Chapter Fifteen: Hell Is For Children
Sam looked at the date on the newspaper his father had left laying on the Formica kitchen table.
The date just above the headline seemed to take up the whole of Sam's vision, its black letters growing larger and larger, mocking him as his face was shoved into the edge of the table, his nose breaking and spraying crimson across the newspaper, staining it.
Sam gasped and choked on blood sliding back down his throat as his father's grip on his arm tightened, threatening to pull his shoulder from its socket.
"D-Dad! St-st-op!" Sam coughed, one hand searching for purchase while the other remained jammed against his hip, his arm trapped behind his back.
Sam fell to his knees and blood splattered onto the linoleum floor.
I'll have to clean that up later; Sam thought as he began to feel lightheaded.
The muscles in Sam's arm protested as the limb was pulled even further. Sam gritted his teeth together so hard his jaw ached with the pressure. Blood still flowed from his battered nose to coat his lips and chin, spots dotting his shirt.
Just when Sam thought the pain couldn't get any worse, he heard a loud popping noise and agony flared through his abused arm, numbing his fingers.
The floor rushed up to meet Sam's face as John released his youngest son and stalked out of the room.
W
Sam's breath gurgled as he gulped in air past the blood trickling down his throat. He didn't even bother trying to move from his position on the kitchen floor. His body was too wracked with pain.
Sam closed his eyes- he didn't want to see the table legs or the bottom of the cupboards anymore- and slipped into unconsciousness.
Sam sat on his bed and peered through the darkness. He held his breath and listened for the familiar sound of John's snoring. It didn't come.
Is he awake? Sam wondered and fear settled into his stomach. Maybe he's out at some bar.
Sam tensed when he heard soft footsteps making their way to his room.
The owner of the footfalls appeared and Sam's mouth dropped open, "Mom?"
She looked exactly as he imagined she would. She had golden hair that fell down her back in curls and warm blue eyes. She wore a white nightgown and bare feet.
Sam gulped, "Mommy?"
"My boy," Mary smiled and sat down beside Sam, drawing him into a comforting embrace.
Sam blinked away tears and tried to still his trembling body.
Mary held Sam at arm's length and brushed his long bangs back from his forehead.
"Can we leave? Are you going to take me away?" Sam asked in a small voice.
"Oh Sam," Mary cooed and reached up to give her son's shoulder a squeeze. Sam flinched as pain seared down his arm.
"Why is Dad doing this? Have I done something wrong? I've only ever did what he wanted!" Sam asked as tears spilling down his face and the pain in his arm faded to numbness.
Mary put a warm palm against the side of her son's face, her expression sympathetic in the gloom.
"Sam, you need to be punished," Mary spoke matter-of-factly but her eyes still held their loving light.
Sam gasped and blood began to trickle from his nose. He wiped his face with the back of his hand.
"Mom? W-what are you talking about? I haven't done anything!" Sam argued.
Mary stood up and regarded her son, hands on her hips.
"You killed me, Samuel, your own mother," Mary's voice turned as hard as flint; her blue eyes turning to ice.
"No! I was only a baby!" Sam protested, oblivious of the crimson liquid streaming from his nose.
"You're a murderer! If you had never been born I would still be alive!" Mary pulled back a hand and slapped her son.
Sam's hand went to his stinging cheek and his eyes widened in shock.
"I should have killed you when you were born… before you were born! You're cursed! You've only brought death to this family!" Mary screeched and Sam cried out when his mother's sapphire eyes turned to obsidian.
A horizontal line of blood appeared on the front of Mary's nightgown and widened, crimson drops hitting the floor between her bare feet.
Sam thought he could smell cooking meat in the air and gagged, spraying blood from his nose onto the carpet.
Sam cried out for help- for Dean, for Dad, for anyone- when Mary leaped at him, hands forming claws and death in her eyes.
Sam jerked awake with a muffled cry. He cringed as the movement jostled his dislocated shoulder.
John's dark eyes peered down at him and Sam resisted the urge to flinch away.
"Dad!" Sam exclaimed as he flailed until he was in a more-or-less sitting position, leaning his back against one of the table's metal legs, "G-gotta fix m'arm."
John sat back on his haunches in front of his son, hands dangling between his knees.
"No," John said in a monotone.
"Pl-please," Sam begged, "It h-hurts so b-bad."
"Than that will teach you a lesson then, won't it?" John answered and stood, brushing invisible dirt from his palms.
Sam hadn't done anything wrong! Some middle-aged woman in one of the neighbouring apartments had asked Sam where he'd gotten the black eyes and cut on his cheek. John had been standing right behind his son and had placed what seemed to the outsider, a comforting hand on his boy's shoulder, all the while squeezing hard as a reminder for Sam not to say anything. Sam had lied and told the lady that he had been roughhousing with some of his friends. John had grunted in agreement, growling "boys will be boys" before the woman had nodded and smiled, continuing down the hall and into her own apartment.
Sam bit his tongue in an effort not to sob. His nose and eyes throbbed and the kitchen light seemed far too bright. Looking up in his father's direction, Sam could see a white corona of light around John's shadowed face.
He's going to leave me like this, Sam realized and tears ran down his bruised face.
Sam's eyes followed his father as John walked from the kitchen.
"Pl-please," Sam whispered, knowing his father wouldn't hear him.
W
Sam looked up through his haze of pain as John entered the kitchen. He didn't know how much time had passed but the shadows in the room had grown long, climbing up the cupboards and the dried blood had turned from livid scarlet to maroon and rust.
