Chapter Sixteen: Hey Dad
Sam couldn't stop staring at the small black rectangle that sat on the opposite bed. There it was, glossy black and so small against the brown covers. John's cell phone.
The boy's father had gone out- probably to scope out the local watering hole- and Sam knew he'd been gone for a while.
Sam's stomach clenched painfully and he knew what he had to do.
Eyes focusing on the closed motel room door, Sam slipped from his bed to the one his father had claimed and picked up the cool, smooth communication device.
A chilly wind moaned outside the room, snow piled up against the door and Sam strained to hear the growl of the Impala's engine.
Sam flipped the phone open and stared at it, eyeing the number panel.
He turned the cell on and scrolled down the contacts list until he saw Bobby's number.
Sam froze; listening to the wind howling outside before he pushed the button that would connect him to the old hunter.
Sam's fingers shook as the phone rang and rang.
Please Bobby, pick up; Sam thought although he was unsure of exactly what he would say when his father's old friend and mentor answered.
"Yeah?" The hunter's gruff voice was slightly faded from the bad connection.
"H-hi Bobby," Sam squeaked out.
"Sam, that you boy? What's the matter? Your Daddy okay?" Bobby asked, sounding worried.
Sam's gaze traveled to the window and he froze when he saw a dark shadow cross by the snow-splattered glass.
"Sam? You still there? What's a matter?" Bobby's voice jerked Sam from his reverie.
"Y-yeah," Sam muttered, "Yes, I'm here."
"Are you alright? Haven't heard from John in a while," Bobby said and Sam jumped when he heard the motel door's handle turn.
"I, uh, I gotta go Bobby," Sam stammered and closed the phone guiltily, throwing the device back onto the bed and moving to his own.
Sam lay down as soon as his father walked in the room, his back to John as he feigned sleep.
Sam's heart leaped into his throat when his father's cell phone rang and John answered it.
"What?" His father's annoyed tone asked.
"Bobby, what-" John asked before he was cut off and spoke again, "No we're fine."
"I'll call you later," John told the hunter, "Yes, yes, I will. G'bye."
Sam heard his father snap the phone shut and gasped as John grabbed his shoulder and turned him around.
"What did you think you were doing?" John snarled; his expression livid.
"I- I d-d-didn't say a-anything!" Sam cried out and shrank away from his father.
John pulled his son forward and slammed his fist into Sam's mouth.
Sam's teeth cut into his lips and he swallowed blood.
"Did you think Bobby would believe you? You? Who do you think he's more willing to trust? I'm a hunter, boy! And you, you're nothing but a pathetic, sniveling brat!" John growled at his son, shaking him by his collar.
"I'm sorry!" Sam slurred out, blood sliding down his chin through his cut and swollen mouth.
"Not yet, you aren't," John hissed and dragged his son off the bed.
"Pl-please Dad! Stop!" Sam begged as his father shoved him across the room and pulled open the door.
Wet snow pelted into Sam's face, freezing it almost instantly.
Sam struggled as his father pushed him onto the sidewalk, into the piling snow.
The boy stared up at his father and tried not to cry. He was only wearing a pair of Dean's old jeans- the cuffs are rolled up three times to fit Sam's legs- and a navy blue hand-me-down t-shirt.
Sam's hands grew numb as he scrabbled in the snow, trying to keep from face-planting. He tried to crawl out from underneath his father's hold but John's grip only tightened.
"D-Dad, pl-pl-please!" Sam begged as John shoved his face into a snowdrift.
Gravel shifted beneath Sam's clawing hands, digging into his palms and under his nails.
"You just never learn, do you?" John snapped at his son.
Sam's hands covered his head in an effort to protect himself.
John pulled on the back of Sam's collar yanking his son back toward the motel room. Sam stumbled as his father shoved his son back inside. Sam's hands burned on the carpet as John nearly threw him across the room. He rummaged in his duffle bag and pulled out a pair of handcuffs.
"Wh-what are… are th-those for?" Sam stuttered and wrapped his arms around his middle. He was shaking.
John grabbed Sam's upper arm and dragged his son into the bathroom.
Sam's wet clothes squelched on the cold tile floor. John snatched up one of Sam's wrists and snapped a cuff around it, tightening it before looping the chain through the exposed pipe underneath the sink and fastening the opposite cuff.
"D-Dad! Don't l-leave me!" Sam craned his neck to look behind him at his father.
The cold seeped up from the floor and made Sam shiver even more.
John turned off the light and closed the door. Sam closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the thick exposed water pipe.
SPN
John opened the bathroom door softly. He didn't bother turning on the light- the sun shining into the motel room gave enough illumination to the tiny lavatory- and moved stealthily to his son.
The boy was sleeping; his legs beneath him awkwardly and his chin on his narrow chest, long bangs obscuring his closed eyes.
John took the keys to the handcuffs from his jean's pocket and unlocked the metal bracelets from around his son's wrists, catching Sam when he slumped forward.
John picked his son up with one arm beneath the boy's knees and the other supporting his back. Sam stirred but he did not wake.
John could feel his son shivering in his arms and saw that his face was deathly pale.
Gently, the father laid his son on the motel bed and brought the covers up to his boy's chin.
John watched his son sleep for a moment, brushed long bangs from his son's brow, and thought about the past few months.
