Ok I think this POV thing is going good, right? like I said, first time trying it out.

I own nothing, and this is gonna be a long chapter, the longest one yet, promise.

SAM'S POV

" Dad,"

Dad...dad...dad... Dean's words echoed in my mind. I wanted to deny it so badly. Sure, he was never going to win Father Of The Year, and sure, he was a total stubborn-assed bastard 24/7, but I wouldn't ever have guessed that he would turn...abusive. That word turned sour in my stomach. I wanted to deny it so much, but, as horrible as it was, it all went in to perfect alignment, everything clicked.

The way he said he couldn't tell me

The way he panicked and threw my phone when he found out I was going to call him

When Bobby said it wasn't his place to say.

Wait...Bobby.

I looked at Dean, he was still staring at me, looking more terrified than I've ever seen him before. The shaking had stopped all together now, not a single tremor racked his body at all anymore. I couldn't help it, I needed to know. I needed to question him.

" Does Bobby know?" that was what I asked him first, because if he did, why wouldn't he take Dean away from him? Bobby was like a father to us, and even though he may seem like an emotionless bastard, he has a soft spot for us. Not like he'd ever admit it. Hell, if anything , he favored Dean. Don't get him wrong, he loved me too, but him and Dean always had a tighter bond. Most likely due to the fact they were both as stubborn as hell, had an unexplainable love for hunting, and they both loved cars with a passion.

" Yeah, he knows," well then, I had a few things to say to that. And I will be the first to admit, that they weren't all pleasant.

" Then why didn't he take you away? Why did he let you get abused like that? He could've taken you away from that rat bastard-"

" Sam, please, don't get mad at Bobby," he cut me off, "He tried to take me away, honest he did, even pulled a shotgun out on dad after he found out." I felt my anger at Bobby fade away, but I still had questions.

" Then why didn't he?" Dean looked at me for what seemed like an hour, not saying a word after I asked that. As if he was wondering if he should even tell me the truth.

" I went back with him, on my own choices," he finally said, and I couldn't help it, I saw red. Why the fuck would he do that?

" Dean, what the hell? Why the hell would you stay with that asshole?! He could've done worse to you! He could've killed you! He- oh god," I broke off my rant, the last sentence I had said having gotten to me. Jesus, he could've killed him, he could've killed him and blame it on some creature, and I wouldn't have ever known the truth. Jesus, as I thought those things, I didn't notice Dean move to sit next to me. I didn't realize until he bumped shoulders with me. I looked at him, tears in my eyes, to see he had tears in his eyes, too. He tried smiling, but it looked like it brought pain to him.

" Why?" I whispered, my voice breaking all the way.

" He threatened to go after you, too. He-" his voice cracked, and he broke off for a moment, and I just closed my eyes. This shouldn't have ever happened to him, let alone it went on, to protect me. It made my insides crawl. He spoke up again after a few seconds of trying to get his voice under control.

" He- he threatened to take away your life, and I couldn't have that, I would never have been able to live with it. I would've ruined your life, and I couldn't handle it," he let the tears fall, and I did too. He went on with the abuse, he didn't tell, he didn't complain, because he didn't want to ruin my life. That was possibly the most heartbreaking thing that's ever happened to me, and a lot has happened to me. This took the cake, though.

" How-" I choked on a sob, attempting to hide it so it wouldn't come out. He seemed to know what I was asking though, because he sniffed, and turned to look at the floor, while speaking,

" How long has it been going on?" despite breaking while he said, with tears and sobs now racking his body, he spoke strong, and firm. I still couldn't find my voice, so I just nodded, not knowing whether or not he could see me, with his head down like that. He must've, though, because he answered. And when he did, we both broke down, hard.

" Since the day you left, since- since the n-night h-he w-woke up. After you were g-one," I lost it, finally just breaking down and falling to the floor on my knees, just sobbing. This wasn't right, I thought, not at all. This never should've happened, and I could've prevented it. I could've stayed.. or taken Dean with me. I could've done something, I could've prevented this...I..I..

" Why didn't you ever call me?" it was kind of a stupid question, I knew, but, its not like John could've known about a phone call or a text message all the time.

" Would you have answered if I had called?" he said. There wasn't any venom in his voice, but to me, it was like being stabbed with a dagger made of nothing but pure raw guilt.

I had never called him. Not even once. Texted, either. And the more I thought about it, the guiltier I got.

