Chapter Eight- Good Little Soldier- Hit the Fan
Hi guys. Warning: this chapter and the next chapter are gruesome. And kind of evil. And very fanfiction-y. Like, my beta said I was a terrible person and should never write again. So, turn back now. It only gets more depressing. I'm sorry Dean.
Also, yes I know the quotes aren't right but I couldn't find them online so deal with it. You get the idea.
RaisingAmara: yes. Dean stands up to his father about the abuse eventually. That is what's happening. Because I'm a good person. Maybe. Love the username, by the way.
hsr62: thanks! I hope this is soon enough for you. It definitely wasn't for me…
Anyway, trigger: graphic descriptions of violence, suicidal thoughts, John Winchester is a dick, and general Supernatural-related feels.
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"Dean! Did you ask him?"
No, I want to shout into the payphone. Of course I didn't ask him, because I don't want you getting yourself killed or ruining the half chance at a normal life you still have. "He said no. Sorry, Sammy."
"But why? I can shoot. I know about monsters now. I don't get why-"
"You're a kid," I cut him off. You're a kid. You shouldn't be able to do or know what you do.
"You were younger than me when you started…"
God, he sounds so sad and I can practically feel the puppy eyes through the phone. And I wish I could give him what he wants. No, scratch that. I wish I could make him want anything but this, and give that to him. "Yeah, I was. That's not the point Sam. Dad doesn't think you're ready. I mean, you still have an imaginary friend. He probably still sees you as too little."
He sighs. Dad honks at me from across the parking lot. "All right."
"I'll call when we get there, okay?"
"Okay."
"Goodbye, bitch."
"Goodbye, Dean."
I wince at the rejection and hang up, sprinting over to the car. Dad makes me sit in the back again. I don't mind- the further away from him I am, the better. I end up spending most of the drive making up for the sleep I didn't get last night and pretending nothing hurts. If you pretend something's true for long enough, you start to believe it. Monsters aren't real, angels are, Mom's coming back… why should the day-old fire pulsing through me feel any different? By the time we get to the motel, it feels like I'm invincible. Three hours of sleep can do a body good, I guess.
Dad parks the car, but doesn't get out. Instead he turns around to face me. I shrink myself against the window.
"Dean," he says slowly. Menacingly. Like an animal waiting to pounce. "You should really call Sammy back. Tell him to come meet us."
"Why?"
"Because the boy should learn what hunting is really like."
I freeze. The night air around the car freezes. I think the whole world freezes, for a moment. Mom used to say that every time a kid died the world froze. And Mom used to say a lot of things but I can't help but picture Sam lying on the floor with a vampire or ghost or Dad standing over him.
I can't let this happen. I also can't stand up to Dad. This is why I'm worthless- my brother's life could be at stake, and I'm probably going to put him in danger. Because how the hell do I say no to the person who's forced me to say yes my entire life? And damn it, the things he's made me say yes to… my hands are tied so tight I can't feel my fingers. But I also can't let anything happen to Sammy. Anything else, anyway. It was my fault I didn't get home in time to stop Dad last November. I'm not going to let it happen again.
Even if it kills me.
I sit forward in my seat, still convincing myself it's the right decision. For Sam, I think, my first and last battle cry. Then I look Dad in the eyes. God, when was the last time I did that? Before Mom, probably.
"No."
"Excuse me?"
"No, sir. You can do whatever you want with me, but I'm not gonna let you drag Sam into this."
"Oh. You won't let me. Sorry, I thought I was the one in charge here. I thought you were the one obeying orders. Apparently it's the other way around. Apologies, your goddamn highness."
"I didn't mean-"
Dad doesn't say another word. I think he's planning all the different ways to kill the scared teenager in the backseat of his car. Then he shoves the key back into the ignition and pulls out of the parking lot faster than the first time Sam ran away. When I ran away, it took him almost a week to even start looking for me. Maybe I could do that now; jump out of the car and bolt. I don't think I'd make it very far, though. I'm already breathing like I just sprinted five miles. And I think I might pass out. If I pass out will he still kill me? That'd be best, I think. Dying while I'm unconscious.
I am going to die, I can tell. He hasn't said anything, but the grip on the steering wheel has tightened to the point that I think he might snap it.
There's a forest a few miles out of town. I saw it on the way in, and that's where we're going. God, I'm going to hyperventilate and kill myself before he gets a chance. Then I'll really have done it. Messed up everything. Even his one chance to kill me. Worthless. So goddamn worthless.
