A/N: It has been awhile, and life is still crazy, but here's the next chapter! And it's a long one!
Warnings: torture mentions of child abuse
Dean and Bobby drove for 12 hours, stopping every once and awhile for gas and convenience store supplies. They stopped in Montana and booked a motel for the night. Sam was still recovering, and needed to get a good night's sleep in a real bed, and Dean and Bobby both agreed they could use the rest too. They let Sam have the first shower, and then Dean went in at Bobby's insistence.
"So Sam," Bobby spoke up after he finished calling in a couple of pizzas for delivery. "How far did you get in the Narnia books?" Sam felt a jolt of surprise. How did Bobby know- oh right, Sam had mentioned it briefly, right before everything fell apart. He was still surprised that Bobby somehow remembered such an inconsequential detail.
"Sam?" He had zoned out for a moment, and drew himself back to reality.
"Oh. Uh, Prince Caspian. I was in the middle of that book when my dad and Dean got there to pick me up," he didn't make eye contact with the older hunter, and fidgeted nervously with a few strands of his hair.
"That's a good one," Bobby responds easily. "Not my favorite, but it's pretty far up there. When we get home, I'll get you out the rest of the series so you can finish it."
"Really?" This time Sam looked up at him, eyes peeking through his soft bangs, as a small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
"Yeah, kid, really," Bobby felt warm affection fill his heart.
"Thanks Bobby!" It was the happiest Sam had sounded since they had first crossed paths in Oregon, and his smile was almost full. Bobby counted that as a win, and decided that Narnia was a safe topic to continue conversing about.
"You got a favorite character from the series so far?"
"Bobby, that's impossible," Sam protested. "There are so many good ones to choose from."
"Okay, fair point," Bobby aquiesed. "Do ya have a least favorite character?"
"That's easy," Sam looked disgusted. "Lord Miraz, for sure." They continued discussing the series easily, and Bobby was satisfied to note that Sam seemed to be winding down, and feeling more at ease. In fact, by the time Dean left the bathroom after his shower, Sam was sitting on the bed, doubled over in laughter.
"Looks like your brother finally finished primping," Bobby called sarcastically.
"Come on Bobby," Dean pouted. "Can't a guy enjoy a fifteen minute shower without gettin' hounded?"
"Yeah, whatever," Bobby rolled his eyes fondly. "Hey, pizza will be here soon. You boys can start eating without me. I'm gonna take a shower." As soon as they heard the water running, Dean turned to look at Sam carefully.
"See anything you like?" Sam questioned snarkily.
"You look better," Dean announced. "How are you feeling? And none of that 'I'm fine' crap."
"I mean, my chest still hurts," Sam admitted. "But it is a lot better. And it's nice not to feel sick anymore."
"What about mentally? Are you doing okay?" Dean worried.
"I thought you didn't like to talk about emotions and stuff." Sam quirked an eyebrow.
"Just 'cause I don't like talking about mine, don't mean we can't talk about yours. It's my job to take care of you, Sammy. Part of that is making sure that your emotions and shit are, like, balanced and stuff. It's in every caretaking 101 book. So if you're not doing okay emotionally, I gotta know about it, so I can help."
"I'm okay, Dean," Sam responded, after a moment of surprise. "I mean I'm still having nightmares, but they're really just replacing the ones I used to have about ghosts and stuff, y'know? If you wanna know what I'm mostly feeling right now, it's honestly just frustration, and a little bit of anger. And I'm tired. The week at Mark's was exhausting, and then trying to hide all of it from you after was even more exhausting."
"Yeah. Well, you got more than every right to be angry at Mark," Dean affirmed.
"I'm not angry at Mark," Sam shook his head. "I'm angry at Dad."
"Sam-"
"No! I have a right to be angry at Dad. He's the reason I ended up in this situation in the first place. And now that he knows about it, he just leaves us? Not to mention the fact that Mom died, and then Dad went completely off the rails, obsessed, and now you have to be my mother, father, and brother! Dean, you were a child. Are a child! You're supposed to be out having fun, going on dates, and living life!"
"Uh, in case you forgot, Sammy, I am actually an adult now." Dean retorted.
"Barely," Sam pulled out a bitch-face. "That's besides the point anyway. You never got to be a kid even when you were one."
"Well, I wouldn't trade any kind of childhood in the world for you, kid. I mean that."
"But you-"
"But nothin'. I love you and that's all there is to to imagine a world without you is like- It's unimaginable. You're the best little brother a guy could ask for, and- and you have this incredible unwavering hope that you sometimes almost shove down my throat, and enough compassion and empathy to rival Mother-fricken Theresa, and- and I wouldn't have it any other way," Dean paused. "I would be lost without you, Sammy." A knock at the door caused them both to jump.
