Yay for winter break!
Unless you're not on winter break. Then in that case, I am sincerely sorry and you have my deepest sympathy.

This was not supposed to be posted yet as it is part one of my super secret doings. You may not have a clue as to what the heck I'm talking about but some do (and one has been chewing on her nails with anticipation for so long and for so hard that I'm honestly afraid she may make it down to the bone soon) so it is actually a little exciting to have it up. Now I did say that there is more super secret things to come, and although they are not being posted consecutively (Which I really wanted to. I desperately wanted the reaction after I uploaded another super secret thing as you were catching up on this one. It was going to be my addiction. My drug. I wanted it so badly. Except I'm just lazy. There's really no other way around it). As a matter of fact, this has been sitting (finished) on my computer for over a month. I'm sorry.

About this chapter:

It wasn't necessarily a request but instead more of a "hey, what do you think about..." that came up one night in a group chat on Facebook. I was asked:

Do you think John Winchester abused his kids?

I proceeded to explain my answer:

Not his kids. Dean. I think there are ample examples of John having abused Dean.

I know this is a super controversial topic. Really, I get that and I am more than willing to go into details with you to explain why I feel this way. Exactly as I did in that chat over a month ago. It was then asked how I thought Becca would react to such a situation. Would she have been abused? Would she be as unknowing and protected as I believe Sam was? Would she ever know? That's what brought this on.

I wanted to make you all very aware of the content of this chapter because this can be trigger for some people. If that is true for you, please do not feel like you need to read this. I do not wish any harm or upset towards you because of this. If I offend or do manage to upset you, tell me. I welcome all expressions and opinions about this piece. If you are uncomfortable in saying something in a review, hit me up in a PM, or by any of the other social media means you have (all of my handles are given in my 'Bio' section on my profile).

Now. Before this gets too upsetting and deep and etc, let's actually get to the chapter shall we? Also, I need to really get back to this popcorn beside me because my dog is inching his face closer and closer to the bowl and I know he is 100% not above just shoving his entire face in it. Especially when Braveheart is on. (AMC - RIGHT NOW!)

So, please. Do enjoy. Do message. Do comment.

Thank you.

READ. REVIEW. ENJOY. :)
Disclaimer.

The Nightmare Remains

Ages:
Dean – 22
Sam/Becca – 18

Year:
2001
Early Summer/Late Fall

Becca's POV

I can't say him stumbling into the dark room, smelling of alcohol and eyes glassier than that giant triangle in front of that art museum in Paris surprised me anymore. My dad always drank. I knew this. I grew up knowing this. No, I didn't like it, and I'd learned to just accept it considering everything I knew… part of me couldn't blame him.

So, no, when he practically fell through the door, I didn't move. I didn't acknowledge he was back, and I most certainly didn't leave my spot on the couch—until he called my name.

Sitting up, I looked to the doorway to see him using one side of it as an aid to stand. His leather jacket was as dark as the night sky behind him, and I saw just how threatening he could actually appear. In his other hand hung a bottle, his pinky resting on the tarnished gold knob of the door. My eyes took in everything about him until they stopped on his dark pupils surrounded by bright red circles. I didn't move outside of blinking as he just glared at me.

"Get up," he barked.

Standing slowly, my brows furrowed in confusion. I fixed my shirt and stared at him, waiting for some kind of sign as to what he wanted me to do. His hand with the bottle left the door knob and waved to the open space in front of him. Moving to where I assumed he wanted me, I faced him.

"Secure your stance," he ordered before taking a drink. I only stared at him, not understanding. "Your brother," he began, pointing an unsteady finger at me, "is gone, and I can't take care of him. But you… you just keep getting into more and more trouble no matter what I do, so now you're gonna prove you've been paying attention."

My mind was running through what he'd told me, trying to understand and failing. "Dad, I don't think—"

"I want you," he paused to steady himself and set the bottle down on the floor, "I want you to charge me," he announced, nodding his head as though I'd ask for permission.

