Warning: This one-shot includes Torture, Mentions of Child Abuse, Major Character Death, Mentions of Incest, and technical gay stuff. I do not like Wincest, so don't get the wrong idea, it's purely for the story. Also, this is basically Abuse but more canonical, so yeah.
He knew about the abuse, it would be impossible for him not to. Whenever their father was around, his big brother would mysteriously get painful looking bruises and cuts, and when his father locked him out, he would sometimes hear his brother's hushed cries. It filled him with a blinding rage that his kind older brother was being treated like this. Dean obeyed their father's every command without hesitation, whereas he would rather fight John's every word. Yet somehow, he remained untouched. After having to see his brother so torn down, living with the guilt that he never did anything, something inside him snapped. His mind told him to avenge his brother, and make sure John would never be able to lay a finger on him again. The voice sounded familiar, but he decided to ignore it for now. He came up with a plan, and after a few weeks, put it into motion. He pretended to run away, while he actually just hid in a cabinet he knew his brother would overlook. Before that though, he roofied every can of beer in the fridge, because he knew his brother and father well. After Dean had a breakdown when he saw that Sam had disappeared (he was going to make it up to his brother someday), he ended up calling John. He winced in sympathy from his cabinet at their father's furious screams. It took him half an hour to appear, and Sam might've been impressed if he didn't immediately smack his big brother in the face. He shouted himself hoarse about how incompetent he was before stomping over to the fridge to get a beer. Dean got one soon after. It didn't take all that long for them to pass out, and when they did, he allowed himself a second or two to stretch his achy muscles. He pondered over how to restrain them before grabbing a chair. Then he grabbed his father and tossed him onto it and tying him to it with heavy duty rope (the ratty looking kind that inched like Hell and gave you rub burn when you move even an inch). Then he turned to his brother and decided on something nicer. This time he used an electric cable, and he kept him on the soft-ish bed. After all, this was a gift. He found he had extra time, so he warded the room to soundproof it. Who knew those wards would come in handy some day? After that, he waited for around an hour before Dean began to stir with John following behind. When they realized they were tied up, John seemed pissed while his brother looked distressed. "What're ya doin Sammy?" He slurred into the bedsheets, wriggling around on the bed. Sam didn't answer. "Let me the fuck go you little cunt!" His father growled, and Dean did a full body flinch, his body protectively curling up. "Don't make me gag you, asshole." This was said in a warning tone as he sat on the bed and pulled a tense Dean into a soft hug. "It's okay Dean, nothing's gonna happen to you." His brother looked up at him with frightened green eyes. "Never you," Sam continued, idlely stroking the blonde hair that rested on his older brother's head, "just everyone who would dare lay a hand on you." It was romantic in a sense, Sam couldn't help but think, even if he knew Dean wouldn't think so. He looked away from his shivering brother when his father began to yell for help. "Ugh, shut up you fucking idiot, no one can hear us. I put up those silencing wards you found at Bobby's place." John's face visibly fell, and he allowed himself a smirk of victory. It seemed like it was time for the fun to begin. He reached a hand into his brother's leather jacket (and discreetly allowing himself to cop a feel of Dean's defined abs), and removed his brother's favorite silver knife. It was sharp to the touch and had a beautifully decorated handle. He got off the bed and circled around a silently fuming John, letting the knife's sharp edge drag over skin in a threat. He placed the knife on the man's ring finger, and looked him in the eye. "I let you get away with hurting Dean for too long. Good luck trying to punch him without any fingers." The blade sunk through flesh, muscle, tendons, nerves, and bone as easy as it would through butter, and he relished in the pain filled gasp that left his throat. Behind him, his brother was beginning to hyperventilate, and he could imagine those expressive eyes filling with tears. Even though he wanted to calm his brother, his focus remained on the SOB in front of him. He slowly removed the rest of the fingers, sometimes not putting enough pressure so to purposefully tear the skin, or press halfway into bone before stopping, deeply enjoying the pained sounds that would escape the wounded man's lips. When all the fingers were gone, he picked one up and held it at John's lips. "Open up now," he sing-songed, "unless you'd rather I shove something even bigger in there." He hesitantly opened his mouth, and his ring finger was pushed inside. "Swallow." Was murmured into his ear, and he felt like throwing up, but did so anyway. Sam smiled at his father's obedience. Then he turned to face his brother, who was groaning into the bedsheets, not wanting to watch his baby brother torture his father, no matter how much it relived him. "Come on Dean. I'm doing this for you!" He felt Sam crawl onto the bed, and gasped when he felt him grab his hair roughly. "It's rude to not at least take a peak." Dean swallowed thickly and peaked an eye open, staring down at his father's fingerless hands. Sam seemed pleased by this and let his face plop back down on the covers. The let out a quiet screech when he felt his brother's hand on his ass, and nearly screamed when it squeezed. Sam chuckled before removing his hand, along with Dean's favorite gun. "Now, back to business." He proceeded to break the joints in most of John's limbs with the butt of the gun, drinking in the howls of pain with a grin. He grabbed some tongs from the kitchenette and grabbed the man's tongue, forcing him to bite it off. After that, he seemed to grow bored. "Oh well," he sighed, audibly disappointed, "see you in Hell, I guess." Two shots rang in the air, and when Dean dared look, his father had two puncture wounds, eight over his lungs, and the man himself was choking on his own blood. He quickly clenched his eyes shut, trying and failing to stop the tremors racking his body. His once innocent baby brother sat on the bed again, rubbing his back gently. "It's over now Dean. He'll never be able to hurt you again. Are you proud of me, big brother?" Dean lifted his head, determined to look his brother in the eye, and a scream of terror tore itself from his throat. Not because his brother was covered in blood, but because his eyes were no longer blue. They were yellow.