"Pizza," a voice announced. Dean went to open the door with his hand hovering over the knife in the back of his pants. He only relaxed marginally after opening the door revealed a skinny, acne-ridden kid who couldn't have been much older than Sam. Dean grabbed the pizza boxes from him, and pulled a couple of twenties out of his pocket.
"How much do I owe ya?" Dean questioned.
"Twenty-three fifty," the kid responded. Dean handed him both twenties.
"Keep the change," he instructed.
"A-are you sure?" the kid looked surprised.
"Yeah," Dean nodded. "Go see a movie or somethin'."
"Thanks!" he grinned. "Just wait til I tell Amy about this!" After he was gone, and the door had been re-secured, Dean turned to Sam.
"He's gettin' laid tonight," he asserted confidently.
"Oh come on Dean," Sam groaned. "Gross. Is that all you think about?"
"I also think about pizza, which happens to be sitting here getting cold." He reached into a pizza box and pulled out a slice, biting into it eagerly. The bathroom door opened, and Bobby came out of the steamy room, still towel-drying his hair. He tossed the towel behind him into the bathroom, and then reached for the pizza box to retrieve a slice.
"All right, boys, here's what's gonna happen," Bobby asserted after they had all eaten, mostly in silence. "I'm takin' you to my house, and we're gonna have a good time together. We're not gonna talk about monsters, or ghosts, or training. We're not gonna study lore, or take care of weapons. You're gonna be kids for as long as I have you, got that?"
"Dad won't like that," Dean started to protest.
"You arguin' with me, boy?" Bobby's voice held a note of warning, but no real malice.
"No sir," Dean accepted the correction mildly.
"You got anything to say on the matter, Sam?" Bobby questioned.
"No sir," Sam didn't make eye-contact, but he also didn't sound concerned that he could be in trouble, which Bobby counted as good enough.
"Good. Now both of you finish your pizza and get to bed. I wanna get an early start tomorrow." No one argued with that, and once the boys were settled in bed and snoring softly, Bobby sat at the table in the room, drained a glass of whiskey, and poured himself a second glass. He had purposely kept himself busy enough to not think too deeply about everything that was going on, but now with both boys sleeping, Sam mostly stable, and no need to worry about John Winchester causing problems, his mind slowed down and pondered recent events. His own father's words were echoing in his brain, as he remembered countless nights lying on the kitchen floor, glass from a whiskey bottle littered around his broken body as tears silently dripped off his cheeks. As he got older, he cried less, but the beatings only worsened. He was going to protect those boys, care for them as best he could, and show them that sometimes, at least, the world could be good. His father's words be damned. He would have to do better than his own father, learn from the old man's mistakes, and try not to fuck up too badly. With that thought running through his brain, he drained the last of the whiskey from his second drink, and after double-checking the protections in the room, turned the lamp off and went to bed.
John took a long, hot shower, letting the water wash away the grime, sweat, and blood from his body. He thought back to the events that had transpired. He pictured the moment that Mark's finger had detached from his hand falling neatly into the bowl below. He remembered the satisfying crunch of bones and sinew under his fists as the man's chest gave way to his beating. The whip whistling through the air to make neat, thin, crisscrossed lines that rose up and dropped beads of blood. The exhilaration he felt when he was finally able to make the man scream.
He let the steam melt away the tension from his body, and with the tension went some of the dark anger that he had held on to. Without that strong emotional barrier the emotions he's kept hidden began to rise up and make themselves known. He pictured his son, sitting on a motel mattress panicking, while Dean took care of him, bringing him back. Bobby pushing him out of the room after he finished the hunt and drank himself to oblivion. Dean standing in front of Sammy at the motel, protecting the younger boy from his own father. A harsh, dry sob ripped through his body.
Mary was dead, and the son of a bitch that killed her was still out there. No matter how much he wished he could be there for his sons, as father and not just drill sergeant, he had a task set before him, and the truth of the matter was that every moment he spent taking care of his boys was a moment the monster got further away. Once he ganked the bastard, and found himself some peace, he could make up for lost years.
Besides, it wasn't as if they really needed him anyway. Dean had always been strong, and independent, able to take care of himself. Sammy, well, Sammy was softer, needed someone to look after him. It worked out well in the end, with Dean's protective streak a mile long. Dean had always been there, willing and able to care for his brother. He was better at controlling his temper than John, too.
And as soon as the monster was dead, he would spend his time making up for what he missed, and give his boys all of the things they deserved.