" Promise me you'll call, or text, or something." "I promise, I promise,"

I had promised him, I had promised that still slightly innocent fifteen-year-old boy that I would keep in touch, that I would check up on him. And what did I do? I broke possibly the simplest promise ever given to me to keep. I didn't call, didn't text, didn't write, once. Not even once did I ever call him. Not until a few weeks ago, when I tried John's number and Dean's number. So twice. I had only attempted to call twice. Twice in three and a half years. Twice, out of god knows how many days. When all it took was ten minutes more or less out of my day, and really what would ten or more minutes cost me? Not enough for me not to feel guilt. I was so lost in my guilt-ridden thoughts to notice that Dean had kneeled down beside me, tears streaming down his face, as well. I noticed, finally, when he spoke.

" P-please Sammy, don-don't be mad at me...p-please, don't be m-mad," I looked at him the best I could, with my vision blurred do to tears, and all, and saw his eyes.

Dean's eyes were pure raw fear. Terror, guilt, everything I can't stand to see in his eyes, were in his eyes. I couldn't take it, not anymore. I put my hand on his wrist, and pulled. He collapsed against me, sobs racking his too thin body and tears cascading down his too pale face. I held him tight, not knowing what to say and not trusting myself enough to even speak if I did. I just held him, on the dirty carpet of our motel room, hoping it was enough to comfort him until I could find my voice again. It took awhile, but I finally did.

" Dean, look at me," when he did, nothing had changed about his eyes. They still had that raw terror, that pure fear. It made my heart hurt. I put both hands on either side of his face, wiping the tears away the best I could. They kept coming down every time I wiped one away.

" I'm not mad at you, if anything, I'm proud of you," he eyes never left mine, but that pure fear went away when I told him that I wasn't mad at him, but was quickly replaced with confusion when I said I was proud. I went on before he could do anything though.

" I'm proud because you tried, and because you were brave, even if you shouldn't have done it, you were still so brave and strong-" my voice cracked again, but I kept going. "And I'm so proud of you for that," the confusion went away, and was fortunately not replace with anything, but when he shook his head, the raw terror was still there. If anything, it had grown.

" But... dad-" I cut him off, putting a hand over his mouth.

" Is a dead man the second I see him," I said, my fury and anger coming back in to play. He looked at me with wide eyes, and I couldn't help but to smirk.

" I'm serious," "Anyone does that to you, and they deserve to die, no matter who it is," he went to speak, and when he realized my hand was still over his mouth, he bit me. Hard.

" Ouch! Damn, that hurt," and it did, his teeth were like knives. He smiled, and I couldn't help but to smile back, it felt good to play around, even if the tension wasn't fully away yet. His smile stayed, but faded when he asked me a question.

" Can I ask you something?" he sounded hesitant, as if he was scared to ask me something.

" Anything," and I meant it, I would answer any of his questions, even if they were painful to answer.

" Why.. Why didn't you ever call?" his voice got quieter and quieter and by the time he stopped talking, it took me a while to figure out what he had said. I did, eventually, and I felt guilt ride through me again. Guilt and Anger, I realized. Angry at myself, of course.

" Because I'm a bastard," I said. Dean's eyes widened even more, with a horrified expression upon his face. He was horrified at the thought that I could even think that, I figured. I was right, because a few seconds after making said horrified expression, he started shaking his head.

" No, no Sam your not a bastard, I didn't mean it like that, I just meant-" I stopped him, this time by holding a hand up instead of placing one over his mouth. My hand still hurt from the bite. I put an arm on his shoulder and once again pulled, so he was now sitting in between my legs, his back up against my chest, head on my shoulder. He tensed, but quickly relaxed.

" I know what you mean," I whispered, "And I know what I said, and I meant it. I am a bastard for not calling you. I promised you the night I left that I would keep in touch, even by letters if I had to, and I broke that promise. This won't ever make up for that I know, but I am sorry. I wanted away from this life, but I didn't want away from you," he was still as a rock when I finished my apology, but that was for about five seconds before he turned around and launched himself at me. I couldn't help but to jump when his arms AND legs wrapped around my waist, his head buried into my chest. I hugged back after getting out of my shock, and that made him hug even tighter, if that was possible.

" Thank you Sam," I could just make out through his muffled sounds. I didn't know what he was thanking me about, but I still answered back.

" Your welcome, Dean," I ruffled his hair a little, making him attempt to snatch my hands away. I laughed at that. I turned serious, though, when I saw his face. He was staring at me with the same serious expression I was trying and probably failing to have. He was still sitting in between my legs, so he was already close to me when he started staring, and I was starting to squirm a little under his intense gaze. He turned, still within my side when he spoke.

