A/N: Okay, so I know it's been a long time, but, hear me out, this chapter is almost 1500 words longer than usual, so?

Warnings for this chapter: Swearing and violence. Like a lot of violence. Like torture. But none of it happens to Sam

John Winchester was angry. Of all the feelings coursing through his veins, the shame, worry, pain, grief even, anger was the one he latched onto. Anger was what he held close when Mary died. It was what fueled him to keep fighting the good fight. Anytime a monster got a win, John refused to grieve the death, choosing to turn the pain into anger. Anger was familiar, easy. He could work with that emotion. He knew how it would manifest itself, and how best to use it to his advantage. If the anger grew too strong for him to handle, he turned to the bottle for comfort. Sometimes, if he drank enough, the pain would go away temporarily, leaving behind an empty numbness. Sometimes the anger would stay present, even as the world around him grew hazy, and he would raise his fists in search of a fight. He never remembered much the next morning, just the blur of fists, and sometimes new bruises where the other guy had gotten a few good licks in. Sometimes, he woke up sprawled outside of the bar, but most times he woke up inside of the motel room, on his bed, covered in a blanket with aspirin and a glass of water on his nightstand. Dean was usually quiet and subdued on those mornings. Sometimes he walked stiffer than normal, and a part of John wondered if it were possible that he could have hit his son in his drunken rage the night before. He never could work up the courage to ask, and Dean never mentioned anything. What was that saying? Ignorance is bliss? 'Course Bobby would disagree, saying that ignorance is just that; ignorance. And probably stupidity. Well, what did Bobby know? That man was too preachy for his own good, always trying to tell him how to raise his boys.

He shook himself free of his thoughts and gazed at the passing scenery outside of the bus window. The trees had given way to drier land, and sagebrush. It wouldn't be long before he reached his destination; a house outside of Lawrence, Kansas that sat on a rather large piece of property. The bus stopped in Lawrence, which was where he got off. He left town, then paused to pull his gun from his duffel.

It only took him 15 minutes to walk to Mark Reed's house. He found the hunter sitting in his study, reading a book on Greek lore.

"John," the man greeted him. "This is a pleasant surprise, I didn't know you were coming." John smiled disarmingly.

"Yeah, I wanted it to be a surprise," as he spoke he casually moved closer to the man's desk.

"Is everything all right?" Mark wondered. "Where are your boys at?"

"Well, see, here's the thing," John gripped the collar of Mark's shirt, and held him against the wall, jabbing his gun into the man's stomach. "I have one tiny problem, and it just so happens to involve you."

"John, what's going on?" Mark questioned. "What's the matter with you?"

"What's the matter with me?" John's voice is incredulous. "What's the matter with you?! You're the sicko that gets off on beating up kids!"

"What in the world are you talking about, John?"

"I can't speak for anyone else's kids, but I know what you did to my boy," John growled.

"Oh come on, John, really?" Mark retorted. "You weren't complaining when I returned your son with a fixed attitude problem. How did you think I was going to fix him? With hugs and kisses and hot chocolate?"

"I certainly wasn't expecting you to whip my child!" John shook him a little.

"You know the saying, John: 'Spare the rod, spoil the child.' What, are you gonna stand there and tell me you've never beaten either of your boys? Never disciplined with the rod?"

"I would never intentionally hit either of my children," John snarled.

"So you've hit them, then?" Mark jabbed, a self-satisfied expression resting on his face. John pistol-whipped the side of Mark's head, effectively knocking him unconscious. He woke him up with a splash of water after securing him to a chair.

"Alright, here's how this is gonna go," John didn't take time to beat around the bush. "I'm gonna use a nice bit of magic to find out exactly what you did to my son, and then, I'm gonna do it all to you. At the end of it all, I'll kill you. Or, maybe, I'll let you live. We can decide that when we get there."

John takes his time setting up the spell, relishing in the other man's discomfort. "Only two more ingredients," he finally speaks. "A few drops of my blood, and some of your DNA. Now I could just use a few drops of blood, or some hair, but that would be boring, wouldn't it?" He brings the bowl over, holding it underneath one of the man's hands.

"Come on John," Mark keeps his voice steady, but fear is beginning to creep into his eyes. "You don't have to do this."

"You're right. I don't," John stares into his eyes. "Fine, you don't wanna lose a finger? Then beg."

"What?"

"You heard me. I said beg. Beg me not to cut your finger off."

"You won't really cut it off," Mark scoffs. John pulls his knife out of the sheath on his belt, holding it against the man's pointer finger.

"Beg." he presses the knife into the skin, allowing the point to begin drawing blood.

"Please don't cut my finger off," Mark requests.

"I can't tell if you really mean that," John pushed. "Come on. Beg dammit!" He presses the knife down harder, and the blood wells up faster.

"Please, please don't," Mark cries. "Please I-I'll do anything. What do you want from me? I'll give you anything. Just please don't cut my finger off."

"Much better," John smirks. "That sounds more like begging. It's a good look on you. Submissiveness. I could spare your precious finger," he acts as though he's deliberating. "On the other hand, this is much more rewarding." In one clean swipe, the finger is detached, and falling into the bowl. John slices into his hand, dripping blood into the bowl while reciting the spell. A light emanates from the bowl, and both men's eyes roll to the back of their head. The first thing John sees is darkness. Then, the scene unveils itself.

John watches scene after scene of the abuse that his son suffers at the hands of Mark. By the end, he feels a bit sick, and can feel the beginning of tears building in his eyes. He ignores those feelings and pushes them down with that ever-present, driving anger. The light vanishes from the room, and both men refocus on the present.

