This is so against my better judgement. But, whatever. This is for you, Mish, but I'm telling you, no one's reading. Anyways, I don't remember if this chapter was beta'd it's been so long, I know 10 and 11 aren't. Oh well, right? Thanks to Mish and Sushi, for being insane and thinking this story's got some merit. Ick. And then after that, I'm going to be obnoxious enough to ask for reviews? Considering I actually got some last time... *gasp*
Chapter 9:
Dean rolled over in the motel bed, looking around blearily. He wasn't feeling well. It had been a few days since they'd left his friends behind. Left the life he'd been doing okay pretending to live far behind. And now their dad was never around. And if he was it was constantly to yell drills and orders. More than ever before. Dean had gotten used to being told what to do, up to a point. But this was insane. He could barely handle five push-ups, and John asked for fifty. Sam often threw a fit, whenever John asked, screaming about studying and other things. Mainly because with every time Dean pushed his body up, he bled more. The wounds hadn't healed, and John was demanding more than Dean had in him to give. To make him stronger. Better. Dean understood it was to keep this kind of thing from ever happening again, he just didn't understand why it couldn't wait until he'd healed at least a little bit. His body ached, and when he shifted himself up, puncture wounds screamed at him to stay still. Looking at the blood spotted sheets, he blinked away tears. He needed Sam's help to get his shirts on, because of how hard it was to stretch his body the necessary ways. The over shirt was fine. His arms ached all the time, his legs burned…remembering the saw scraped across soft flesh. Dean had nightmares every time John left a screwdriver lying around.
It was still dark, and one glance at the clock told him he had another five or six hours before he really had to be awake. They weren't in school yet. Not for a while, apparently. But he'd be back in it soon. A few days…which was a while for Sam. For Dean it was a time all too short to heal. He hadn't even had a full two weeks out of the hospital. In fact it was barely one. Rolling over he went back to sleep, sheer exhaustion dragging him under.
Sam sat up a matter of hours later, his brother's strangled sleep-sobs waking him. Unsure of what to do, he just know he hated his father for this. It was all John's fault. If he'd just let Dean stop training, let him sleep, and make him eat more, rather than accepting the fact he only picked at his food, maybe things would be better for Dean. Maybe he'd be healing, instead of thrashing weakly in his sleep. Maybe he wouldn't have trouble with his clothes, or reaching the food on the upper shelves of the craptastic excuse for a house John had chosen that time. Staring at Dean, the wheels turned in Sam's head, and he slipped out of his own bed, rubbing at his eyes hard to make them water. Not that he needed the help, just looking at Dean and thinking about the hell their father was putting him through was enough to make Sam want to cry anyway. Shaking Dean awake, Dean looked at him in confusion.
"No' time t'ge'up issit?"
"No," Sam said tearfully.
"You 'kay?" Dean asked, starting to sit up.
"No," Sam mumbled again, "I…there was this…I had one of those nightmares…"
Dean forced his body up, arms trembling. "About Mom?" he asked, and Sam nodded. Shifting himself further towards the edge of the bed, Dean obligingly made room for Sam to crawl into bed next to him. Sam snugged his back against Dean's, feeling Dean shift so that the contact was smooth. Having brought his own pillow, Sam had it angled much the way Dean angled his, part for the head, and then his arms wrapped around the rest of it. Listening to his brother's breathing slow, it was still hitched from pain, but at least he was sleeping peacefully.
When John slammed open the door, shouting at them both to get the hell up already, Dean just about had a heart attack, knife in hand ready to fight. For all his body wouldn't hold up. Sam could have taken him right then, and Sam knew he'd never be able to take Dean. Even if he could, he wouldn't want to. Not ever.
"Wha?" Dean asked dazedly, once he woke up enough to put the knife back under the pillow.
"School, I told you both, get your asses ready," John snapped.
"Did not!" Sam said, sitting up, and scaring his father half to death, because he hadn't expected to see Sam not in his own bed. "You told us we'd be out of this town and so we didn't have to go here. You liar!" Sam shouted, before starting to angrily fling things into his backpack and stuffing things into Dean's, before debating and taking some things out. Whatever would be easiest for Dean to carry. His body clearly hurt. Sam wasn't sure what he'd need, so he grabbed the barest minimum he could justify having taken.
