A Little More Tequila, A Little Less Demon Hunting

– – Chapter Two – –

New Words and More Questions

His father didn't come back for four days. Thankfully, the last time they had gone out they had gone to a grocery store, and they had bought some food that would last. They had no stove or microwave or fridge, so Dean settled for bread and peanut butter and junk food. He also had enough formula, diapers, and other things for Sam.

During that time, Dean watched TV and played with Sam. Every night, he would tell Sam the few stories that he could remember his mom telling him before he went to bed. He had to make a few things up, and he knew that sometimes the stories didn't make sense, but they always seemed to do the trick with Sam. When Sam fell asleep, Dean would lie down next to him and wait for his father to come back. Eventually, sleep would take hold of him and he would drift off into a fitful sleep.

Finally, one morning when Dean was eating his breakfast of Twinkies, the door slammed open and his father burst in to tell him that he had found them a place to live and that they would be moving there in a few days. Dean was surprised at his father's dirty, disheveled appearance; the dark circles under his eyes, the layer of dirt on his face, and small cuts he saw on his arm when he took his jacket off. But he didn't say anything to him.

He didn't say anything to his father for a long time.

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A few days later, they moved into a tiny one-bedroom apartment infested with roaches, spiders, and the occasional rat. His father slept in the sunken bed in the bedroom, and Dean and Sam slept on the hideaway bed in the sofa. Thankfully, his father bought food on a regular basis, and Dean continued to feed Sam and himself.

In the beginning, things went along all right. His father didn't yell at him, hit him, or even talk to him at all. Dean woke up every morning to find his father gone, but he would always return late at night, stumbling around and cursing on his way to his room. Dean would hear an occasional loud noise from his father's room, and he would pull the covers over his head, hoping that his father didn't come out. And for those first few months, he didn't.

About two weeks after moving in, his father came back earlier than usual, steady on his feet for the first time since that night he had hit him, and told Dean that he had a job and that he was going to be gone all day from then on.

Dean wondered how this was different from before, but he said nothing.

The days continued as they had for the first two weeks. Dean's bruises began to fade, and the pain slowly ebbed away with them. He hadn't cried the morning after his father had hit him. He had stifled his cries and tried to ignore the pain he felt in his body and in his heart. It had been hard, and a few times he had wanted to simply lie down and cry and never stop. But then he had heard Sam giggle, or heard him cry, or seen him smile, and Dean had pushed aside that desire for his little brother's sake. He was the man of the house now, and Sam was his responsibility. Eventually, the bruises faded all together.

But the pain never really disappeared.

About a week after his father got his job, he began to bring home newspapers. Dean didn't know how to read, but his mother had taught him a bit about how days and months worked. Dean looked at the first paper his father brought home, and saw something written on the top under a bunch of big, bold letters: "May 2, 1984." Suddenly, Dean remembered something his mother had told him once before she died. Dean had asked her why she was so happy, and she had told him that Sammy was 6 months old that day. Dean knew all about birthdays, and he asked his mom when that meant his brother was born. "May 2nd," she had told him.

And that's when Dean realized that Sammy was one year old. And he had missed his own fifth birthday.

Suddenly, more than anything, Dean wanted to have a party for his brother. He could remember all the fun he had had at his fourth birthday party, and he wanted Sam to have the same.

The only problem was, he didn't know how to make a party.

So he asked his father. He went to his dad's room, where he was quietly sitting on his bed, sipping on one of his drinks and staring off into space, and Dean asked his dad if they could have a party for Sammy.

His father looked at him like he was insane.

"What would we have a party for?" he asked.

"Sammy's one year old," Dean said quietly.

"You're crazy," he replied, his voice growing louder. "That's…."

Suddenly, his father got up quickly and headed toward the living room, picking up the newspaper that was sitting on the floor. He looked at the front page, and Dean watched as a look of pain flashed onto his father's face. But just as quickly as it had appeared, it passed, only to be replaced by a new look.

Anger.

Without warning, his father dropped the paper on the ground and threw the bottle he was holding across the room, and Dean watched as it hit the wall and shattered into a million pieces, scattering glass on the floor and creating a dark patch on the stained wallpaper.

Sam started to cry, and John looked down at his son, anger flashing in his eyes. He took a step toward Sam and, barely knowing what he was doing, Dean stepped between Sam and his father, causing his father to stop mid step. He glowered at his oldest son, at the look of quiet determination, and slapped him hard across the face

Dean's head swung to the side with the impact, and he turned back to his father, managing not to cry out. For what felt like an eternity, his father stood there, staring at his oldest, until, finally, he took a step back and stared Dean in the face, oblivious to the red mark already forming on his son's face.

