Chapter Twelve: Far Cry
Author's Note: From this chapter onward, there will be physical abuse of a child so if you are uncomfortable with that subject, please read no further. Thank you.
John Winchester stared at the spot where his oldest son had stood only moments before. The beer forgotten in his grip, threatening to slip from his lax fingers.
Suddenly John threw the bottle at the closed door; glass shattering and beer splattering.
He can't do this to me! He can't! John thought frantically.
How can he just walk out on me!? John ran a hand through his hair and turned away from the door.
"Fine, that's fine," John muttered as he wandered back into the living room where he had been writing in his journal, "If he doesn't want to be part of this family anymore, that's his choice."
John paced the living room. His son was gone. That was it, he was never coming back.
"He's dead," John said aloud, "Dean is dead."
John knew that he would never again mention his eldest son's name. Dean had betrayed him, betrayed his mother and for that, John would erase every memory of his oldest son from his mind.
Peering at his journal, John decided he could go for another beer.
SPN
Sam watched his brother from the upstairs window. He longed to call out to Dean but the window was nailed shut.
He couldn't believe that his brother was leaving him.
Sam put one palm against the cool glass of the pane and felt hot tears leak down his face.
He turned away from the window when he lost sight of his brother at the end of street and climbed onto his bed.
Sam stared at his brother's empty bed and sighed, wiping his face clandestinely before lying down on his back.
He tried to swallow the painful lump in his throat but failed. Hot tears flooded his eyes and leaked down his temples onto the pillowcase beneath his head; Sam didn't try to stop them.
Sam sat up suddenly when he heard the sound of his father's heavy boots on the stairs.
He wiped his sleeve across his face and stared at his Dad as he came into the room.
John sat down on the edge of Sam's bed. Sam didn't say anything. John's gaze was far away and he didn't look at his son.
"He's gone, Sammy," John whispered, "It's just the two of us now."
Sam bit his lip to keep fresh tears from spilling from his eyes. John reached out and put one hand on Sam's head, carding through his son's hair the way he had done when Sam had been an infant.
"Dad," Sam whispered and trembled at the rare sign of affection his father was displaying.
John didn't respond, he just continued to run his fingers though his son's longish hair.
"Dad," Sam tried again, "I know Dean-"
Sam gasped in pain as his father grabbed a handful of hair and yanked his head back.
"Don't you ever say his name in front of me again! Do you understand?" John growled at his youngest. He had been drinking; Sam could smell beer on his breath.
Tears of pain welled up in Sam's eyes, "Y-yes."
"Stop whimpering!" John snarled and released his son. Sam inched away from his father, still sniffing and began wiping his face.
"He's gone and all I'm left with is you!" John stood and peered down at Sam. The boy could see disappointment in his father's gaze.
"Dad, please-" Sam began but John turned away from Sam and slammed the bedroom door on his way out.
Against his better judgment Sam scrambled off his bed and followed his father down the stairs.
"Dad," Sam tried getting his attention, "Dad, please… what do you want from me?"
John stomped into the living room and grabbed his journal before turning to his son, "I want you to get out of my sight."
Sam froze and watched as his father stalked away from him.
He's drunk, Sam thought, too much beer and Dean leaving was a bad mix.
He'll be better in the morning, Sam assured himself, he'll have a hangover but he'll be his usual bad-tempered self
The truth was, Sam was terrified of the John Winchester he'd gotten a glimpse of earlier, and hoped that he would never return.
W
Sam didn't bother asking where they were going. He just stared at the other cars they passed on the highway.
He wondered where Dean was. He wondered if his brother was in California already.
Sam peeked at his father's expression in the rearview mirror. John's eyes were bloodshot and his complexion was pale. Sam had wisely refrained from speaking to his father as they packed up the Impala and still they had not exchanged one word between them.
Sam wished his father would turn on the radio so they at least had something to listen to other than the oppressive silence of the car.
W
Six hours later they arrived in Carbon, Wyoming- a small, unincorporated town a few miles west of Rawlins. It was hardly big enough to be called a town- more like a village- only housing about five hundred people in all. The streets were nearly deserted except for empty soda and beer cans rolling around in the gutters and loose newspaper pages fluttering in the arid wind.
"This place has seen better days," Sam heard John mutter from the front seat.
John pulled into the parking lot of a dust-covered, wind-blown motel that looked as tired as the rest of the town's buildings.
"Stay in the car," John said as he opened the Impala's door, "I mean it, Sam."
Sam peered out at the flashing neon OPEN sign in the motel office's big, dirty front window.
The sidewalk was strewn with crushed cigarette butts and old chewing gum. On the other side of the road a white-haired farmer in coveralls shuffled past the silent buildings.
A tap on the Impala's window startled Sam and John slid into his seat.
His father didn't speak as he drove to the parking spot before an off-white door with a black number 12 painted on it.
Putting the car in park, John got out and went to the trunk. Sam followed, feeling the hot wind ruffle his hair as he peered into the trunk and grabbed his duffle bag.