John was completely taken aback by his youngest, who usually complained about not being able to go to school. In fact since when had Sam started yelling at him? Dean's labored movements as he worked to get himself ready for school chased John from the room. He didn't want to see how much damage still remained. If he could just ignore it, it would go away. But he knew it wasn't true. So he had to push Dean, he had to make him stronger, he had to make him better, and faster, because John knew he wouldn't survive going through this with his son again. And he wasn't sure Dean would survive again, either.
Dean stuffed his feet into his shoes, glancing at Sam. He was too tired to say anything to his brother, and all he did was hope they didn't have to walk to the school. Even if it was just a block. Lifting his bag, he glanced at it, not particularly heavy. Hauling Sam's up, he almost toppled over, having anticipated a lot more weight than he lifted. "Got your knife?" he asked with concern.
"Same place it always is," Sam replied casually, "I already stuffed yours into the front pocket."
"You know I keep it in my jeans or my boots," Dean pointed out, and Sam shrugged.
"You can move it later."
"Whatever," he muttered, but Sam knew that what his brother meant was 'thanks'. It wasn't like Dean felt safe without it, but Sam knew he would have forgotten it without it already being in his bag. Seeing Dean shift it into his jean pocket while he waited for Sam to get his shoes on, Sam grinned a little.
"Since you idiots were so damn late, looks like I've got to waste my time giving you both a ride."
"We'll walk," Sam growled, and Dean looked at him apprehensively.
"Sam," he whispered, not wanting to walk, trying to shake his head enough for Sam to understand. And then Sam looked up at him, and Dean realized Sam wanted to skip. Sam…wanted…to…skip? Sam? Skip? School? "Yeah, we'll walk," he said, nodding his head, before stopping; it made him nauseous. The head trauma was probably the worst, he figured. Beyond feeling the punctures in his flesh, feeling the stitches rub against him, and pull. Feel them give way at his father's orders.
"Don't want you boys late your first day, get in the car." It was the voice both boys recognized as being the one they never managed to argue with. Or even wanted to. Sam meekly slid into the back, and Dean made to follow him. "Get in the front, you're too old to be sitting back there," John snapped, and Dean just about jumped out of his skin. Slipping into the front seat, he was dropped off first. And he felt his heart clench in his chest when his father drove off, Sam in the back. Were they even coming back? John hadn't said. Hadn't even given him a bus number. Nothing. Didn't know the address of that shithole they were staying in. Wondering if he'd been able to pay enough attention to walk his way back, he knew his legs wouldn't hold him. Biting down hard on his lower lip, he didn't even know where to go. The office, sure, but…usually their dad had this paperwork stuff, and could just tell him. Or at least was trying to convince the principle that their school records were coming. Something. This time, no, he was completely abandoned.
Sam watched as they drove away, leaving Dean behind. "You didn't even tell him what class to go to!" he said, outraged.
"Well, Dean can just go into the office and ask. They know there. About time he started doing things for himself."
The moment they got to Sam's school, about four blocks away, Sam crawled out of the back seat, and John made a move to get out, "I don't need your help," he told his father, slamming the door, and mumbling 'I hate you' under his breath. It made him feel better as he took off running as fast as he could for the building. He would find out a way to leave and get back to Dean. Dean could pretend to be a visitor for Sam at Sam's school, they'd done it before so Dean could avoid class. And then he could claim to be volunteering in an elementary school. Reaching the school, Sam asked where his classroom was, and decided he'd skip out around lunch. Or maybe he could call Uncle Bobby. Or Pastor Jim. Even if only Dean got away…maybe he'd have a chance to heal before John caught back up with him.
Dean trudged wearily into the hallway, and was immediately yelled at by a teacher for not being in class. Dean's eyes rounded out in shock, and he fought the urge to run. Or fight. He was pretty sure a knife would make the guy back down.
"Go! In the office!" the guy snapped, and Dean just stared blankly at him.
"That's where I was going," he said softly.
"Excuse me?"
"I…this is my first day here…my dad just dropped me off…I don't know where I'm going," Dean said softly. The guy's face softened a hair, but not enough for Dean to relax any.