My eyes widened in shock. "I don't want to," I immediately blurted without thinking.

His eyes narrowed into slits and suddenly the door was slamming shut behind him. It seemed the red in his eyes was spreading, darkening his face and neck. "This is why you won't survive," he shouted making me shake for a moment. "Your brother left, and that means you have to be the one to take his place." His movements pushed me backward, butting me up to the wall on the other side of the beds. There was an indirect anger in his eyes that I would have noticed—had I been looking in them. Instead I was transfixed on the twitching of his neck vein as it popped with his angry words.

He began shouting about me never being able to replace Sam, and eventually it turned into him shouting about how it was my fault Sam even left in the first place. Spit was flying from between and down his lips and electricity vibed off of him, burning with each roll against my skin. Guilt raked through me, creating a wave of anger I didn't even know I had buried. Finally when he was less than inches away from my face, I couldn't take it anymore. I was cracking, I could feel myself splintering away and becoming raw. Anger was bubbling inside of me and no matter how hard I tried to ignore it but I could only take so much. It was when he said "You'll never survive" that I shoved him.

The action registered in my mind at the same time his open palm cracked across my cheek, throwing my entire head back and turning it to the side in response, stunning me. Both of us stilled and the room went silent. I was in shock, completely at a loss. I couldn't remember my father ever hitting me like that. My eyes flickered back and forth, searching the wall across from me as though it held some sort of an answer for his actions. I tried not to let the burn of what just happened spread to my pride as I touched my fingertips to the numb yet burning skin of my cheek.

Swallowing, I turned my head forward to see he had backed up and was drinking again. However, this time, his eyes read hate and were directed at me. A fear I had never known entered my body in that moment—a fear of my father. For the first time in my life I was scared of what would happen. He wiped a leather clad arm across his mouth and swayed on his feet.

"You made me do that, Rebecca," he spat, continuing to glare at me.

Bile rose in my throat and my heart was pounding so hard in my chest that it hurt. Everything I knew was completely wiped away and all that lingered was uncertainty. I felt trapped, worse than I ever had before; like I was stuck in some sort of nightmare that I couldn't wake up from. Deep down I felt like screaming but my instinct to get out was overpowering.

"So come on," he taunted. "You're angry with me? Use that anger. Attack me. Prove it's not your fault. Show me you can take Sam's place."

I shook my head. I wanted absolutely no part of what was in front of me, but I didn't know how to get away from it.

"I said prove it!" he yelled so loud my breath caught. I didn't move, but my eyes darted everywhere, searching for something to hide or help me.

His dark laugh made me go cold. It was almost happy with the way I was losing sanity and was growing increasingly fearful of the monster my father was clearly becoming.

"Are you trying to run from me? Are you afraid?"

I didn't know how to answer. Taking my breath, my dry throat seemed to choke around the stale air. A deep growl left his throat and the bottle was slammed onto the nearby table top. Seeing he was turned away, I licked my lips and took the chance, moving towards the couch.

I screamed at the shock of his hands wrapping around my upper arms tightly.

The pressure of his grip increased as he yelled, telling me how I didn't understand. Blame after blame followed by a slew of insults were filling me up until I couldn't take it anymore. Tears began to slip past my eyes as I fought to get him off me. I don't know what I did to finally make him let go, but my body flew back, colliding against the table before I fell to the ground. Crawling under the furniture, the slam of him against the edge made the bottle tip and spill at my feet.

When the table began to shift away, I attempted to push my way past the chairs and towards the door. A shriek left my throat when he yanked me up by my hair. My body was bent, my knees pushing into the now alcohol soaked area. Tears stung my eyes as my hands flew towards where he was gripping my hair. He was bent over me, his seething, purple face less than inches away from my own.

I no longer understood what he was screaming at me. All I could seem to focus on was the anger in his face and the pain in my head. So when he demanded that I answer him, I didn't know what to do. The quick shove to the ground shocked me and I laid there, my eyes squeezed shut and my breathing heavy. Not moving, I mentally prayed and begged that he would stop.

