Chapter Five: Some Kind of Monster

The dybbuk staring out from John Winchester's eyes smiled. It loved seeing the boy in pain, terrified. Sam was backed into a corner, tears streaming down his face as he spluttered apologies.

The dybbuk reached down and grabbed the boy's longish hair, dragging him into the middle of the room. Sam whimpered and tried to pry his father's hands away without success.

The dybbuk felt John Winchester stir but took no notice of the man, the hunter was powerless to stop it. Sam was shoved to the floor as John pulled his belt off. The boy tried to scramble away when his Dad let go of his hair but was pinned instead with one knee to his back.

Sam cried, begging his father not to hurt him. John ignored him and pulled his son's pants down around his ankles so he only had his boxer shorts on.

"Maybe this will teach you a lesson," the dybbuk growled in the hunter's voice and John Winchester railed against the spirit as it brought the belt down on his son's behind.

John Winchester couldn't take it. He couldn't bear to watch his baby boy beaten, couldn't stomach the fact that it was his hands harming his youngest child. He fought against the dybbuk for as long as he could but the monster was too strong. And John was growing weaker.

Blood was dripping down Sam's legs by the time his father finally stopped. The boy's eyes were barely open as he drifted closer and closer towards unconsciousness. He stared despondently at the belt as John dropped it to the floor by his head, its silver buckle smeared with red.

The dybbuk stepped over the child and chuckled. John walked over to the small bar fridge on the opposite side of the motel room and got himself a beer.

Sam couldn't move. He was in too much pain. He lay where he was, breathing heavily, tears leaking from his swollen eyes.

The dybbuk sat down at the motel room's small table, watching the boy and drinking his beer.

Maybe it should let John out, at least for a little while. Not long enough for the man to get help but so the dybbuk could enjoy the father's anguish. John knew that he couldn't help his son, no matter how many promises he made.

The dybbuk stretched John's mouth wide, grinning toothily. It so loved to confuse the boy. There was nothing better than seeing the trust in the child's eyes fade as he realized that he, once again, was wrong and that his father- or so he believed- hated him.

John finished his beer and threw the can in the garbage. He stepped over his son on his way to the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

The dybbuk stared at its host's face in the mirror. John's eyes were smouldering with anger; the emotion directed at the creature, its the best the hunter could do, and the dybbuk pulled the man's mouth back in a sneer.

W

"Sammy," John choked and sank to his knees, his hands tugging at his son.

"D… Daa…" Sam whimpered, his eyes closed and John's heart broke.

"It… It's not me, son," the father whispered, "It isn't… I swear to you."

The boy didn't respond but curled against his father's chest, seeking comfort.

Tears slipped down John's cheeks and dripped onto his son's t-shirt. Carefully, John picked up his son and laid him in the bed closest to the bathroom, wishing he could do more, wishing he could kill this monster using him like a puppet.

The father, knowing he didn't have much time- already feeling the dybbuk starting to take control again- leaned forward and kissed Sam's brow.

"I love you, Sammy."

SPN

Sam picked at the pork chop and green beans on his plate, not eating anything. Dean, hungry as always, had finished his first helping and had taken a second one.

"You alright, son?" Bobby asked, spearing a bean on his fork.

Sam nodded but didn't say a word. It had been nice to watch TV for a little while but he knew that things would change. Even though Dean and Bobby had done nothing to hurt him, Sam was still afraid. He couldn't help it. He had been scared for so long now that it seemed as though the feeling was a permanent fixture in his life now; that his paranoia guided his decisions, even here, in the safety of Bobby Singer's house.

"Sammy," Dean called his name, "Aren't you hungry?"

Sam shrugged. He stared down at his plate; it had been a long time since he'd actually had a home-cooked meal. He almost wasn't sure he should eat it.

"Do you want some soup instead?" Dean asked and Sam once again lifted his shoulders in that noncommittal gesture.

"Sam," Dean's expression turned serious, "I don't care what you eat as long as you have something, okay? Are you going to finish that pork chop or do you want soup?"

The boy swallowed, "No… I'll eat this."

He didn't want his brother or Bobby to take the food away.

Sam stabbed his fork into the green beans, gathering three or four at a time and stuffing them into his mouth without cutting them. After the beans, Sam started in on the chop. Normally a picky eater, Sam surprised both of the older hunters by consuming everything save the bone- of course- though he would have eaten that as well, had he been able to.

"Wow, Sammy," Dean muttered, "That has to be a record. Ever think about entering a pie eating contest?"