"The office is this way," he said calmly. "I'm the Vice Principle, and you are?"
"Dean," he said softly, missing the days the high school was right next to the elementary school.
"Got a last name there, kiddo?"
"Winchester," Dean didn't even have the energy to grind his teeth at being called 'kiddo'. Of all the stupid things…
"Right, I've actually got your schedule here," Mr. Vice Principle man said, passing Dean a blue piece of paper. Dean glanced it over, mentally closing himself down.
"I've taken these classes," he said softly. "My dad should have had already had my transcripts sent."
"Taken which classes?"
"Math and science. I've taken biology, chemistry, and physics, and passed them all. And then, I've gotten through Algebra I and II, and already did pre-Calc." It wasn't a lie. He'd been moved around enough, and depending on the high school, Algebra I and II were only a semester each, so in a year you'd done both, instead of two years. They'd stayed some places more than long enough to pass a class with the same teacher. And technically Dean had taken quite a few sciences via Integrated Sciences, so he'd managed to weasel his way out of those classes. It was just English he couldn't avoid. And having to take electives, and gym. Damn, he was supposed to be in gym. Laps if he was late, he'd wager. Not suiting up? More laps. He couldn't do laps. He was probably already bleeding, wishing Sam was there, Dean shut his eyes again.
"Here's a map of the school, we'll sort this out tomorrow, okay?"
"Yeah, sure, whatever," Dean said, taking the map. Since he had no clue where he was in the building, other than a side wing, he glanced at a classroom number to orient himself. Gym. Gym first period. Why? Whoever was up in charge in the clouds was a sadistic son of a bitch.
Showing up late in class, Dean got hit full in the face with a ball when he opened the door. Blood was the first thing he tasted, and fear ran through him, reminding him. Power drill. Blood. Backhand across the face. Face slammed into a table, over and over…the crack of his skull against cement…
The whistle blew sharply. "Stop!" the coach called out, jogging over to Dean. "You alright?"
"Yeah," Dean said, catching himself from spitting blood onto the floor.
"Go'n spit, I'm Coach Briar, and I don't give a damn about their floor." Taking Dean's schedule from him without asking, "You're the new one. Got a gym uniform?" he asked, looking around the room. "Whichever one of you idiots threw the ball at the door, sit your ass on the bleachers, the rest of you, get back to the game." Basketball. No wonder it had hurt so much.
"Yeah, just…didn't get my schedule until I showed up. My…my Dad didn't tell us we were going to school here, but he found a job so we're staying a while, I guess." Didn't know how long, didn't care. He'd survive. "So…didn't know…"
"You're a bleeder," Coach Briar said calmly, "Go'n shower up don't worry about it. Just find your classes, and if you're late you can either run laps or spend some time in detention."
"Yessir," Dean mumbled. "Where…"
"That one at the end, and take this, keep you out of trouble. If I don't get it back tomorrow the moment class starts, I can promise you that your life'll be a living hell."
Dean caught the small lanyard with a piece of paper attached reading 'hall pass.' "Yessir," he repeated, before disappearing up the stairwell to the locker room. Pleased to see it really was the boys' and not the girls'…some coaches were sadists. He opened his bag, not surprised to see a change of clothes. Well, a different shirt, and some shorts. Dean figured he'd only bled on his shirt, so he'd be okay. Painfully hauling it off his body, he winced and twisted to look in the mirror.
"Christ."
Dean whirled around, eyes wide. Seeing another guy, about the same build, Dean clutched his shirt possessively to his chest. Then smiled as cockily as he could, "Yes?"
"That's cute," the other boy settled himself on the bench and started stripping his clothes off, before gathering a washcloth and a few other very basic showering supplies. Dean watched for a few minutes, before using his shirt to stem the blood-flow from his nose. Once it stopped, he stuck his shirt under the faucet, cold water. Dean heard the shower turn on. "You gonna clean yourself up?"
"Not with you!" Dean called back, grinning a little. He might do okay here, he figured, then stopped that thought. No friends. They weren't staying long enough. He hadn't allowed himself a friend in school since Mili until he met Lily and Pete. Then he decided he was done again.