"Have your own goddamn party if you want to," he growled at his son. "See if I give a shit."

Then he turned on his heel, stomped off toward the door, and slammed it behind him.

Sam continued to cry, and Dean pulled himself out of his frozen stance and reached down to pick up his brother. Sam continued to cry as Dean held him. Dean sat down on the couch and started bouncing Sam on his knee, knowing how much he liked that. Eventually, the sobs gave way to giggles of laughter, and Dean felt himself smile as his brother laughed happily in his arms.

That day, he gave Sam the best goddamn birthday party he could.

And when his father got home at four in the morning, half dead on his feet, and came thundering into the room threatening to hurt Sam for being the reason Mary had died, Dean stood in front of his brother, determined to keep Sam from getting hurt.

That morning, John beat his oldest son to within an inch of his life, stopping only when the alcohol running through his veins pulled him into unconsciousness.

Dean lay there gasping, staring at his father lying still on the floor next to him, until he felt himself fall into a deep sleep.

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For the next few weeks, his father stayed home from work to care for him. Looking back, Dean couldn't imagine that his father had really cared for him all that much. If he had, he would have taken him straight away to the hospital. But Dean had to give him a tiny bit of credit for laying off the alcohol.

For awhile at least.

Dean slowly recovered, and within a few weeks he was back to taking care of Sam as his father went off to work. For awhile, his father went to work every day, coming back before Dean went to sleep. He continued to drink from those bottles that he kept locked away in his room. Eventually, Dean realized that it must be the bottles that were causing him to act the way he was. He remembered that his father had come back to their motel that first night drinking some of it, and it was then that he had hit him for the first time. And the second time he had hit him, he had been gone till late in the morning and had come back with a stench on him that Dean also remembered from that first night.

For a few months, though he continued to drink from the bottles, his father rarely went out at night, and when he did, he would always come back and go straight to his room, locking the door behind him.

Then one day, his father came home from work and told him that he would be going to school in a week. Dean didn't know what school was, and when his father had explained it to him, he knew he didn't want to go. Who was going to take care of Sammy when he went away? Who was going to keep him safe?

His father told him that Sam would be left in a "daycare center," and he had explained that it was a place where children went to be cared for when no one else was around to do it. Dean didn't like the idea of strange people taking care of his brother, but when his father told him that he was going and that was final, Dean had flinched at the tone in his father's voice and agreed.

So Dean went off to kindergarten, and Sam went to the daycare center. Dean was happy to discover that he liked kindergarten. There were other kids to play with and fun things to do and he didn't have to feed anyone or change any diapers. He had learned how to say his ABC's, how to count, how to tell time and what day it was, and how to read. He caught on to everything quickly, soaking up everything he could, just waiting for the day when he could teach Sam everything he was finding out about the world.

But there were sad times as well. Many of the children talked about how much their parents loved them: how they would take them places, buy them things, kiss them goodnight and hug them. They came to school and showed off their new toys or their new clothes. Dean's clothes were too small for him and were only getting smaller and thinner. His father never took him out anywhere or bought him anything. And he never hugged him, or kissed him…or told him he loved him.

Finally, one day, his dad picked him up from school, and on their way to pick up Sam from daycare, Dean worked up the courage to ask his dad if he would buy him new clothes. All the other kids had clothes that fit and looked nice, and his feet were too big for his shoes, which had worn so thin that his toe's were coming out of them. His father ignored him.

When Dean asked the kids what he should do to get his father to buy him some clothes, they told him to try a number of things: ask over and over, cry, scream, threaten not to eat. Dean wasn't sure he wanted to do any of those things. Asking questions and crying only got him yelled at and beaten, and he wasn't entirely sure his father really cared whether he ate or not. Though his father hadn't hit him in a few months, he was always afraid of doing something to make him angry and cause him to hit him again. He still had nightmares from Sam's first birthday.

Dean went a long time without trying anything.

Then one day, his teacher spoke up for him.

Dean was playing a game with some of the boys in his class when his father came into the room. Dean was surprised to see him so early. According to the clock, his dad wasn't supposed to be there for another four hours. His teacher walked over to his father, talked to him briefly, and left the room. She returned with another woman, who stayed to watch the children while his teacher and his father left. Dean turned back to his game, and when his teacher came back, his father wasn't with her.

He came back later that day to pick him up as usual, and he told him that it was high time he took him and his brother out to get some new clothes. Dean was surprised at the sudden change, but he hadn't really dwelt on it. He was just excited when his father took the two of them out that day and bought them both new clothes and a small assortment of toys, including a small television for the living room. Years later, Dean would realize what his teacher had done for him.

He would never forget it.

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A few years passed, and Dean learned how to read and write and do all the things that boys his age should know.

