A Little More Tequila, A Little Less Demon Hunting

– – Chapter Three – –

Promises

Dean sat at the crumbling kitchen table, trying to read his book, but mostly turning pages idly, waiting for his father to get home and wondering how he would ask him the one question he knew would always send his father off the deep end. He knew asking him this question when his father was drunk was the worst idea ever, but he also knew he was more likely to get an answer from him this way. His dad was more talkative and truthful when he was drunk. Dean had heard him mumbling many times before about Mom, and it was always the same thing: "fire…ceiling…blood…." Sometimes he would murmur the same things in his sleep.

Dean just wanted to know the truth. He had to know the truth. He had to know what had happened five years ago to cause his father to turn to drinking, to beat his own children, and to look at his youngest son with hate in his eyes.

But he didn't just have to know for himself; he had to know for Sam.

He didn't plan on telling Sam for a long time to come. But Sammy wanted to know why his father looked at him the way he did.

Someday, Sam would want to know the truth.

So Dean sat at the kitchen table and waited, the hours crawling by, for his father to come home.

Finally, around four in the morning, Dean heard the keys in the door, watched the knob turn, and saw his father step, or rather, stumble, inside, bottle in hand, singing a song that Dean had never heard before as he closed the door behind him.

He stopped singing when he spotted him sitting at the table. Dean stared at him with all the courage and determination he could muster.

"What the fuck are you still doing up?" his father growled.

Dean put his unread book down on the table and stared his father straight in the eye. In the end, Dean had decided that the best way to get to his father was to take the direct, abrupt approach that would hopefully unnerve him.

Breathing in slowly, breathing in all the courage he had been able to muster up, Dean let out the question in one quick breath.

"What happened to Mom?"

His question had the desired effect. His father stopped abruptly in his walk toward Dean, stumbling on his feet and grabbing onto the counter next to him to keep himself up.

"What?" he finally managed after a long silence.

"What happened to Mom? I want the truth, Dad. Just tell me what happened to Mom and I'll never ask you for a thing ever again."

A look of surprise passed over his father's face, but it was quickly replaced by a look of quiet rage that Dean could feel despite the darkness and distance. "You know better, boy. Don't test me," he said, the last sentence coming out with a growl.

Dean didn't flinch. He had to know.

"Tell me, Dad. I'm not leaving this kitchen until you do."

John looked taken aback at the forcefulness in his son's voice. Dean had never stood up to him this way before. At least not with words.

"Who do you think you are, boy? Get your ass out of this kitchen before I haul you out myself."

His father stared walking toward him again, and Dean got out of his chair and stood in front of the table. His father had the advantage, towering over him like an angry, drunken giant, and yet somehow, Dean felt himself growing taller and taller as he spoke back to his father.

"Why won't you tell me, Dad? Why won't you talk to me about it? Why do you always push me away when I ask you? Why don't you ever talk to Sam? Why don't you hold him, or play with him, or look at him? Why do you look at him the way you do? Why do you hate him? Why do you hate me? Why, Dad? What happened to Mom? Tell me. Tell me what happened, Dad. Why are so mad at Sam? Why-"

Suddenly, his father lunged at him, and Dean backed up as far as he could, but the table was behind him and he was trapped. His father grabbed him by his collar and hauled him toward the wall, slamming him harshly against it.

" 'Why, why, why? Why, Daddy, why?' his father mocked. "So many damn questions from you, always so many damn questions. Haven't I taught you to keep your fucking mouth shut?"

Dean ignored the comment. He had to know why his Dad was treating them like this. Why he had fallen apart just when things were getting almost normal.

"Is it because he won't call you "Daddy"?"

Dean realized he had gone too far. Way too far. His father glared daggers at him, and Dean knew that if looks could kill he'd be dead on the floor. His father let go of his collar roughly, pulled his arm back, and hit him hard across the face, harder than Dean could ever remember him hitting him, and Dean clutched his face, breathing heavily and trying hard not to cry. Tears of pain glistening in his eyes, he dared to look back up at his father.