"Jake!" he called over the spray of the shower, sharing his name.
"Dean!" rubbing his shirt under the water. At least it was a dark shirt, so even if he couldn't get all the blood out, it would be okay.
"What the hell happened to your face?" Jake asked, carefully not saying a thing about Dean's arms, back, or chest.
"Well, my Mom was a real stunner, and my Dad ain't half bad, so I ended up like this," Dean said smugly.
"Oh, yeah. So they smashed your face?"
"Jealousy's an ugly thing."
"I can see that," Jake grinned, "first day?"
"Yeah, that easy a mark?"
"Well your face sure was."
Dean shrugged. No big deal. Clearly he'd had worse. Struggling with the white shirt Sam had stuffed into his bag, Dean barely got it on himself without incident. Tugging on his over-shirt next, he pulled on the leather jacket as an armor around himself. If nothing else, he'd have some padding in case something hit him somewhere other than the face.
"What's your next class?"
Looking at his schedule, Dean sighed. "English."
"Mine, too, wonder if you've got the Old Bitch."
"Mulberry?"
"Yeah. You're gonna hate her, everyone does."
"Why?" Dean wasn't entirely sure he wanted to go to class now. Not that he'd want to in the first place, but his instinct to find Sam was growing ever stronger.
"Well, you're not gonna believe me, but that old bat? We're in high school right, Freshman?"
"Yeah," Dean said cautiously, settling on a bench to re-order his backpack, which meant making a mess of the careful system Sam had set up inside. Therefore making everything more easily accessible and findable.
"This one kid actually had to go to the bathroom, had a condition and everything, pills and shit, and she wouldn't let 'im go."
"You're kidding?"
"No. Parents tried to sue the school, dunno what happened, but Mulberry's still teaching. If you gotta piss, do it now," Jake told him.
Dean was fairly sure his leg was being pulled, or that it was just some tradition for upperclassmen to tell the underclassmen that story. And then it got spread down or something. Either way, he did make a stop in the bathroom on the way down to his class. Didn't want to be in the locker room anymore in case someone else decided they wanted to talk. The less people he spoke to, the smaller the ripples when he left. The bell rang, and he felt his body settling into the rhythm of school again. Bell rang, go to next class, avoid crush of people. He knew that he looked like crap, shadows under his eyes, cheek bones more pronounced than usual because of how little he was eating. Sitting down at a desk towards the back, the teacher looked up.
"Dean?" she wasn't as old as he'd initially expected. Maybe sixty at the oldest.
"Yeah," he said cautiously, standing up, considering she had waved him forwards.
"When the bell rings again and everyone's here I'd like you to introduce yourself."
"I'd rather not," he said softly, feeling his legs trembling. All he wanted to do was sit.
"Do it from your seat."
"Ma'am," he said quietly, before realizing he didn't want to make enemies with an unknown quantity.
"What?"
"Nothing," he told her, sitting back down in his desk, wincing when his backside touched the seat. He ached everywhere. Having been beaten like that…at least he was protected by the desk. The back of the seat was freezing, and he leaned forward to avoid it, remembering the cold of the cement against his body. And the cold stare of his father's disappointment. Shuddering slightly, he looked up when students piled into the room.
"Dean if you wouldn't mind?"
Actually, I do. "I don't know what you want me to say…"
"Why don't you tell us where you're from?"
"What is this, kindergarten?" he groused under his breath. "Uh, I'm from all over. My dad's military, so we go wherever." It was a decent enough lie. One that Sam would probably be telling to his class, as well. But Dean didn't think it would matter if they did tell different stories. Not like grade kids were going to be mixing with high school students, or that they'd share about random kids appearing in their classes.
"Do you have any family in town, Dean?"
Rolling his eyes, "No." Done asking those stupid questions? Ready to kill the woman, he pulled out his notebook, deciding to pretend to be interested in the assignment on the board. Although he wasn't entirely sure that he wasn't going to try an exorcism on this god awful bitch.
When lunch finally rolled around Dean was fairly shocked to see Sam crossing the street to the front of the school. Jogging across the front lawn to meet him, his body ached and felt badly jarred with each step.
"Sam what're you doing here?" he hissed.