"Get up," he spat before brushing the arm of his jacket over his mouth. I didn't move, my fingers doing nothing more than gripping at the decaying fibers beneath them. Coughing, I did my best to fight back the tears and control my sobs. It didn't take long before a kick from his boot against my shoe made me flinch and he ordered for me to get up once more. Dragging myself up, I used the bed for support and stood, glaring at him all the while. "Don't look at me like that," he barked, pointing a finger at me. "This is your fault. If you knew what you were doing, this wouldn't be happening." A few seconds passed with him scrutinizing me, taking in everything he could. He held out his hand and pointed a finger up and down my body. "Secure your stance," he told me before appearing to ready his own.

I didn't move. I couldn't move. Deep down I wanted to flee or fight him. I wanted it to all end, to just make him stop. Yet, I knew he was my father. I couldn't bring myself to gather a reasonable explanation for why attacking the man would be okay. I'd only have to wake up and deal with the result the next morning. So, no, I didn't move. I stood there, staring at him with tears on my cheeks. Growling at my lack of initiative, he charged forward and grabbed my arms. "I gave you an order," bounced around my head while his hands tightened once more and I tried to push him off of me.

"Stop," I cried. "You're hurting me."

"You don't know what it's like to be hurt," he bellowed, making me cringe. The terror that followed in his eyes made me go numb. I had never seen any look like that on his face and I was terrified for what was coming.

Both of us were then shoved to the ground and it resulted in my release. Fighting to get away, I found the closest door and made my way through it. The closet was small but I didn't care, it was a barrier. Standing up, I pulled with all my strength, hoping it would be enough to keep him out. Tears fell down my face like my eyes were faucets, and my hands began to ache. Shouts and pounds were muffled, but I could sense the hostility in them.

My dad's voice was gaining volume and I began to shake from head to toe, biting my lip in fear the knob on the door would be shaking as well. "I'm telling you to let me deal with my daughter, Dean. Now stand down."

Dean's voice was lower, but responding as though he were purposely trying to keep what he was saying a secret.

An icy laugh left my father and I was able to picture the sickening grin on his drunken face. "Are you telling me how to raise my children? Because they're my children. You know that, right?"

There was huffing then, and shuffling feet. I knew without seeing what was happening on the other side of that door, and my heart seemed to explode in pain for my brother. I couldn't stop the tears from slipping down my cheeks in silent protest and guilt for the torture I was sure he was receiving. Closing my eyes and keeping my grip on the door, all I could manage to do was repeatedly whisper "I'm sorry" until it was all over.

It seemed like an eternity before I heard my name being called. I couldn't feel either of my hands, but the handle managed to shift as I released it, giving away my position. When the door opened to reveal Dean on the other side, relief on his face; my body let out a few deep breaths and I began to shake.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, a frown forming as his face fell and turned to guilt.

My father had left and Dean assured me that he was passed out in his truck, his keys sitting in Dean's jacket. Although, I wasn't too happy, knowing my father was the one to have taught us how to hotwire a vehicle. But outside of that, there hadn't been much talking. I don't think Dean knew what to say, so instead he just checked my bruises and cleaned the few scrapes I'd managed to collect. His eyes though… they spoke volumes. There was guilt and sympathy, anger and a dark spark there that worried me.

Sitting on the edge of the tub, I looked up at him when he handed me a cold, wet cloth. "Put that on your cheek. It will cool the mark down and it's the coldest thing we've got for swelling."

Nodding, I took the rag and did as he said. He watched my reaction before turning away and going to the sink to wash his hands.

"How long?" I quietly asked.

"Til it's not cold anymore I guess," he shrugged.

Making a face I stared at him. "That's not what I meant… When was the first time?" my voice was quiet but still managed to echo off the tiled walls around us. Dean didn't stop washing his hands or cleaning the supplies, instead ignoring my question completely. "Dean…" I tried once more. "This wasn't the first time."