Sam was potty trained and said his first word: "Dee," which was as close to "Dean" as he could get at first. But he soon perfected it, and it became the only thing he could say for awhile.

"Hey, Sammy. Ready to go to daycare?"

"Dean."

"Hey, Sammy. Want to watch some TV?"

"Dean."

"Hey, Sammy. Ready for bed?"

"Dean, Dean, Dean!"

Dean usually took all of that to mean, "yes."

When Sam had finally said "Dean" for the first time, his father had seemed upset. When Sam learned more and more words, like "yes" and "no" and "cookie," and even sentences, like "I want cookie!" his father had seemed even more upset. Eventually, he started to go out at night more often and come home later. He began to miss work. Dean began to miss school.

Eventually, his father stopped going out all together and he lost his job. Dean had no way of getting Sam to daycare by himself, as they wouldn't take care of him if they couldn't pay. And Dean couldn't go back to school and leave Sam alone at home with their father. Though he had continued to buy them what they needed over the past three years, Dean would never leave his brother alone with him.

For about a week, Dean shuffled around the house caring for Sam and his father. Dean brought his dad food sometimes, and one day he asked him if he could go to the store. Dean couldn't find any more food in the house. They were out of soap, and there was no more of that spray they used to kill the bugs. His father took a sip from his bottle and told him to "fuck off."

Dean was nine years old when he took his five-year-old brother outside for the first time without his dad and went grocery shopping, using money that he found in a jar on top of the fridge. The woman behind the register looked at him curiously, but didn't say anything as he paid for the groceries and went home.

A few nights later, his third grade teacher called the house and asked for his father. Dean told her he was sick and couldn't come to the phone. She told him that she was worried about him. He hadn't been in school in awhile, and she was just calling to see if things were okay at home. Dean didn't tell her what was wrong with his dad – he had already threatened to hurt him if he told anyone about why he wasn't going to school. He simply told her his father wasn't feeling well and that he was taking care of her and he hung up.

Later that night, when Dean brought his father dinner, he asked him who had called. When Dean said it was his teacher, his father leapt off the bed and grabbed Dean's arms, shaking him harshly as he asked him what he had told her. Dean told him what he had said in a rush, and when he was finished his father pushed him away, causing him to fall on the floor.

Dean watched his father pace the room, mumbling to himself about "stupid nosy teachers sticking their fucking noses where the didn't fucking belong." Finally, he turned back to Dean.

"Fine. I guess you'll just have to go back to school then. Maybe that will keep the stupid bitch from sticking her nose in our business."

Dean sat silently on the ground, nodding his head in reply. Then his father stepped over him, mumbling that he was going and he'd be back later. Dean got up off the ground, rubbing his arms gently.

It had been a long time since his father had hit him.

He went to the living room to put Sammy to bed. He found him sitting on the couch, laughing at some cartoon on TV.

"Hey, Sammy. Time for bed, dude."

"Awwww. Five more minutes?" Sam asked. He stared at his brother and put that stupid look on his face – the one Dean could never say no to.

He smiled gently and replied, "Fine."

He sat down on the couch and watched the rest of the show with him. When Sam laughed at Wily E. Coyote getting a giant rock smashed in his face, Dean didn't laugh. Instead, he looked down at his arms, which he was unconsciously rubbing. He never laughed when people got hurt on TV, even when he knew it wasn't real. Because for him…it was.

Sam looked over at his brother when he didn't laugh. The kids at his daycare always laughed when Wily got blown up, or ran into a rock, or fell off a cliff. His eyes widened when he took in the marks forming on his brother's arms.

"Dean?" Sam said, his voice trembling slightly.

Dean's head shot up at the scared tone in his brother's voice, and he saw Sam staring at his arms. He realized that bruises were forming, and he put his hands over his arms, trying in vain to hide them from his brother's eyes.

"Why do your arms look all funny, Dean?" Sam asked.

Dean tried hard to think of something, anything, to tell his brother that wasn't the truth.

"I was…playing with your painting book, Sam. Must have got some of the paint on my arms. You know how messy that stuff is," he replied, referring to Sam's water color painting book.

Dean relaxed when Sam laughed and said he got it on himself sometimes, too. Sam turned his attention back to the TV, and Dean sighed gratefully.

When the show was over, Dean got Sam ready for bed, pulled out the bed from the sofa, and tucked him in.

"Goodnight, Sammy," he said, kissing him lightly on the forehead. He had done it every night since his mother died, never really knowing why, and he would continue to do it until Sam insisted he was too old for that baby stuff.

"Night, Dean," Sam said, crawling under the covers. Dean wasn't ready to go to bed yet, so he headed out of the room toward the bathroom.