John stood in front of his son and Sam saw a belt dangling in his fingers. Sam cringed; afraid his father was going to hit him with it.
Sam watched warily as John crouched in front of him and held the belt out, "Put this in your mouth."
Sam's brow furrowed in confusion.
"I'm gonna fix your damn arm, boy! Do as I say!" John snapped and Sam took the belt with his good hand and set it between his teeth. He could taste the leather of the belt and gulped.
Sam scooted away from the table and sat that his back was towards his father. John gently eased Sam's injured arm through its sleeve and slipped the shirt over his son's head.
The boy's father didn't even blink as his eyes caught the bruises on his son's back and then rested on his shoulder. The joint formed a large bump that looked like some sort of deformity underneath black-and-blue bruised skin.
John took his son's arm, holding the elbow at a 90 degree angle and the boy's heart began to pound. Next, John rotated Sam's injured arm and shoulder inwards, towards the boy's chest, making an 'L' shape. Tears sprang out in Sam's eyes as his father moved his injured arm outwards, keeping a firm grip on his wrist, without stopping until his son's arm was just a little lower than 90 degrees.
Sam didn't even receive a warning before John quickly pushed the arm back towards his shoulder. Sweat beaded Sam's brow and he bit down hard on the belt, the leather muffling his cry of surprise and pain.
Sam felt an uncomfortable scraping sensation in his shoulder before John released his wrist. Sam slumped where he sat, his shoulder no longer sending lightning bolts of pain down his arm.
The belt slipped from Sam's mouth as he panted for air. He looked down and saw a row of puncture marks in the leather where he had bitten down hard against the pain.
John stood, looked down at his son and then left the room with a "clean up the mess you made."
Sam lowered his head. His shoulder didn't hurt so much now but his stomach ached. He wished his brother was there, he wished he could see Dean give him a cocky wink and tell him that it was going to be okay.
Shakily, Sam stood, gingerly testing his relocated shoulder. He staggered to the kitchen sink and opened the cupboard beneath, taking out a blue plastic pail, a grungy cleaning rag and a bottle of dish soap.
Sam set the pail in the sink, squirted in some of the bright yellow detergent, and ran the hot water tap.
Once the pail was full of sudsy water, Sam lifted it and set it on the floor. He submerged the rag and wrung it out, the cheerful scent of soap filling the tiny kitchen.
W
Sam's arms ached as he finished scrubbing the last flakes of dried blood from the linoleum. It had taken longer than he expected to clean all the blood; it had stained the linoleum a dark brown colour that stubbornly refused to be removed.
Looks like someone got ganked in here, Sam thought as he dumped the bucket of water into the sink.
Sam sat down at the table, pulling one of the chairs out. He ran a hand through his long bangs and sighed. He was exhausted. All he wanted to do was close his eyes and sleep.
Maybe he'd be able to creep away down the hall and curl up in his bed for a couple of hours.
Sam could hear the television blaring in the small adjoining living room. His father had killed the witch two days ago and Sam was sure they would be leaving soon. John never stayed in one place long after a hunt was finished.
Sam stood up from the table, his chair scraping loudly across the floor and he froze.
"Sam? Ya finished?" John's voice called.
Sam's eyes watered, "Y-yes... Yes sir."
John strode into the room and eyed the floor and table critically. He huffed, apparently deciding that it would do.
Sam remained frozen to the spot as John approached him.
Sam didn't move even when his father backhanded him across the face.
"Maybe you'll learn to keep your mouth shut next time!" John growled; eyes boring into his son's.
"Y-yes," Sam lowered his gaze. He had no idea why his father was so angry at him- the woman had asked an innocent question and Sam had done his part, had lied and diffused any suspicion- but then again, John probably thought Sam had told something to the neighbour when he wasn't around.
"You make me sick," John growled and Sam fought the tears pooling in his eyes, knowing he'd only make it worse if he started crying.
"Yes sir," Sam answered thickly.
SPN
Why couldn't the boy learn? He wasn't an idiot, John knew that, so why did he keep making the same mistakes? Why did he make John punish him?
John closed his eyes for a moment and stalked from the room, tired of the sight of his boy.
He sat down on the creaky couch and ran his hands through his hair. He missed his wife. God, he wished Mary was there to tell him what to do.
Hands clenched into fists as tears pricked the corners of his eyes. Every year November second rolled around and it never got any easier. Every year the anniversary of Mary's murder was like a black smudge on John's heart.
With a shaking hand, John reached out for his bottle of beer and downed a mouthful of lukewarm liquid.
John wished he could see his sweet wife's face one last time, he wished he could see her blue eyes sparkle and her smile light up her face. He wished he could get the last sight of Mary from his mind. He wished he didn't have to see her lovely face contorted in agony as flames consumed her.
Why did it have to be Mary? Why did she have to die? Why did Sam have to live?
John froze, shocked by his own thoughts. No! Sam was just a baby, I had to save him!
But Mary could have had other children, John reasoned; if she'd been saved. Instead I have a disgrace for a son and no wife.
John put his head in his hands as tears trickled from his dark eyes.
Author's Note:
1. The chapter title comes from a Pat Benatar song of the same name.
2. Thanks to criminally charmed, SPN Mum, samgirl19, Pictures, Samstruck, cold kagome, L.A.H.H, pottyandweezlbe89, LeighAnnWallace, eddy6401, OtakTouch and my mysterious Guests for reviewing.
3. Thanks to everyone who alerted/favourited.
4. Reviews are love!