"Leave it alone, Becca," he commanded, not even looking at me in the mirror.

Shaking my head with the pounding anger still inside of it, I chewed on my tongue. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Tell you what?" he sighed.

Lifting my head I saw him bent over the sink. His hands were each gripping a side and his head was bent down below his shoulders. Everything I knew about my brother told me to drop the subject, to pretend it didn't happen—but I couldn't.

"Dean—"

"What?" he turned around, facing me with an angry stare while crossing his arms over his chest. "You want me to tell you that when Dad gets angry or pissed off, he gets violent? Is that what you want?"

"I want you to tell me why I didn't know he was beating you."

"You don't know what you're talking about," he brushed me off with a clenched jaw.

Glaring at him as he turned back to face the sink, I rose to my feet. "I know he abuses you."

"So what, one group of guys pull their shit on you in some bar and suddenly you're an expert on the crap?"

The low blow was like a kick to the gut—and really only the second time it had ever been mentioned since the night it actually happened. It may have been referenced when my dad had me training, but only in "scare tactics" like, "Do you want to be able to defend yourself if something like that happens again?" or "What if next time your brother isn't there to protect you? It's about time you learn how to protect yourself. That was my mistake with you." But Dean? Dean had never full blown mentioned it. He was the king of skating around topics. Sure there were grunts and head nods where the subject should have been vocalized, but we never talked about it. But the words floored me, making my eyes go wide and my heart seemed to stop. I was cold and hot in shock and anger. My hand flinched and I fought the urge to slap him across the face.

"That's not fair," I finally managed to say. "What Dad did was wrong…Don't you see that? And I don't know if I can ever forgive him for what he's done."

"Look, he did the best he could—" Dean turned to look at me; his dedication and loyalty to our father showing its presence yet again.

"What out of anything that happened here tonight shows that? You can't keep using that as an excuse."

"That night when Mom—"

"Died? Is that what you're going to put this on? Mom's death? We lost her, too, Dean. You lost her, I lost her—we all lost her. Why should we have been made to lose him too?"

Huffing Dean seemed to be fighting his own internal confliction. "Just let it go," he tried, raising his eyebrows and giving me a face that said he was done discussing it.

Standing up, I made him turn to face me. Lifting my shirt sleeve to reveal my upper arm, I glared at him. "Does it look like he let go? And what about here?" I pointed to my cheek. "Or here?" I indicated to my still sore head. "Or what about here?" I growled, raising his forearm to show the red handprint around it. "Don't tell me that this is no big deal, and that it doesn't matter. If it didn't, you wouldn't have stopped him," I shook his arm in front of his face, growling at him.

His face hardened and he yanked his arm out of my hand. Matching my glare he finally turned back to the sink. "It's my job to protect you."

Wiping away a few tears that had managed to escape my pressured rims, I scoffed. "For or from him?"

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"How long has he been doing this to you?"

He ran a hand through his hair and avoided my gaze. "Bec, I'm telling you—"

"How long, Dean?" I clenched my fist and my eyes willing him to just answer the question.

"A long time."

My heart felt like it stopped and my breath left me in a whoosh. Dean had been—for lack of a better term—our father's punching bag for a long time… and I had never noticed. I was physically sick to my stomach and had to push down the feeling of nausea that crept up my throat. I felt my legs bend and I was suddenly leaning against the wall and sliding down it until I was seated on the ground, eyelevel with Dean's knees, my face scrunched in confusion. "What?"

There was a grunt and then Dean was crouched down, his eyes staring me in the face. Even though this whole argument was about him, I didn't miss that his eyes were full of concern for me. "You okay?"

I nodded my head but bit my lip, noticing he was in front of me but not really seeing him. "No." There was another huff and then he was sitting next to me against the door. "Those times I patched you up after you'd gone hunting with him… were those all from the hunt?"

"Most."

"Damn it," I groaned, my hands going to my head and holding it there. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because it didn't matter as long as you and Sam were fine."