"How dare you?" his father said, standing in front of him and panting in rage, his face blood red. "How dare you talk to me that way? I'm your father, you little shit."

Dean had struck a nerve, and, not knowing where the courage to be so bold had come from, Dean continued to pull on it. "That's it, isn't it? Ever since Sam learned how to talk. Ever since Sam learned how to say "Dean" and not "Dad." He's never said "Dad" or "Daddy" before, has he? And it makes you mad. You're mad that he'll talk to me and not you."

"Shut up."

"No. You're mad that he won't look at you, won't talk to you. Well guess what, Dad? It's no one's fault but your own."

"I said shut up."

"That's it, isn't it, Dad? Why you're so mad at Sam? Why you look at him with hate in your eyes? He doesn't know you, Dad. You've never been there for him. Ever. He doesn't know who you are, but it's not his fault. It's yours. Why won't you talk to him, Dad? Why won't you talk to me? Why won't you-"

Suddenly, Dean felt his feet leave the floor as his father effortlessly picked him up by his shirt collar and slammed him up against the wall. Dean struggled against his father's grip.

"You want to know why I hate your brother so much? Do you really want to know, Dean? Are you sure you want to know why she died? Do you really want to know how your precious baby brother is responsible for your mother's death?"

Anger flooded through Dean's veins, and he couldn't help the half scream that escaped him. "That's not true!"

"Of course it's true. It's all his fault. Everything's his fault."

Dean felt tears sting his eyes. His father was lying. Sam had been six months old. There was no way he had anything to do with his mother dying. His Dad was just upset.

"It's all his fault, Dean. Your precious little brother is the reason that you don't have a mother."

Dean swallowed the lump in his throat. "You can't blame him, Dad. He was just a baby. He can't-"

Without warning, his father yanked him away from the wall, turned him around, and slammed him hard into the edge of the table. Dean felt the breath blow out of his body from the impact, and he gasped, trying hard to catch his breath as his back ached from the blow.

"You'll blame him, too, Dean. If you knew what happened that night…if you knew how she died…you'd blame him, too."

Dean finally got his breath back, and he gripped the edge of the table, trying to stop the racing in his heart.

"You'd blame him, too."

Dean felt anger welling up in his chest, more anger than he had ever felt in his life. He looked up, stared his father straight in the eye, and said, with as much malice as he could muster under his father's deadly gaze, "Never."

His father growled and grabbed him by his hair, yanking his head back and pulling him toward the wall again, where he let go of him and punched him hard in the stomach. Dean doubled over from the pain, gasping. His father stared at him, towering over him in rage. When Dean could breathe again, he stood up as tall as he could.

"What happened to Mom?"

His father punched him again in the same spot. Dean cringed, tears stinging his eyes, but he stood his ground.

"What happened to Mom?"

His father grabbed him by his arms and slammed him into the counter, and Dean cringed when he heard a few pans fall off and clatter noisily to the floor. But Dean couldn't stop. He had to know.

"What happened to Mom?"

His father slapped him hard across the face.

Dean flinched but remained firm. He had to break his father down.

"Tell me. Just tell me and I'll never ask you for anything ever again. I promise. Please, Dad."

"You piece of shit," he said, grabbing him by his arms and squeezing tightly, holding him against the counter. "Don't you ever-"

"Dean?"

Dean jumped at the sound of his name. Oh, God. Sam.

"Dean, what's going on?" Sam asked, and Dean saw him standing in the doorway, rubbing sleepily at his eyes.

"Go back to bed, Sam. It's okay," Dean said, trying to keep his voice from shaking and failing.

Sam looked at him, and his eyes grew wide. Dean could already feel the bruise growing on his face, and he knew that Sam could see it, too.