He exited the shower, and quickly dried off, heading through Mark's house until he found a collection of liquor. The man's whiskey was top shelf, and John swirled it around in a glass, appreciating its quality for a moment before swallowing it down. The burn of the alcohol warmed his throat, and he relished in the calm ritual of it, feeling his emotions slip away, back behind the wall of familiar anger. The anger was grounded and rational, not like the unhinged emotions he'd previously felt. He left the study to eat something, and then headed back out to where he knew Mark was waiting for him.
Mark lay on the ground, curled up and breathing shallowly. John reached down and removed the ropes that held the man down, confident that he had beat any possible effective retaliation out of him.
"Get up," he sneered, roughly nudging the man with his foot. It took some time, but Mark rose unsteadily to his feet, using the pole to steady himself.
"Now, we've reached the swimming exercise," John informed him. "Obviously you aren't in any condition right now to swim, and I certainly don't want to have to drag your unconscious body out of the water," here he smiled a bit. "So I was thinking that instead of all that hassle, I would use an old military trick to achieve the same end result, with less of a challenge for either of us." He gripped the man by the collar of his shirt, and dragged him into the house, straight back to the master bathroom. He dropped the man onto the bathroom floor, and began filling the tub with cold water. He could see fear flicker across Mark's face for a moment before he forced a blank stare to take over. Once the tub was full, John gripped Mark by the back of the head, and pulled him over. He held Mark's head above the water, hesitating to build the anxiety, and then he plunged his head down, submerging it entirely. As soon as his head was fully covered, he went stiff, defaulting to military training. John waited until he was so desperate for air that he began thrashing, before pulling him out of the water again. Mark coughed, and gasped for air, but made no other sounds.
"You understand that this is all just training to make you better, right? It's just an exercise to make you stronger, you understand that, right?" His voice started out a whisper, and crescendoed into a hoarse yell. "Well, answer me dammit!" He shook Mark roughly.
"Yes sir," Mark breathed.
"I can't hear you!" John smacked his face.
"Yes sir," Mark repeated, stronger.
"Good," John smiled, satisfied as he sent Mark's head back underwater. John relished in the feeling of control, and the fear and pain rolling of the other man. After several rounds of bringing the man almost to the point of drowning, John finally threw him onto the ground. He tossed a towel down next to him and turned to leave.
"Clean yourself up and meet me in the study," he commanded. "Don't take too long."
"Yes sir," he whispered in response.
Ten minutes later, Mark was stumbling through the door into the study, face lined with pain.
"Sit," he gestured to one of the chairs in the study. "It's time for the final test." He walked over to the desk in the room and picked up an ornate dagger off of it.
"Here's how this test is going to work," he explained. "I'm going to ask you several questions. For each one you get wrong, I'm going to have to punish you. If you get enough questions correct, I might give you some water. Does that sound fair?"
The response he received was fairly quiet, but he only gave the man a patronizing, disapproving glance before moving on.
"Okay, first question: did you hit my son, Sam?"
"Yes," Mark admitted freely.
"Wrong answer," John sliced the knife into his forearm.
"Was I supposed to say no?" Mark questioned indignantly.
"No, you were supposed to say yes sir ," John corrected, slicing his arm again. "That's for your attitude."
"Question two: did you abuse my son?"
"No sir," Mark never broke eye contact, even as he felt the knife dig into his cheek.
"Try again," John growled. "Did you abuse my son?"
"No, sir," Mark's voice slowly grew stronger. John stabbed the knife into his shoulder, eliciting a gasp of pain from the man.
"Did you, or did you not abuse Samuel Winchester, my son?" John shouted.
"I did not abuse your son, sir!" Mark shouted back. John twisted the blade that still rested in his shoulder.
"This is your last chance to answer correctly," John warned. "Did you abuse my son?"
"No, sir. I did not abuse your son. I gave him direct orders. If he chose to disobey, he was punished accordingly. Sir." John struck his face.
"Well, it looks like you were unable to learn your lesson," John decided. "Unfortunately, this means that you failed your test, and I have to punish you. Stand up and take your shirt off." He drew his belt off of his waist, and doubled it in his hands.
John spent five full minutes laying the belt into Mark's back, watching with satisfaction as the skin raised and puckered with welts, and the occasional stream of blood fell when the belt cut too deep. By the time he finished, Mark was swaying unsteadily on his feet.
"Sit," John commanded. Mark obeyed silently. John felt a satisfied smirk take over. There was one last thing he wanted to do, and then, the problem with Mark would be taken care of. Permanently. He took some rope, and bound Mark's arms and legs to the chair. He left the study and pulled his phone out of his back pocket, dialing his number one speed dial number. The recipient answered on the second ring with a concerned greeting.
"I'm fine, Dean," he reassured the boy. "I'm at Mark's. I want you and Sam here as soon as you can be."
