What Dean doesn't know can't hurt him, Sam reasons. He knows his mind is deteriorating every time his father touches him. He winces and wills his mind to stop thinking about it.
It's December, the breeze is cool to his face. He stuffs his hands into his jean pockets and sits on the yellow curb. He doesn't particularly like the feel of cold pavement, but Dean is over twenty minutes late and he's tired of standing. Sam is just about to pull the homework out of his bag when he finally hears the Impala coming down the street. He jumps into the front seat next to his brother, incredibly thankful he has the heater on.
Sam doesn't really hear anything Dean says until "I'm leaving for a hunt tomorrow".
His stomach drops, he turns to face Dean.
"What?" Sam mutters, "You just got back from the last one."
"Well, that's the thing about ghosts Sammy, there's tons of 'em"
"Can't I go with you this time? You know I'm great at research, I won't bug you I promise." Sam pleads.
"Dad wants you home. He worries about you." Dean glances over at Sam, he looks spaced out. "Next time, okay?"
"Yeah, Dean." Neither of them say anything the rest of the ride back.
Sam helps Dean pack, he makes sure he doesn't forget anything and double checks the important stuff. Their father scarcely appears except to say goodbye and Sam is thankful for that.
"It's Friday, I'll try my best to be back before Monday, alright?" Dean tells Sam. Sam nods. That's another whole weekend he has alone with me! His mind screams at him.
All too soon Sam sees Dean off, they part with their usual, "Jerk." "Bitch." and he's gone. The only thing that keeps his father's hands off him is gone.
Suddenly the house they're renting for the month feels colder and empty. Avoid him. Avoid him. Avoid him. Sam repeats to himself. Night falls without incident and Sam prays it'll stay like that. He tries his hardest to sleep, but the worry keeps him awake. He glances at the clock, something he's been willing himself not to do. It flashes 3:46 in red numbers and Sam groans.
The floorboards at his bedroom door creak and Sam's breath hitches. No. No. No. No. No. N- the doorknob twists and a figure peaks it's head in. Breathe, Breathe. Pretend to be asleep. It'll be okay. Sam can smell the whisky on his father from across the room. The door creaks and softly shuts. Sam exhales and turns to his side, facing the wall. Tears threaten to fall, he can't stand being so terrified.
Saturday morning Sam wakes to an empty house.
"He's probably out getting supplies." He whispers to himself.
He spends the day spaced out and on edge. The smallest noise makes him jump and he begins to think this is intentional, that his father is trying to make him paranoid.
Sam sits on the couch in silence, he gave up on doing anything productive hours ago. He'll want me when he gets home. When his father wants something he gets it. When John finally stumbles in half past 12 he's drunk and angry. He slams the door violently behind him. Sam winces and he can hear his heart beating loudly in his ears. John starts towards Sam, anger and lust like fire burning in his eyes.
John grabs his son's shirt, twisting the ratty material in his hand. He slaps Sam hard across his face. Sam can't breathe and tries to pry his father's hand off his shirt, he's nearly being lifted off the couch his father's grip on him is so tight; his collar is strung harshly against his windpipe. Sam is gasping for breath when his father finally lets go. Sam backs up as far into the couch as it allows him. John goes for him again, this time with his arm around Sam's neck, holding his hand to the boy's mouth. Sam whimpers, it's muffled and weak.
John drags him to his bedroom and throws him down onto the bed. He holds Sam down by his shoulders and practically rips his shirt off. Sam's hands are pathetically attempting to push his father off him.
"No," he pauses to catch his breath, "stop."
"With the way you lust after your brother I'm surprised you're not begging me to get inside you, little slut."
What is he talking about?
Another slap to the face, the sound echoes off the walls and Sam's lip breaks open. Blood fills his mouth but now his adrenaline is pumping. He attempts to shove his father off him again. John grabs Sam's wrists in his hand and flips him over.
"Get off me!" Sam shouts. His cries fall on deaf ears as John struggles to get his and his son's jeans off. Sam tries kicking at his father, but soon gives up and goes limp.
"Please don't do this, please." Sam whimpers.
"Shut up." John spits.
The pain is searing.
Well, that's all I got. I'll probably write more later. Review if you want, it's always appreciated! Goodnight, loves.