"I don't like my classes, or my teachers, Dean. I hate it there."
"Dude, you just got there!" Dean paused. "You like school!"
"Not here. I wanna go back to the house," he made his face crumple and Dean lost any ability to refuse. He wanted to leave, too.
"Fine, I'm going, we're going, let's go."
Sam slipped his hand into Dean's, and Dean looked at him and then rolled his eyes. But he didn't pull away, and it allowed Sam to monitor his brother in a way that he couldn't otherwise. Dean clenched up his muscles when he was in pain, which meant his hand would tighten, too. Even with the still healing holes in his palms. The healing holes everywhere. Dean begged in his sleep sometimes. Please don't. God no, please don't. Stop, please just stop. My dad's going to kill you. Stop…please, I can't…god, no, please. Sam knew more of what had happened than John did.
"Aren't you a little old to be holding hands?"
"Aren't you a little old to miss toothpaste on the side of your face?" Sam challenged, and Dean's eyes went wide, scrubbing at his face.
"There's nothing there!" he said within seconds, and Sam laughed. "You little bitch!" Dean joked, lightly poking his brother in the side. Sam squealed.
"No fair!" Sam yelled, pretending to be upset for all of ten seconds. Dean wasn't really all that ticklish, for one thing, and for another, Sam couldn't poke him without reopening some gash or hitting a bruise. Dean looked like he'd been fed through a wood chipper. At least he had, now maybe just a meat grinder. There was a park, with a bench, and swings, and a whole bunch of mothers with toddlers. Sam could feel Dean fading next to him, and knew that his brother would have probably fainted before the day ended.
"I wanna sit down, my legs are tired," he whined, and Dean just rolled his eyes. The weather wasn't bad, and Dean had yet to complain about being in the sun other than the time he ended up looking like a lobster. Their dad had asked if he should get some lemon, vinegar, and some tartar sauce for Sam. Dean had asked about the garlic butter, and had wanted to know what barbarian treated lobster like fish'n chips. They sat on the park bench, and Sam let his legs dangle. Glad of the rest, Dean forced himself to breathe full and complete breaths rather than the shallow ones he'd started taking as the pain had worsened. "Dean, I don't wanna stay here."
"It's not exactly like we can just go, I mean I don't have a car, Sam. And even if I did Dad would hunt us down and probably chain us up or something." Dean's hands rested in his lap, one leg hitched up onto the park bench as he spoke. "Besides dude, where would we go?" he asked, spreading his hands helplessly. Sam just looked at him.
"Uncle Bobby's, or Pastor Jim's," he pointed out calmly, and Dean knew that his brother was trying to sell him on the idea.
"We can't just ask that, Sam! We're only supposed to go there in case of an emergency, or Dad not coming home!"
"And this isn't an emergency?"
"What?"
"Dean, you can barely walk! Dad doesn't care, he's just being meaner and meaner, all the time! And school? Without telling us anything? You gotta get better, Dean," Sam's eyes filled with unbidden tears. For once he wasn't trying to manipulate his brother into agreeing with him. "Maybe if you get better he'll stop being so mean!"
Dean was utterly taken aback, half wondering if Sam was mad at him for not healing fast enough. It wasn't like it was his fault. It would probably be the one thing in Dean's life he didn't blame himself for. Sam caught his expression.
"I don't like it when Dad's being mean…I just want it to stop. And if he'd leave you alone, you'd get better sooner, and then he could be nice again."
The two of them sat there for hours. Sam didn't suggest moving again, and Dean was too stunned to say much of anything. The day was still warm, and he didn't notice how long they'd been sitting there until the sun started to set. Looking over at Sam, his brother was awake, elbows on his knees, brooding. Dean knew that look, and was starting to guess that there was going to be a huge fight between Sam and their dad whenever they got back. Then Dean realized he didn't know the way back, and he doubted Sam did, either. Not like they'd been paying much attention.
When full dark hit, Sam simply inched closer to his brother.
"Dad's going to kill us," Dean whispered, not minding the cool night breeze.