Sam knew Dean was trying to lighten the mood, make him feel better but it didn't work. Sam's dinner weighed heavy in his stomach.

Sam lowered his head, "May I be excused?"

"Sure Sam," Dean said, his tone sad as he watched his younger brother get up and walk into the living room.

The boy clambered onto the couch and sat with his legs drawn up to his chest, his chin resting on his knees. He knew Dean was trying and Sam appreciated that, really, he did. Dean had been the one to find him in Delaware but he simply couldn't shake the idea that his brother was just biding his time and that he would hurt him as his father had.

A tear of frustration leaked from Sam's eye and he sighed, unsure of what to do.

W

"D-Dad! No! Ple-please!" Sam cried out and tried to wrest his arm out from his father's grip.

John only tightened his fist and Sam whimpered in pain, "N-no."

"What did you say?" He demanded, glaring down at his son.

Tears streamed down Sam's face and he tried to catch his breath enough to speak.

"I- I d-didn't-" John shook his son, one hand still on his boy's wrist, the other gripping his shoulder, "Spit it out!"

"I didn't s-say anything," Sam muttered pitifully, "I didn't, I swear."

"Please Dad," Sam continued to beg, "Please, I won't talk again…"

John didn't respond. He released his hold on Sam's shoulder and took the cigarette he was smoking out of his mouth.

Sam's eyes widened, "No… please… not again…"

With the hand still holding Sam's wrist, John shoved his son's sleeve up- revealing old scars all down his forearm- and lowered the burning end of the cigarette.

Sam shook his head frantically, knowing that his father would not stop. He cried out when the hot end of the cigarette touched his skin and tried to pull his arm away.

John raised the hand burning his son and backhanded Sam across the face, releasing him at the same time so the boy sprawled on the floor.

"You never fucking learn, do you?" John asked and stood up, wiping his hands on his jeans.

Sam sat up, supporting himself with his elbows, and watched as his father grabbed a beer from the fridge. The boy looked down at his arm, at the angry red burn standing out against pale skin. Maybe he'd be able to go into the bathroom and run cold water over it. Standing shakily, Sam began walking in that direction when John turned his head to look at him.

"Don't even think about it."

Sam shrank into himself; shoulders slumped and walked away from the bathroom, climbed into his bed instead and pulled the covers over his head, sniffling sadly.

He hadn't even said anything to anyone. The motel's manager had come to their door while John was out and had told Sam that his father either needed to pay for another night or leave. John had only heard that Sam had spoken to him when the manager had flagged him down as he returned, demanding the money and threatened to call the cops.

Sam closed his eyes and bit his lip, trying to ignore the pain in his arm. His wrist hurt to move it even a little and the burn throbbed.

Curling up around his injured arm, Sam tried to breath as lightly as possible, pretend he's asleep in case his father wanted to hurt him some more.

Eventually the boy's eyes closed and he drifted into an uneasy slumber, waking in the middle of the night when he rolled over onto his sore arm and finally crept into the bathroom, running the cold water tap from the sink over the pulsing burn on his forearm, trying not to look at his swollen, bruised wrist.

SPN

Dean stared unenthusiastically at his plate for a moment before standing up and heading into the living room after his brother. Bobby said nothing, didn't even look at Dean. He just took a sip of beer and continued eating.

The older brother was glad that the grizzled hunter wasn't trying to tell him what he should do. He had been prepared to hear a gruff, 'leave the boy alone' come from behind him but there was nothing.

Dean stepped into the living room and saw that Sam had one of his shirtsleeves pushed up to the elbow and he was staring at the underside of his forearm.

Frowning, the older Winchester sat on the couch beside his sibling and saw that Sam appeared to be gazing intently at the scars on his arm. Dean reached out and took hold of Sam's wrist, pulling his sleeve down with his other hand. Sam looked up at him with a deer-in-the-headlights expression for a moment before pulling his arm from Dean's grasp.

"It wasn't Dad," Dean muttered, "You know that better than anyone, Sammy. It wasn't him. It was a monster."

The boy frowned, glancing down and biting his lip.

"Sammy?" Dean tilted his head to try and catch his sibling's eye, "Dad loved us… both of us."

When the younger boy looked up, there were tears in his eyes and he shook his head.

"Sam-" Dean began but was interrupted by his brother.

"I was never good enough for him, even before you left for school," Sam said quietly, his eyes blank and his expression far-away, "I was never going to be the great hunter he wanted me to be. I was never going to be like you and he knew it."