"What's wrong?" Sam asked, his tiny voice shaking as his eyes darted back and forth between Dean and his father.

Their father spoke first. "Nothing's wrong, Sammy. Daddy's home." He let go of Dean and moved toward Sam with his hands out, but Sam flinched and took a step back, and Dean saw his father's muscles go tense.

"It's okay, Sammy. Daddy's here," he said, taking another step toward Sam and causing Sam to take another step out of the room. Dean pushed himself away from the counter and remained one step behind his father. He was blocking the way. He couldn't get around him, couldn't get between him and Sam.

"You should sleep," Sam said in a quiet voice. "Dean says you should sleep if you're tired." Sam took a step backward for every step his father took toward him, and soon they were out in the hallway.

"I'm not tired, Sammy. I'm sad. And I'm mad," his father said, and Dean saw Sam flinch at the sudden change in his tone. His father was towering over Sam, shaking and stumbling toward him, and Dean could practically feel the rage pouring off of him in waves. His dad took another step toward Sam, and Dean almost cried when he heard Sam whimper in fear.

Suddenly, his father whirled around to face him.

"You little fuck. What have you done to him? You've made him afraid of his own father. He can't even let me near him. What have you done to my son?"

"I haven't done anything to your son, Dad," Dean replied, practically spitting out the word "your." "You've turned him against you all by yourself."

Without warning, his father lunged at him and punched him in the chest again, and Dean doubled over, falling on his knees to the floor, and he heard Sam yell out "No!"

John turned toward Sam when he spoke and took a step toward him, but Dean yelled out "Leave him alone!" as he pulled himself as quickly as he could to his feet.

His father turned on him again at his words and smacked him hard in the head, causing his ears to ring and his vision to go blurry. He tried to focus his vision, but his father hit him again, and Dean heard Sam scream out "Daddy!" as his knees hit the floor again.

The room got quiet as Dean kneeled on the floor, clutching his head and trying to get the room to stop spinning and his head to stop ringing. He looked toward his father to gauge his reaction. Sam had never said "Daddy" to him before. What would he do now that he had finally said it?

As his vision started to refocus, Dean watched in horror as his father stumbled toward Sam, yelling loudly. "So now you FINALLY decide to call me Daddy, huh? It took you long enough, didn't it you little shit?"

Dean saw tears swim in Sam's eyes as his father approached him, leering at him angrily and cursing. Dean saw his father stop in front of Sam, and he couldn't focus on all the names his father was calling Sam, because all he could focus on was getting between Sam and his father before his father got violent.

Dean leapt to his feet, ignoring the pain lancing through his body, and moved as quickly as he could, putting himself between Sam and his father in time to get a slap across the stomach that had been meant for Sam's face.

"Leave him alone and go to bed," Dean said as defiantly as he could.

But his father wasn't having it anymore. He grabbed Dean by the throat, clenching tightly before shoving him down the hallway, where Dean skidded on his feet and fell, crashing into the door that led to his father's room and knocking the air from his lungs yet again.

Dean gasped for air, and he couldn't move, couldn't think, could only watch in horror as his father slapped Sam across the face and his brother screeched in pain. His father slapped him again, even harder, and Sam fell to the floor against the wall, crying loudly, his eyes full of a fear that Dean never wanted to see again.

Dean tried to get up, but his head was spinning from lack of oxygen and he fell back down again, clutching his head and trying to tune out the terrified cries escaping from Sam, the sound of his father's hand hitting his little brother in the face over and over, the sound of his father cursing at Sam and yelling loudly at him about it being his fault that his mother died. Dean could hear Sam begging his father to stop between the hits. "Daddy, stop, please." "Daddy, it hurts." "Daddy." "Please." "No more, Daddy." "It hurts." Dean could hear his father yelling at Sam, blaming Sam for their mother's death, calling him names Dean had never heard and never wanted to hear again. And Dean was no longer angry, but scared. More scared than he'd ever been in his life. Scared that his father wouldn't stop, that he'd just keep hitting Sam until he stopped crying, until he was….