I'm so petrified I don't even notice we've stopped.
"Get out," he says. When I don't move, he opens the door and grabs my jacket collar, dragging me into the trees like I'm already a body he's trying to hide. I let my feet drag on the ground a little, hoping it'll slow him down, but it only makes him go faster.
I never even got to tell Sammy about this. He's never gonna know…
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My back presses against the rough tree bark. Dad leans close, hot coppery breath hitting my face.
"I should've done this a long time ago. Right after Mary died. You were always so much like her…" he pauses, and for a minute I can see him as a human, but the minute fades too quickly to register. "Except she wasn't so pathetic. And she didn't deserve what she got." Dad draws back a little, fingers digging under my shirt and coming back up with my necklace.
Sam. God, Sam, I'm so sorry.
"This was supposed to me mine, you know," he says softly, almost reverently. "But then Sammy decided to give it to his worthless brother. All because that same brother went and told him about monsters. When I had specifically told him not to."
Sammy, I know you can't hear me, but I don't care and I'm sorry, so, so, sorry, and I hope you know that. And you're never gonna know why this had to happen. Damnit, Sammy, don't be me. Don't let Dad do anything to you. Run away. Call the cops. Anything I was too scared to do, you do it. Because I'm not gonna be here very much longer.
The he starts punching. And he doesn't stop.
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I lie face-up on the forest floor, trying to get any oxygen, any at all, through my lungs. But it has to get through a split lip and under cracked and broken ribs, and air doesn't try very hard.
"You're worthless, Dean."
"Can't… breathe…" I manage, trying to see past him to the stars. Mom used to say when you died you because one. Mom used to say a lot of things…
"I don't care. Nobody cares-" he kneels down, straddling my chest "-about pathetic little Dean, who breaks every single thing he touches. Who almost let his brother die. More that once. Worthless."
Dad pulls my t-shirt up over my ribs, the fabric leaving a trail of needles over the new cuts and bruises. A small, sadistic smile creeps over his face and he pulls out a knife. I whimper. He laughs. Story of my life- death, now, I guess. He leans forward, barely piercing the skin beneath my ribs. Fire shoots through me. I scream and grab his wrist, but he pins my hands above me and keeps going.
"Let's show everyone what you are."
Pain grips me and holds me down, screaming and shaking. Dad keeps digging in, carving my stomach just deep enough to turn my vision black at the edges. When I realize what he's doing, I wish he was going in deeper.
"Let's show everyone what you really are."
W.
O.
R.
T.
H.
L.
E.
S.
S.
Then he gets up, walking back towards the Impala and leaving the knife lying in the dirt next to me.
He didn't kill me. He was supposed to kill me. I was completely okay with finally getting away from him. No more hunting. No more taking care of Sam. No more Dad.
Instincts take over. Desperate, dying, survival-of-the-fittest instincts. I shift to my side, yelping as everything sparks in protest, and grab the knife. Then I crawl over to the nearest tree and lean against it.
No more hurting.
I pull up my shirt sleeve.
No more angels.
It won't take much. I'm already bleeding out. How long does it take- ten, fifteen minutes? A week or so ago, I wouldn't have done it. But the way I see it now, I can hurt for an hour, or ten minutes. This is why they put dogs down, right? Why they have assisted suicide?
No more scars.
Sam's going to hate me, if he ever finds out. He probably already does hate me. Everyone hates me. I'm worthless.
No more caring.
It doesn't hurt.
No more Dad.
I lift my head and watch, fascinated, as the blood drips down my arm. I deserve this, don't I? Nobody's going to miss me. Not really, anyway. I glance up. You can't usually see so many stars, this close to civilization. Mom used to say when you died, you became a star. I'm starting to believe her. Maybe because your faith only really shows when you most need it. I do believe Mom. There are angels, and she's one of them, isn't she?
She was right. About the stars. Someone's going to find me, and I'll be in all the papers and on the Internet. I'll be an example. One of the pictures next to a 'this happened because no one cared enough to stop it' headline. I'll be a star, one way or another. Maybe Jimmy Novak will see. Maybe he'll cry. I doubt it, but it's a nice thought.
No more hurting.
Maybe there's angels.
No more scars.
No more caring.
No more Dad.
I close my eyes and let my head fill with smoke and the powdered sugar Mom used to sprinkle on cookies.
No more Dean Winchester.
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HE'S A WINCHESTER HE'LL COME BACK PLEASE DON'T KILL ME AND MERRY ALMOST CHRISTMAS.