"Well he should have told us what was going on before. Now it's his turn to be confused," Sam groused. Dean looked at his brother and wondered when Sam had turned into such a brat. Yawning, his body was shaking with exhaustion. Sam seemed to just take it as being cold, and curled up into his brother's side. When they saw the park thrown into a sharp relief, and then heard the rumble of the Impala's engine, they knew they were screwed. Sam felt Dean go rigid next to him, rather than the previous comfort they'd both been sharing. Sam tensed, and Dean glanced at him. He lightly squeezed Sam's hand, already saying he was going to take the blame. Not that he'd have a choice, because John was over to them in seconds, hand fisting into Dean's shirt and jerking him onto his feet. Dean cried out in shock and pain, and found his face less than an inch from his father's.
"What the hell were you thinking? Taking Sam out of class with you!? You boys were safe there, and you've been missing all day! Your schools called me, saying you were both gone! Do you have any idea how worried I've been!? What could have happened to you both?! Especially with…" he shook Dean a little. "especially with you…"
"Like what happened to Dean?" Sam asked innocently. "Maybe if he got to stay home from school he'd get better faster, and you wouldn't have to worry anymore."
"Sam, it's fine. It was my idea to cut, and I came and got you," Dean said, eyes darting between father and brother. "It's fine, Sam, I'm fine. I've been up all day, right?" Didn't add that he still spit up blood sometimes, or that his body ached, and stitches tore, or that sometimes the pain was so bad he couldn't sleep, and threw up his dinner. He didn't add that he just wanted to go to Bobby's like they'd planned from the start. Or Pastor Jim's, because he liked some of the people there at Jim's church. People he remembered from being young. Meredith, for one, she'd played with Sam, after he'd thrown a temper tantrum and destroyed the church altar in front of the cross. Jim'd talked to him until he was calm and then he'd reclaimed Sam from her. Dean could feel tears of pain forcing their way into his eyes, beading behind the lids.
"Dean," his father growled dangerous and low. Sam realized his brother's feet didn't quite touch the ground, and that his brother was in more distress than he'd initially supposed. Dean understood that his father was reacting from blind fear, and transferring it to rage to hide the fear. Sam just saw his older brother getting hurt. He shouted, and ran off, next thing he knew he was in a heap on the ground, and John was pounding after Sam, who was surprisingly agile despite how slow he was. Well, he was so young it wasn't like he really was going to outrun his father or brother. Hauling himself up on the park bench, Dean felt his legs shaking, and knew if he didn't stand on his own, things would be worse for him later. All the same he used the back of the bench to hold himself up.
John caught up with Sam, hauling his youngest into his arms. Sam squealed and flailed like he had when he'd been several years younger, glad to have distracted his father from his brother. It was all worth it for whatever punishment he managed to get. Dangling from under his father's arm, Sam allowed himself to stop fighting, arms and legs hanging straight down towards the ground. Glad his father's arm was around his rib cage rather than his stomach, he could breathe just fine. Waiting until they were almost to Dean, Sam slipped free and ran to the car, slamming the door and pretending to sulk in the back seat. Dean wearily picked up their bags, swaying with the weight of Sam's, and dumped them into the back seat on the floor, before hauling his wearied body into the passenger seat, barely able to keep himself awake long enough to remember the way back to the house.
Sam was told in no uncertain terms to go to his room and to stay there, unless he really wanted to get a paddling, and Sam, for once in his life, clued in and stayed quiet. John backed Dean against a wall, yelling at him in a hoarse undertone. All Dean could do was to nod his head and say 'yes sir' over and over. But it was never enough. Finally, sent to bed, Dean collapsed on top of the sheets. He could see Sam crying in the bed next to his, and sighed.
"It's fine Sam."
"I don't like it here," Sam repeated, and Dean sighed, kicking his shoes off and listening to the solid thud as they hit the floor. Deliberately shifting his covers around and making a lot of noise, Dean moved over, to allow Sam to crawl into bed next to him, if that was what was necessary to make the crying stop. Sam did as Dean predicted, and the two of them fell into an uneasy sleep. Dean rolled and shifted constantly in his sleep, still fighting a losing battle against his father's words.
If they only knew how much worse things would get...
if you'd like to know how much worse things could get? Leave a review... because..I am evil enough to leave it hanging there...