Dean pushed aside the thought and climbed to his feet, wavering slightly, his heart pounding in fear, and he felt tears of frustration and fear and sadness in his eyes when he almost fell again. But somehow, he pulled together the strength he needed, and he limped toward the two of them.

Dean couldn't fight the tears that fell when Sam cried, "Daddy, please," and his father yelled that Sam had no right to be sitting there asking him for anything. His father's hand turns into a fist, and Dean saw him prepare to punch Sam in the stomach, and finally Dean reached them and he threw himself between his father and his brother. His father paused, his arm pulled back, and tears fell down Dean's face as Sam cried behind him.

"Leave him alone, Dad," Dean said, his voice breaking. "Please. Just leave him alone. Hit me if you have to, but please, leave Sam alone."

Dean prepared himself for anything: to be hit in the stomach, to be thrown across the room, to do whatever it took to keep his father away from Sam. His father put his arm down and stared at Dean with a look that could make the devil flinch in fear. But Dean stood his ground, tears falling silently down his face, and he stared back at his father, praying that he'd just go away and leave them both alone forever.

Finally, his father spoke.

"If that's what you want, Dean, who am I to refuse you?"

His father grabbed him by the hair and slammed his head against the wall, and the world turned black for a moment as Dean stumbled on his feet and fell to the floor next to Sam, his father bending down with him. Dean's eyes refocused in time to see his father hit him in the stomach, and Dean fell on his side, crying in pain and pulling his legs up to his chest, trying to curl in on himself as his father yanked on his arms…

Dean couldn't remember much of what happened after that. It was an endless barrage of punches and slaps and painful crushing holds. But he could remember very vividly what his father told him then. He told him how his mother had died in Sam's nursery, pinned to the ceiling right over his crib while he slept. How the ceiling had caught fire out of nowhere, how she had burned up in front of his eyes, bleeding all over Sam's crib, her stomach torn open. How she burned away over Sam's head. How it was all Sam's fault. How Mary had died that night and Sam had lived and how much he had loved her and how he would never forgive his son for her death.

Dean didn't believe what his father was telling him, and it would be a long time before he ever did. But even when he did believe him, he would never understand how his father could blame Sam for that; how he could rationalize it as being Sam's fault. How he could blame his son for her death and raise a hand to his children. Dean would never understand what drove his father to do any of the things he did…

The rest of that night was a blur to Dean. His father finally stopped hitting him and left, slamming his bedroom door behind him. Dean lay on the floor, panting and crying in pain and sadness and fear and agony. Sam's crying finally got through the haze of pain, and Dean turned his head toward Sam, staring at the bruises forming on his brother's tiny face, the tear tracks running down his cheeks, his nose and eyes red. Dean called out for Sam, praying that he would be okay.

Sam didn't seem to hear him, and Dean sat up, crying in pain as his aching body protested. Carefully as he could, he pulled himself into a half sitting position and inched his way toward Sam, sliding down the hallway toward him.

Finally, Dean reached his brother.

"Sammy," he said, his voice breaking as he reached a shaking hand out and gently touched his brother's face.

Sam turned to him, still crying, and Dean tried hard not to throw up at the sight of his little brother's broken and bleeding face.

"Sammy…" he said, choking on the tears he was trying desperately to hold back. His brother needed him…needed him to be there for him…needed him to be strong.

"I'm sorry, Sammy," Dean whispered, and he pulled Sam close to him and nearly cried when Sam buried his small head in Dean's chest and sobbed. Dean held him close and put one hand on his back, rubbing in small circles, trying to soothe him. He gently ran his other hand through his brother's hair.

"I'm so sorry, Sammy. God, I'm so sorry."