John locked the car and unlocked the motel door. The room was tiny and dirty. The wallpaper was yellowed and peeling, the beds were haphazardly made, and there were stains on the carpet.
Sam grimaced. Normally his father would at least try to stay away from motels that looked like they rented by the hour.
John dumped his luggage onto one of the beds and stretched.
The trill of a cell phone caused John to fish around in his duffle bag. He peered at the caller ID and put the device to his ear.
"Hello?" John asked and paused for a moment before closing the phone and throwing it on the bed.
"Who was that, Dad?" Sam asked. He was still standing in the doorway.
"Nobody," John snapped.
"Was it De-" Sam began but stopped when John strode forward and grabbed his son's arm tightly.
"What did I tell you last night? Are you so stupid you've already forgotten?" John hissed as he twisted Sam's arm.
The boy cried out in pain, "I'm sorry!"
John growled and Sam thought that his arm was going to pop out of his shoulder if his father continued.
Sam's father let him go and Sam sat down heavily, nursing his throbbing arm.
"I'm going out," John said as he stepped over his son, "Clean the weapons while I'm gone."
The door slammed behind John but Sam could have cared less. He squeezed his eyes shut, tried to control his breathing until the pain subsided.
After a while Sam pulled himself up and went into the bathroom. The sink had rust stains coursing from the tap to the drain and the bathtub was discoloured by calcium.
Sam peered at his reflection in the spotty mirror and pulled his shirt off over his head. The skin of his arm had red marks just above the elbow and careful prodding with his fingers told Sam that they would turn into bruises.
Sam gave a watery sigh and put his shirt back on. He looked at himself once again before returning to the main room and laying down on the other bed.
He closed his eyes and tried to get some sleep before his father came back.
W
Sam gritted his teeth as John shook him.
"I ask you to do one thing!" John shouted, spittle flying from his mouth, "And you deliberately ignore me!"
"Dad! I'm sorry," Sam cried, trying to pry his father's hands off his arms.
"I don't want to hear it, Sam!" John snapped, "I'm tired of your apologies!"
Sam could smell whiskey on his father's breath; see it in his father's bloodshot, glazed eyes.
"Why can't you do what you're told? Huh? Are you an idiot?" John accused.
"No! I'm not," Sam argued, "Please, Dad, you're hurting me!"
Suddenly John blinked and his hands dropped from Sam's arms. He stared at his cowering son for a moment. John ran his hands through his dark, sweaty hair and took a deep breath.
"Oh God, Sammy," He whispered, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. It was an accident."
Sam watched as his father stared at his hands for a moment before clenching them into fists, "I'm so, so sorry Sam."
"I- Its okay, Dad," Sam whispered, "I'm alright."
John turned away from his son and stumbled into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.
Sam slumped against the wall. His shoulders shook as he fought back tears. He slid down until he was sitting with his legs out before him.
It was an accident, it was an accident; Sam thought, Dad said he was sorry. It wouldn't happen again.
SPN
Sam was sleeping by the time John exited the bathroom. He stared at his son for a moment- curled up in a ball under the covers of questionable cleanliness- and sighed deeply. What had happened to his little boy? When had his youngest son changed so much? John wondered as he sat down on the end of his own bed and slipped his boots off.
John went over to his son's bed and put his hand on his sleeping child's head. Sam moved into the touch but continued sleeping.
Turning away, John switched off the lights in the room and got into his own bed.
Instead of falling asleep though, John found himself staring at the glowing red numbers on the alarm clock.
He had caught wind of a Cihuateteo killing children in a hospital in New Mexico that could be taken care of with a Salt-And-Burn but there was also something that sounded like a Black Dog up in Casper that needed to be dealt with as well.
I'll call Bobby, John decided; give him a heads-up on the Black Dog than go down to Socorro. Sam will do better with a ghost than a spectral dog anyway. All he needs to do is help me dig up some bones and pour the accelerant. Even he can handle that.
John ground his teeth, hoping his son wouldn't fuck up another hunt.
Gotta teach him how to be a real goddamn hunter, John thought, or he's not gonna last one day out there by himself.
Satisfied that he had made the right decision, John closed his eyes and fell promptly fell asleep.
W
Sam opened his eyes and sat up. He looked over at his sleeping father before quietly climbing out of bed and going into the bathroom. The overhead light flickered when Sam turned it on and pulled his shirt off.
Dark purple bruises covered his upper arms, looking conspicuously like finger marks. Sam gulped and once again told himself that it was an accident; his Dad had been drinking too much.
Shouldn't have made him mad like that, Sam thought, should have remembered to clean the weapons.
Author's Note:
1. Chapter title comes from a Rush song of the same name.
2. Thanks to pottyandweezlbe89, cold kagome, Stamstruck, OtakTouch, AlxM, Pictures, Jeanny, SPN Mum, ladykale1985, samgirl19, criminally charmed, Eris-R-Renee and all my mystery (Guest) reviewers for their lovely comments.
3. Thanks to everyone who alerted/favourited.
4. Please review! They make me smile!