"As you can clearly see, John," Mark spoke up first. "I did not abuse your son. I laid out a clear set of rules to follow, and informed him that there would be consequences if he broke them. He was well aware of why he was here, and how I intended to help him."

"Help him?" John growled dangerously. "My son is sick, Reed! He's been suffering ever since he left here, and didn't even tell Dean something was wrong. We found out something was seriously wrong, when he collapsed due to a high fever caused by the onset of infection in his chest wound that he stitched up in your living room while you were who knows where doing who knows what!"

"Calm down, John," Mark was still trying to weasel his way out of the situation. "He's young. He'll recover."

"And what if we hadn't noticed until it was too late?" John interrogated.

"Well now," Mark smirked. "Not noticing how bad of health your son is in sounds like bad parenting to me. It seems to me like maybe I'm not the only one who has hurt your boy. How many other times have you not noticed that he was doing bad until it got worse? Huh?"

"You have no right to judge me on how I raise my boys you cocky son of a bitch!" John threw a fist into the man's jaw, hearing a satisfying pop. He untied the man from the chair, and secured his wrists together behind his back, forcing the man to walk out to the training ground. Once there, John secured the rope around the pole in the center. He noticed a shed a little ways off, and went inside to investigate. Once inside, he was pleased to note that it was stocked with nearly every torture device he could possibly want. He perused for a moment, grabbed down a long thin whip that was hanging coiled on the wall, and returned outside. He paused for a moment, closing his eyes and thinking back to what he had seen in his trance. The fists flying into his son's body… The boots kicking at his son's ribcage…

The long, thin whip curling through the air and striking his boy's back, causing him to cry out in agony.

He let his fists fly in rapid motion, until he was sure he had struck every part of Mark's midsection, chest, and back. The man's military training kicked in, and he was silent under the blows, which only served to fuel John's anger. When John was satisfied with his fists' handiwork, he paused for a moment, wiping sweat off his brow, and picking up the whip. At the first lash, Mark couldn't help a whimper of pain that escaped past his lips.

John reveled in it, finding himself slipping into a strange, morbid euphoria as the man's pained sounds slowly grew louder, until he was crying out in agony. He didn't stop his beating until the man lost consciousness. He decided to let the man regain awareness naturally, while he prepared the next step of his punishment. The next step was an unfair battle with a wendigo. John was, of course lacking a wendigo, but he figured a knife would just about do the trick of slashing into the man's chest so that he could crudely put it back together again with purposely messy stitches.

It only took Mark about three minutes to stir, and John took some pleasure in noting the lines of pain creasing the man's forehead.

"Welcome to round two," John gazed into his eyes intently. "Before we start, I've got a few questions for you. Oh, and I expect you to address me as sir, he emphasized. "Understand?"

"Perfectly, sir," the man spat.

"Ah ah," John wagged his finger in the air. "That was a very disrespectful tone. You understand I have to punish you for that, right? Remember, it's just discipline. It's not abuse if I'm doing it to teach you a lesson, right?" He was met with silence. "Answer me, Reed," his voice was heavy with warning. "Let's not make this any more difficult than it has to be."

"Yes, sir," Mark's face was flushed with shame, and his eyes were focused pointedly at the ground.

"Good job," John smiled eerily. "See how much better things will be for you if you just respect me, and do as I ask?" He could see that Mark was squirming in discomfort at his own words being parroted back at him. Good. Let him squirm. "Since this was your first offense, I'll go easy on you. Which is more than you ever did for my son, I might add. Just ten lashes, and then we can move on to the wendigo training exercise." The lashes were inconsequential in the scheme of things; their pain would be lost amongst the other pain that Mark was no doubt in at the moment. It was the principle of it that was important.

Mark failed to hide the fear in his eyes as he watched the sun glint off of the blade of the knife. John cut deep, making the cuts as similar as he could to the ones the wendigo had inflicted on his son. He watched the blood drip mesmerizingly for a minute or two, before opening the first aid kit he had grabbed, and grabbing out the suture kit. The stitches he made were purposely messy and uneven, and although he was highly skilled in making near painless stitches, he made sure to tug and pull the skin as much as he could, to create as much pain as he could. Every time Mark started to pass out from the pain, John would pause, waiting for him to wake back up. When he was done, he moved to the back of the man, and doused his cuts and welts from the whip in rubbing alcohol. At the man's loudly uttered curses, John spoke again.

"Language," he warned, calmly. He took a large roll of gauze, and wrapped it around the man's midsection. "We're gonna take a break now," he smiled. "I would untie you, but then I'd have to be worried about you attacking me. See, you're just so disrespectful, I have to keep you tied up for now. It's not because I want you to suffer or anything. You know that, right?" When he was met with silence, he raised his hand and struck the man's cheek. "Answer me," he demanded.

"Yes sir," Mark blinked away stars.

"Good. You get as comfortable as you can, because I plan on taking a shower, and then eating some food, so you'll be here for quite a while," John was still smiling, and he enjoyed seeing how uncomfortable it was making Mark. "If you're really good, I might bring you some food and water. Does that sound nice?"

"Yes sir," Mark's voice was rough, and he looked moments away from collapsing.

"That was very respectful of you," John couldn't help himself. "You know what, just for that, I'm going to let you lie down." He unhooked the man's hands from the pole, tying them to the bottom of it instead. This meant that the man could lay down if he curled around the pole. "What do you have to say about this Mark?" John stared at him.

"Th-thank you sir," Mark panted from the exertion and pain of changing positions.

"You're welcome," John turned away. "I'm going to go take a shower now. You be good." As he walked away, he secretly hoped the man would try something, if only so that he had an extra reason to make the man scream.

Thank you all so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed this chapter.