He held Sam close to him, held back his own tears, and let Sam cry into his chest. Dean didn't know how long he held him like that, but eventually his brother stopped shaking, stopped sobbing, stopped crying. Dean held him until Sam's breathing slowed down, and when Sam seemed calm he took his brother into the bathroom and wiped his nose, cleaned his face, cleaned up the cuts with antiseptic and tried not to cry when Sam cried at the stinging pain it caused him. He did what he could for the cuts and bruises, knowing that whatever he did it would never be enough to heal the pain that his five-year-old brother was going through.

Nothing had ever been enough for him.

When Sam had stopped crying, Dean took his brother by the hand to lead him out of the bathroom, but Sam threw himself at his side and grasped his leg, refusing to let go, so Dean reached down and picked him up, hugging him close and ignoring the grating pain in his stomach and chest. Sam placed his head on his shoulder and wrapped his small arms around him, and Dean carried him back to the living room and placed him on the bed. He tried to move Sam's hands off of him, but Sam wouldn't budge, and Dean wouldn't force him.

So Dean pulled down the covers and crawled into the bed slowly, pushing past the pain. He lay down on his back and Sam settled close to him on the bed, his hands moving from around Dean's neck and fisting instead in his shirt…just like he used to do when they were little. Dean bit back tears and wrapped his arms around Sam and held him close. He put one of his hands over both of Sam's, still fisted in his shirt, and he felt Sam let go of his shirt with one hand and put it gently into his. Dean held his brother's hand and squeezed it tightly once, but he didn't let go.

And that's how Sam finally fell asleep, curled up in his arms, his head resting on his chest, breathing gently and not letting go of Dean's hand even in his sleep.

Dean didn't sleep. He lay awake as the sun came up and rose over the trees outside the window.

He lay awake, holding his brother and letting him sleep as he ignored the pain in his own body.

He lay awake until the clock read 12:30pm and his father came out of his room and into the living room. Sam must have felt Dean tense when his father walked in, because he woke up, took one look at his father, and buried his head in Dean's chest, shaking gently as Dean held him tighter. His father spoke to them, ignoring Sam's crying and Dean's bruises and the pained look in his eldest son's eyes as he told them that he was going to find a job, that they would be going back to school next week, that they were to wear long sleeves and explain their bruises to anyone that asked as being caused by accidentally falling into the table while playing, and that if either of them ever told a soul what he had done to them he would beat them and throw them outside into the rain and the cold where they could die for all he cared.

He lay awake as Sam continued to shake in his arms long after their father had slammed the front door behind him, and Dean continued to hold him, whispering soothing words to him and gently stroking his back until he fell asleep once more.

He lay awake until he finally passed out from the pain and exhaustion, and he fell into a fitful sleep full of dreams of Sam being beaten by their father, of the two of them shivering out in the cold…of his little brother dying in his arms.

He awoke hours later to his brother shaking him and calling his name fearfully, and he pulled himself out of the dark sleep he had fallen into and sat up gently, crying out as his chest screamed in agony. Then Sam started to cry, asking why Dean hadn't woken up when he called him and asking if he was sick and if he was going to leave him like Mommy did, and Dean held his little brother close and told him that he was never, ever going to leave him.

Dean promised Sammy that he would get him out of here. When he could get a job, and when he could get together enough money and he was old enough to get them a place to live he would take him far, far away from their father and they would never look back.

He promised Sam that until then he would protect him and keep him safe and try his hardest to never let their father hurt him again.

He promised Sam that he would never leave him.

He made no promises to Sam that he himself wouldn't get beaten up, because Dean knew that he would stand between Sam and his father forever if that was what it took to keep Sam safe. The only thing that would tear Dean away from his brother was death, and as Dean held Sam close and made promises to him and told him all about the happy life they would lead when they were on their own, Dean silently begged whoever would listen that death would not come for him until Sam was far away from their father's abuse and violence; until Sam couldn't remember the way his father stared at him with hate in his eyes….

Until the only thing that Sam knew was love.

TBC...

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