasn't there fast enough for his standards at this moment.
And his visions were somewhat true.
Standing in the doorway of the kitchen, Sam watched in horror as their father was standing tall over a huddled figure, shaking lightly.
"What the hell is the matter with you, Dean?! You can't even make food for you and your brother without fucking it up..." the voice of their father bellowed, remnants of drunkenness etched inside.
"I sorry!" Dean pleaded, trying his hardest to sound strong: for Sammy. He just wanted to make some toast...and maybe Sammy wanted some too, and he had dropped their toaster; his hands too clumsy and shaken from the exercise they had gotten upstairs, wrapping his little brother's present. The metallic clunk it had made on the linoleum floor had woken up John in his post-drunken-escapade rest. And of course, that resulted in rage and hurt.
A growl rose itself out of Sam's throat, and he threw himself between them. This wasn't the first time something like this happened, as known before, but even after all the re-runs and practice, it still remained raw and disgusting. Almost always turning the words laying in Sam's mouth to ash.
Glaring at John, Sam demanded, "What are you doing? Leave him alone, Dad. I mean it." The younger tried to sound strong, but instead seemed pathetic and weak. Like a three-year-old defending something they had done, not a lot of strength, but a whole lot of determination.
Swaying slightly, John pointed to the fallen toaster, right beside a still shuddering Dean, "The -hic- little retard fucking woke me up. After all I -hic- do for you two: keep you in school, Sam, have a -hic- roof over our heads, and this is the thanks I get? Not even a lil bit of shut-eye?"
Sam threw Dean a sympathetic glance, wanting nothing more than to just carry his older brother away. Hot tears could be seen in the corners of frightened, bright green eyes, the tears began to streak pale skin; so unlike the usual tan, sun-kissed complexion.
"He didn't mean it! When has he ever hurt you? Or either of us? Jus' go back to sleep," the younger Winchester reasoned. Conflict was common between him and his father, but that didn't make it right.
While a bit of thoughtfulness passed over their dad's face, making him look parental and better, it didn't last long. "Once he learns his lesson, like a son should," was the last thing John had said.
Before Sam knew it, he was shoved out of the way, and the smack of skin hitting bone filled the immediate air. Upon realization, the teen's mind went blank. Hot red fury then filled the inside, and crimson filled his vision. Their dad had just hit Dean, something he had never done before. Ever. It was only ever Sam who took the beatings, and Dean got the yelling and insults. That's how it worked in John's mind.
But now that changed. And not for the better.
Dean shrank at the contact, and pulled farther in on himself, trying to seem smaller. Tears were running down his face like river water, landing on his shirt and dampening the collar. The left side of his face burned and started to ache. He wanted to protect Sammy, like he always told himself to do. But now he couldn't, not right now. It tugged and pulled around him: the feeling of being worthless. Sammy always told him to never feel that way, because everything he did was good and he didn't mean any harm to anything or anyone.
And unlike the past times where John would spring a whirl of "I'm sorry's", this time their father just dragged his ass back to the couch without so much as a glance or another word to his sons. Flopping on the couch, he was immediately asleep. Alcohol had an odd and disgusting effect on some.
Crouching in front of Dean, Sam gave him a sad smile, "Hey, Dean. Come on, dude. We're gonna go." Upon looking at his distressed and teary-eyed brother, Sam immediately stepped into a gentler tone and pushed away the anger. His heart reached out to the huddled figure in front of him, and he made sure that Dean knew he loved him. He needed it right now. They both did.
Sniffling, the older nodded, "'Kay, Sammy. I s-sorry. Deanie did bad." The mention of the nickname their parents used when they were little, surprised Sam, but he let it slide. He had bigger things to worry about. They had to get out of here.
Helping him up, Sam shook his head, putting a hand on the shorter's elbow, "Don't be sorry. You did nothing wrong." Going slowly but surely up the stairs, the pair collected some of their things together, including one another's presents, and put them into two separate bags. Once that was done, Sam pulled Dean's jacket around him, wiping away some of the leftover tears too. A heavy weight sunk inside at the realization of what he was doing. But the teen knew this was best.
"Where we goin', Sammy?" Dean asked as Sam tugged his own jacket on, holding his bag in shaking fingers. The younger noticed that his brother's speech was more simple sounding now, and more...childlike. But as said before, he could worry about that later.
"To Bobby's house for a bit, Dean. Sound good?"
At the mention of their surrogate uncle, the older smiled brightly, as if forgetting everything that just happened, "'Kay."
Heading once more down the stairs, and stopping by the front door, Sam said his own silent goodbyes. While Dean seemed scared once more. Tears erupted, coating the bottom of crystal green eyes, "Sammy? We leaving Daddy? He's not comin'?"
Sam felt his heart ache for his brother, "No. He's not, Dean. Don't worry. We'll be okay." The older nodded, trying to sound strong for Sammy once more. He shouldn't be crying. Big boys didn't cry.
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