"Dean?"

Dean turned back toward his brother when he called out for him quietly.

"Yeah, Sam?"

"What's wrong with Daddy?"

Suddenly, Dean realized what was wrong.

That was the first time Dean had ever heard Sam say "Daddy."

His father had been upset ever since Sam had said his first word, and it had been "Dee" and not "dada."

Dean shuddered at the realization, but quickly thought up a lie to tell Sam.

"Dad's just tired, Sammy. He needs a break from all the work he's been doing to take care of us."

"Oh. Okay," Sam said, and Dean was upset that Sam didn't look convinced.

Then Sam spoke again.

"But Dean…Daddy doesn't take care of us. You do."

Dean felt his heart clench in a mixture of gratitude and sadness. He smiled fondly at his brother and went back toward the bed, sitting down and stroking his brother's hair lightly.

"You're right, Sammy. I do. But Dad gets us money to buy food and clothes and stuff. To send you to daycare and buy a TV."

"Oh."

Dean continued to stroke Sam's hair, wondering if Sam would say something else, as he seemed to be thinking hard.

"Daddy buys us stuff?" he asked.

"You bet he does. He buys us everything we need to live a good life," Dean said, laughing bitterly inside at how stupid that sounded.

"But Daddy…Daddy doesn't talk to me. Daddy doesn't look at me. He's gone away lots."

"Exactly. He's out making money."

"But he's home lots now. And I don't go to daycare in a long time. So no more money, right?"

"Well…." Dean didn't know what to say.

"No more food? No more home?"

Dean sighed. How on earth was he going to explain this to him?

"Dad's just taking a break, Sammy. He'll be back to making money in no time. You'll see."

"Promise?" Sam asked.

Dean's heart broke. How on earth could he promise him something like that?

He avoided promising, opting instead to say, "You'll see," again.

"Ok, Dean."

Dean rubbed his brother's head quickly, messing up his bushy hair and eliciting a cry of "Hey!" from his brother.

"Go to sleep, Sam," he said, starting to get up.

"Dean!" Sam said, grabbing onto his arm. Dean flinched when his fingers wrapped around his sore arm, and he hoped Sam didn't notice the gesture. If he did, he didn't say anything.

He turned back to Sam. "Yeah?"

"I don't think Daddy likes me."

Dean tried hard not to let it show how much this comment affected him. Why on earth was his brother so inquisitive tonight?

"Why do you say that?"

"Daddy don't look at me. Don't talk to me, or play with me. And when he do look at me, he always looks…."

"What, Sam?"

"…Angry…like he don't want me around."

Dean fought the sudden urge to throw something against the wall. Why was his father doing this to them? Dean had asked himself over the years why his father was treating them the way he was. Dean had seen a movie on TV once where a father hit his children, and he still didn't understand it.

Dean didn't know what to tell him. Whenever his dad looked at him, it was usually a blank stare, like he was looking through him. But Dean had caught him staring at Sam when he wasn't looking. And what he saw in his father's eyes always scared him to death. Anger…and rage. That night when his father had passed out after beating him, he remembered his father blaming Sam for their mother's death, ranting about how it was all Sam's fault that she was dead. Dean didn't know why, but he knew that his father blamed Sam, and that was why he always looked at him with anger in his eyes.

Dean still didn't know what had happened that night. But now, he was more determined than ever to find out.

"Dean?"

Sam's voice pulled him out of his thoughts, and he shook himself, trying again to come up with some kind of lie. He really hated lying to Sam, but what else could he do?

"Of course he likes you, Sam. He loves you. Loves both of us." Dean had to try hard to force out the last bit. It was the biggest lie he could possibly think of telling his brother.

"Yeah?"

"Of course. Like I said, he's just tired, dude. He'll be okay soon. Okay?"

Sam paused, and Dean put on his best "trust me" face.

"Okay," he finally agreed. He crawled back under the covers and settled in. "Night," he said quietly through a yawn.

Dean smiled. "Night, Sam." He ruffled his hair once more and got off the bed, heading for the kitchen.

"Dean?"

Dean sighed. His brother had loved talking ever since he'd learned how.

"Yeah?" he asked, turning back toward the bed.

"I love you."

Dean felt his heart melt, and he couldn't stop himself from walking back over to Sam and kissing him on the head one last time.

"I love you, too, Sammy."

He watched Sam smile at him and close his eyes, yawning softly. Dean left the room and headed to the kitchen, a book in hand, ready to wait for his father to come home.

He was now determined to ask his father that question which had plagued his mind for the past five years.

What happened to Mom?

TBC...

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Expect Chapter Three either tomorrow or the next day. Thanks to those who have reviewed so far. Keep 'em coming, please:)