Dean frowned, brow furrowed, "That didn't mean he didn't care about you, Sammy."

The younger boy said nothing so Dean continued, "We have different talents; just because I'm good at killing beasties, doesn't mean you have to be. You can figure out how to kill anything with all the research you do. I hate the stuff but you love reading that crap."

"He got so mad at me whenever I messed up a hunt… I almost saw him thinking about it," Sam said as though Dean hadn't spoken, "Hitting me, I mean. I could almost see the thought cross his mind whenever I got him… or you… hurt."

Dean didn't know what to say. Of course John Winchester wasn't a saint- far from it- but he couldn't fathom the man even considering laying a hand on either of them.

"Well," Dean said, swallowing the lump in his throat, "He's gone now so you don't have to worry about that."

Sam nodded once and laid his cheek against one jean-clad knee.

Dean was at a complete loss as to what he was supposed to do. His brother had seen such a different side to their father that the older boy wasn't quite sure what to think anymore.

No, Dean told himself, I know Dad. He would never hurt us; he loved us. It was all that dybbuk, not him.

Sighing, Dean wrapped a comforting arm around his brother's thin shoulders and squeezed, feeling tears prick the corners of his eyes when Sam tensed at his touch.

W

Dean had been staring at the same passage for nearly ten minutes now but no matter how hard he glared at it, the words revealed nothing more. It was early morning- last night's conversation with his brother weighing heavily on his mind and preventing much sleep- but he just had to find the monster who had hurt Sam, who had masqueraded as their father and ruined his brother's memory of the man.

Bobby sat down across from him and cleared his throat loudly.

"Yeah?" Dean muttered despondently and Bobby slid the book out from under the young man's nose, closing it.

"There's something you should know about dybbuks," the veteran hunter said softly.

Dean eyed the older man suspiciously, "What?"

Bobby sighed and scratched his beard irritably, "Well, they don't like loose ends, you know. They don't get to happy if their victims survive their attack."

Dean's heart lurched and his mouth went dry with fear, "What does that mean, Bobby? Is that thing going to come back for Sam 'cause he's not dead?"

Bobby sighed and nodded, "It's a very real possibility."

"Jesus! When were you going to tell me this?!" Dean stood up angrily, the fear for his brother clear on his face.

"I called up the local rabbi and talked to him after you and Sam went to bed," Bobby replied, "Since the texts were giving us jack shit."

"Can we get rid of it? For good?" Dean asked and Bobby nodded, "But there's more you should know."

"The rabbi said that if a dybbuk's victim was not killed in the initial attack and there were any close relatives of that person around, well, let's say the monster likes to keep things in the family."

Dean's mouth went dry and he sat down heavily in his chair, "That means that it could-"

"Possess you like it possessed yer Daddy," Bobby finished ruefully.

Dean ran a hand through his short-cropped hair and sucked in a shaky breath.

"This ain't all bad, son," Bobby continued but Dean glared at him, "How can this be good, Bobby? Some fucking evil spirit could use me to hurt Sammy!"

"Well," the grizzled hunter said slowly, "We know that there is an excellent chance of it coming here and that means we can trap it and destroy it for good."

Dean laughed humorously, "Right… That'll work."

Bobby quirked an eyebrow at him, "They can't be tracked, Dean, so unless yer willing to let it go on its merry way, I don't see a problem."

Dean scowled at the older man, "But only if you agree. I can try a few warding spells an' see if they'll keep that dybbuk from getting up in ya."

The young man closed his eyes for a moment, "Can I think about this?"

"'O course you can," Bobby told him, "Just don't think on it too long."

Both older hunters looked up when Sam shuffled sleepily into the kitchen.

"Hey Sam, you ready for breakfast?" Dean asked, quickly shoving the text he'd been reading, aside.

The boy nodded and sat down, one had ruffling his sleep-mussed hair. Dean frowned at the sight of the old cigarette burns on his sibling's forearm as the sleeve of Sam's pajama top slid down.

The older brother looked at Bobby and nodded; he'd do it. Nothing was going to hurt his brother ever again. The dybbuk was going to wish it hadn't fucked with the Winchesters when they were finished with it.

Author's Note:

1. Chapter title comes from a Metallica song of the same name.

2. Thanks to supersamkan, sarah, mandancie, BranchSuper, CeCe Away, cold kagome, DianaLadris802, L.A.H.H, LeeMarieJack, reannablue, Stoney Angel and lillelouis for reviewing.

3. So sorry for the ridiculously long wait. Please leave a comment!