Did I do this to him? Why would I do that? I love my boy.
John startled when he realized he couldn't recall what had happened the day before, why his son had been handcuffed to a pipe in the motel bathroom.
John's head began to throb and he groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger.
"D-Dad?" Sam's small voice asked and John saw a pair of green eyes peeping out from the covers.
"It's okay, Sammy," John ground out from clenched teeth, "Go back to sleep."
When his son's eyes closed again, John stood up and went into the bathroom. He grabbed a relatively clean wash cloth and ran warm water from the tap over it. Wringing the cloth out, John returned to his son's side and gently wiped the dried blood away from Sam's mouth and chin.
John's hands shook as he wiped the warm cloth over his son's face, leaving it resting on Sam's brow.
"I'm gonna fix this, Sammy," John told his son as his vision began to blur and the throbbing in his head drowned out even his own voice.
SPN
Sam's eyes opened slowly. Bright sunlight shone into the room, making him cringe. His eyes widened though, when he felt the softness of blankets and a lumpy mattress beneath him.
Sitting up quickly despite the dizziness it caused, Sam realized that sometime through the night or in the early morning hours his father had moved him. A dried-out face cloth fell off Sam's brow with the movement and he stared at it for a few seconds before sitting it on the bedside table.
Eyes traveling around the room, Sam saw that he was alone. How long had he been lying in bed? Sam vaguely recalled the feeling of being lifted up and carried but he wasn't quite sure when that had been- he had out of it pretty much all night.
"D-Dad?" Sam asked, just needing to hear something other than the distant grumble of cars as they passed by on the highway.
He moved over to the side of the bed and planted his feet on the brown shag carpet. Standing, Sam swayed dangerously and grabbed at the corner of the bedside table to keep from falling. The room spun around a few times, causing Sam's stomach to voice a complaint.
Releasing the table, Sam took a step forward and fell onto hands and knees. The carpet fibers dug into palms raw from scrabbling at the gravel outside when John had pushed him into the snow.
Sam's back arched as he puked, his stomach clenching painfully as it expelled its meager contents onto the ugly motel rug.
Sam's arms trembled with fatigue and he rolled to his side to avoid landing in the puddle of sick. He shivered, feeling as though he was outside in the snow-covered parking lot again and drew his limbs closer to his body for warmth.
W
Sam wasn't sure how much time had passed. He must have dozed off because the sound of the motel door closing sharply woke him up. He peeled open his eyes and stared at his father's boots from the space between the floor and the bed's box spring.
"Sam!" John's voice pounded in Sam's ears and Sam shifted onto his elbows.
"Hey Dad," Sam croaked. His throat felt like he'd swallowed a bag of thumb tacks.
The boy watched as his father's boots moved from the doorway, around the first bed and stop when the owner of those boots saw his son.
Sam didn't look at John as his father bent down and grabbed him under the arms, pulling him into a standing position.
"What the hell are you doing?" John asked, shaking his son as he spoke.
"I, uh I f-fell," Sam explained, "I'm not feelin' good."
John squinted at his son and then released him. Sam's legs didn't want to co-operate and he sank heavily onto his bed.
John wiped his hands on the legs of his jeans as if he had just been touching something dirty and looked down, sniffing.
Sam cringed back when angry eyes met his.
"You're disgusting," John said and grabbed the back of Sam's shirt.
"Clean that up," John dragged his son off the bed and shoved him down toward the puddle of puke that had already dried into the carpet.
Sam held his breath as the sour smell invaded the air around him, John nearly rubbing his nose in it like a puppy who'd made a mess.
Still feeling dizzy and lightheaded, Sam stood up once his father had backed off and zigzagged his way to the bathroom, gathered up a couple of towels- wetting one in the sink while leaving one dry- and made his way back into the main room. Sam fell to his knees and tried to calm his stomach as he wiped up the sick with the damp towel, gagging when the smell became overpowering.
SPN
John had moved to the scratched table in the corner of the room and sat with his boot heels resting on the tabletop, flicking through the pages of his journal, a felt-tip pen behind his ear in case he needed to make notes. The man pretended as though he was the only one in the motel room, effectively drowning out the sounds of his child with his own thoughts.
Goddamn kid never learns, John mused and took a cigarette from the pack in the breast pocket of his jacket. Guess I just gotta keep drilling it into his thick skull until it sticks; he thought and lit the smoke with a dollar store lighter.
John grabbed the pen from its resting place and his eyes wandered across the room to his boy on his hands and knees, using one of the motel's white, threadbare towels to mop of the mess he'd made- damn kid can't even make it to the fucking bathroom- all the while making small whimpers like a dog in pain.
Kid's no good as a hunter, he's gotta be good for something; John decided, can't stay useless for the rest of his life.
And if he isn't useful, well, nobody will miss him, will they?
Author's Note:
1. Chapter title comes from a Good Charlotte song of the same name.
2. Thanks to criminally charmed, Hoffman1433, LeighAnnWallace, cold kagome, samgirl19, L.A.H.H, SPN Mum, pottyandweezlbe89, Christina, T.L Arens, Eris-R-Renee and all my mystery Guests for reviewing.
3. Thanks to everyone who alerted/favourited.
4. Reviews make my cloudy days sunny!