Scrambling up to my feet and moving away from him I began breathing heavily. "He did this to you because of us? Oh my god, I think I'm gonna be sick."

Dean was on his feet, watching me carefully. "I didn't say it was your guy's fault."

"Yeah, but it was, wasn't it? He would beat you because of us. Why did you do that? How could you do that?"

"It was my job to keep you guys safe. You two didn't need to go through that."

"Neither did you. Jesus… I can't believe… I'm so… Does Sam even… Dean, I… God!" I shouted through the thoughts that were coming at me sixty miles an hour. "I want to start training with you," I burst.

"What are you talking about?"

"I don't want to train with Dad anymore."

Dean watched me for a minute, studying my face carefully. "I'm not going to help you fight him," he finally said.

Sighing I ran a hand through my hair and shifted all my weight to my left foot. "I'm not trying to fight him. I want to protect myself."

"You think you need to protect yourself from Dad?" The way he asked the question made me feel like I was a fool. I bit my lip and looked away from him.

"I want to be able to protect myself against everyone, Dean. What happened in that bar…I couldn't stop it because even with what fighting I do know, it isn't enough. Tonight Dad tried to get me to attack him. I just want to make sure that I can take care of myself."

He stared at me for a long time after that, just watching and it made me uneasy. I didn't know what else to tell him and I was practically twitching with the anxiety running through me while waiting.

"Do you think I can't take care of you?" he finally asked, confusing me. "Because if you wanna be out on your own, there's the door, Bec. No one is going to stop you from leaving."

"What? Why are you saying this? Do you want me to leave?" I gasped, a fear filling me. There was no way I could survive on my own. Not after tonight and realizing just how much I still needed and relied on Dean.

"You're the one goin' on about how you wanna be on your own—"

"I said I want to be able to protect myself. I never said I didn't want to be here."

Dean's eyes were almost black with anger. The vein in his neck throbbed all the way up to his tightly set jaw—and I swallowed. "The day I can't take care of you is the day you walk out that door, Becca. Until then you are my responsibility and it is my job to keep you safe."

"You're not listening."

"I AM LISTENING!" he screamed so intensely that I visibly shook. "You want to know how to protect yourself which means you aren't being protected by me. It is my job to keep you safe, and I've already failed you how many times? With Sam gone, there is just me and you with Dad. Do you understand?"

The verbal attack was making my eyes water more and my guilt level sky rocket. Never in all my life did I consider Dean to have failed me. We'd had our issues, and there were times I maybe felt betrayed or unimportant—but never like he failed me. Even with everything between us, I knew Dean was my brother, and he proved that again tonight.

Wiping at my face, I watched him. "And what happens when you're gone? What then? If you're gone and can't be attached to me like a shadow and I don't know how to protect myself, then who will? Are you going to just keep fighting him because he's suddenly the monster in our lives? None of that is fair. Sam's gone and after everything Dad has done to you… I don't trust him anymore, Dean. I trust you, and that's why I'm asking you to help me."

I could see that what I was saying was doing something to him; I just wasn't sure what. His face gave away no hints and it kind of worried me. Before I knew what I was doing, I had my arms wrapped around his middle and I was squeezing him to me with everything I had.

"You don't need to be the only one to protect me by yourself anymore and you don't need to hide what he's done to you. I'm so sorry that I didn't know." Pulling away, I glared my watery eyes into my brother's. "I will never forgive him for what he did. Ever. He shouldn't have done that. Period."

I watched through angry, slits of eyes as my brother's jaw muscles twitched and he swallowed. Hugging me to him once more I felt his chin rest on my head. "Go to bed. I'll clean up."

Shaking my face against his shirt, I pushed away. "No. You're done cleaning up his messes by yourself. It's time I start taking care of you, too," I told him before a final look. Turning away from him I put my hand on the doorknob and took a deep, settling breath. Opening it, I walked into the main room to see just how destroyed it—and my reality—had become.