" You want to know how it happened, don't you?" that threw me off for a second. Dean was the last person I expected to start talking about this, let alone so soon. But, here he was, asking me if I wanted to know how it happened. I nodded, and he copied that movement, before sitting up and against my side instead. He looked at me again.

" Which one first," he said with fake enthusiasm. It took me a minute to figure out what he was talking about, but then it hit me; which scar did I want to know about first. I looked at him, and thought about it. I do really want to find out what happened with the burns, but then again, he said it technically WAS a hunting incident, so maybe it wouldn't be so bad. So better save that one for last. I knew that that was my best shot of not going insane on anything I could get my hands on. If I listened to the worst ones first, I might not go all... Terminator. I finally just decided to go with the ones that looked like knife scars, and then the burn.

" The one on your back," I chose, and he nodded, before closing his eyes for a moment. I knew what he was doing, he was pulling up the memories he's tried so hard to push down. Remembering things he wanted to forget.

He reopened his eyes and looked in front of him, but down. That's how he looked when he started.

1 year ago... (Outsider POV)

Dean sighed, walking into the motel room they were staying at. He had just gotten released from school, and with his father on a hunt, he had to walk home. He didn't mind, he liked being alone, in his thoughts. Today wasn't a good day. It was the anniversary of his mother's death, and his father had been taking every single hunt he could get his hands on, then he would drink the night away, but not without causing Dean some pain, too. It was always worse this time a year. It only got really bad during the end of October, and the whole month of November. Those months were the worst. The second worst had to have been August and September. The month before Sam left, and the first month of a new school year.

He had just gotten into the motel room, before being slammed into the wall farthest from the door. Dean looked shocked, he didn't think anyone was here. The figure in front of him surprised him even more.

His father wasn't supposed to be home yet.

But here he was, smelling of strong whiskey and cigarettes, just like every day, it seemed. But there was more fury in his eyes than Dean had ever seen before. Dean was suddenly on the floor, arms wrapped around his head as his father punched and kicked him repeatedly, throwing a few glass bottles at his head, too. It had been a good ten minutes of punching, kicking, and throwing before Dean was pulled up again and slammed once more into the wall. This time with a sharp grip on his neck.

" Do you know what day it is boy?" John Winchester asked, the grip he had on his youngest son's neck growing tighter and tighter with each word. With his windpipe cracking and his throat almost completely closed up. He did the best he could, and nodded.

" It's the anniversary of the most beautiful woman I had ever been with's death, and do you know why?" his father growled, and Dean could only nod again. He knew the routine, nod along, say sorry, then brace for impact. But the kick to his stomach left him back on the floor, gasping in surprise and pain. It usually doesn't go like this, Dean thought. He looked up when his father began talking again.

" It's all. Your. Fault. You useless, piece, of SHIT!" he threw a surprise bottle down at Dean, and it hit him square in the back. He could feel the warm sticky blood drip down his back, but knew it wasn't too serious, probably just a cut. It wouldn't scare much. But those words were a completely different story.

Was it really my fault? Is it really my fault my mom died? Did I really do that to her? Am I really useless? He was so busy with his thoughts that he didn't see John go up behind him, didn't see the glinting of the silver knife in his hand.

He felt it, though.

He screamed, probably louder than he ever had. He screamed as he felt the knife dig deep into his back, but not pull out, but to slide down. He screamed and screamed, begging for his father to stop, but he didn't. Instead, his father just had a rather interesting thing to say.

" Your not my son, your a demon. You know how I can tell?" when all Dean did was scream when the knife went deeper, he continued.

" You look too much like Mary to be real, to be my son, so you must be a demon, sent to haunt me with her hair, her skin, her eyes," he hissed the last part, the part about Dean's eyes being Mary's. It was true, Dean looked like Mary, always did. Eyes, hair, skin, laugh, smile, love of pie, mullet rock, and the Impala. He was just like her, in every way, shape, and form. Despite being a man. And John had always hated him for it. He had always done it silently though, knowing he would get nowhere with his oldest around, protecting the demon from everything. He was sad to see his oldest leave, (even though he was unconscious) , but a part of him, (a huge part), was happy. Happy, because now he could torture the demon that was torturing him, that had been torturing him since the day his beloved wife burned over that...Thing's crib. Because no one was standing in the way.

John suddenly heard one final scream, before a slump against the floor had him turn to look at the monster. It was unconscious, bruises marring his face, some of them shiny with tear tracks upon them. Blood moving all around his shirt, on the floor, and all around it.

John finally pulled the blade out, slightly confused when the demon didn't disappear, or incinerate, or something. He couldn't do much more about it though, because he felt warmness start to numb his mind, and let the darkness take him.