A/N Hey, all! Sorry it's been so long since I last updated this. I don't live alone and my sister is sick a lot, and pretty demanding of my time. Add work to that and...well, writing takes an unfortunate backseat.
Anyhoo, here's the next chapter - a long one, with a lot of angst and pain, but no actual violence, per se.
I've elected to keep Dean's POV here, so we don't actually see what happens between John & Sam, but only the aftermath. Nevertheless, some of the descriptions and explanations may be disturbing to some. If discussion of child abuse and description of injuries caused by same are triggering for, you may want to skip this chapter.
I still own nothing.
Reviews and comments would be most welcome, even if it's to point out a mistake or tell me it sucks. Just some kind of feedback! We all live for it, don't we?
superobes thanks so much for commenting! And, as you'll see, you read my mind. Or Dean's at least!
CHAPTER 5
2 hours later, Dean was sitting on the hood of the Impala drinking a beer. He wasn't sure that he was of legal drinking age in this state, but it was early enough in a still chilly and wet spring season that theirs was the only cabin currently rented, and he didn't figure that the owners were likely to make trouble for them. Besides, his ID said he was 21, and that was what counted, right?
He'd been sitting there for 20 minutes, now, waiting for his Dad to come out of the cabin.
For the first hour or so after Sam and Dean had arrived— late, Dad was quick to both point out and blame Sam for— Dean had done as his baby brother asked and made himself scarce.
He'd gassed up the Impala, and had washed all her windows, her headlights and taillights carefully. Twice. First to wash the grime off, then to make her sparkle, like she deserved to. He'd given her rims a good rinsing, too, and never mind that the gas station attendant gave him weird looks. Douche probably drove Yugo.
He'd found a really good — and very inexpensive — hot dog place not far from the cabin, and had ordered 6 dogs — 4 chili cheese, 2 with just ketchup, onions and relish — and some excellent fries, as well as some rabbit food for Sammy. The dogs were outstanding, and he'd even saved one plain and one chili cheese for Dad. There were even a few fries left. Maybe.
It went without saying that Sammy's salad was intact.
He'd gone up on the nearby Blue Ridge Parkway, which even he had to admit was beautiful, and stopped for a bit at an Overlook to take in the valley below. And to eat 2 chili cheese dogs and an order of fries.
Then, he'd come back to the cabin, fully expecting to find that Dad's truck was gone.
It wasn't.
Which was not in any way a good sign.
Dad and Sammy had been in the cabin — alone, very much against Dean's better judgment — for almost an hour and half.
Dad had had a mad on when they arrived, and as Dean was pulling out of the parking space in front of their cabin, he could hear his Dad yelling.
Figure a max of 15-20 minutes of just shouting. That still left over an hour of Dad wailing on his little brother.
Which, in all honesty, wasn't what had Dean so nervous that his foot kept tapping against the Impala's grille. Dean knew perfectly well that on three other occasions — that he knew of — his Dad had spent nearly two hours beating Sammy up, and Sammy had still come out with a single bruised rib, a sprained wrist and shit ton of bruises, but nothing more serious than that.
In the past four years or so, Dad had become particularly good at delivering the maximum amount of pain with the minimum amount of damage. A skill Dean was by turns grateful for and nauseated about.
No, the length of twisted "together time" Dad was spending with his baby brother wasn't what had him nervous — okay, considerably more than nervous. Call it…concerned.
With a side order of panic.
Because there was no sound from within the cabin.
Dad had stopped shouting.
Now, those uninitiated in John Winchester's method of handling his youngest son would probably think that a lack of shouting was a good thing.
Dean, by contrast, was all too familiar with John's habits, particularly when it came to dealing with Sammy. Dean knew better.
When Dad was…disciplining…Sammy, the shouting didn't stop. It usually increased for a while, as his Dad warmed up a bit, before settling down to an expletive, insult, or recitation of Sammy's shortcomings (which were too numerous to fully cover, in Dad's opinion) with every second or third blow, slap, punch, or kick.
Dad only stopped yelling when Sammy stopped responding. Didn't matter what the response was — crying, begging, grunting, screaming, even agreement with whatever Dad said— as long as there was any response from Sammy, the shouting kept on.
For Dad to not be shouting meant one of two things: Either his throat hurt from all the yelling and he'd toned the volume down to spare his voice (something which had, to Dean's knowledge, never yet occurred); or Sam was no longer responding, something which, in all the times Dean had witnessed such an altercation between the two most important people in his life, had also never happened.
At least, not while Sam was still fully conscious.
So, hurt vocal chords or an unconscious or, at best, semi-conscious little brother.
Dean knew where he was placing his bets, and he wasn't planning on buying his Dad any throat lozenges.
He looked at his watch again. He'd been out here for 25 minutes, now. When it hit 30, he was going in, and damn the consequences.
The only reason he hadn't gone inside yet was that the consequences of Dean stepping in to one of Dad and Sammy's appointments usually were visited on Sammy, not Dean.
He remembered once, when Sammy was about 11, Dad and Sammy got into it — even Sammy admitted, later, that he'd been disrespectful — and Dad had, for the first time, used what had since become his usual disciplinary methods on the younger boy, until Dean had stepped in after about 10 minutes, physically pulling his Dad off his brother.
Dad had hit Dean for interfering — only once, but it was a solid punch to Dean's solar plexus that had knocked the teen to ground and took his breath away. Then, when Dean was staring at his father from the floor, trying to remember how to breathe, he went back to working Sammy over.
Once he could talk again, Dean begged him to stop hitting Sammy, and after a few minutes, right about the time 15-year-old Dean had started actually crying, Dad quit.
Until Dean was asleep.
Once Dean was blissfully unaware, Dad had pulled a sleeping Sammy from his bed in whatever crap motel they were in at the moment, took him out back of the motel where no one — including Dean — would see or interfere and literally beat the shit of the kid. He then left Sam, unconscious by then, in the empty field behind the motel while he returned to the room to grab his keys and head out to a bar.
It had been somewhere in Upper New York State, if Dean remembered correctly. He knew it had been winter, with a good foot of snow on the frozen ground. If Dean hadn't heard his father come back inside for his keys, and noticed immediately that Sammy wasn't in the room, his little brother would have undoubtedly frozen to death. It was a near thing as it was, and Dean considered it one of the few instances of the Winchester Luck working in their favor that Sammy hadn't lost any fingers or toes to frostbite.
He had come down with pneumonia, of course, and naturally Dad wasn't about to take Sammy to the hospital, but Dean had nursed him through it. Barely.
They'd learned their lesson after that, he and Sammy, and learned it well. Now, by mutual agreement between the brothers, Dean only interfered with Dad's punishments for Sammy if it looked like serious, permanent damage would be done if he didn't. Because, although Dad always stayed just this side of outright killing or crippling Sammy, the beatings were usually less severe when Dean was around. It made Dean both sick and grateful that, if he could believe what Sammy had told him earlier, the only reason Dad stayed on the right side of the line was that Dean would be devastated to lose his baby brother.
But they'd learned, after that cold New York State night, that if Dean interfered too early, the punishment for Sammy only got worse. Maybe not in that moment, but certainly the next time Dean was unable to be there, protecting his brother.
So, Dean kept out of it as much as he safely could. Because, in a case of the most twisted possible logic Dean could conceive of, letting his brother get the tar beat out of him for an hour or so was actually the way he could keep Sammy the safest.
It killed Dean to watch it, to hear it, sometimes to almost feel it when Dad hit his Sammy. But what choice did he have, really?
He'd thought of leaving and taking Sammy with him. He'd wanted to split by the time Dean was 16 and Sammy was only 12, a little more than a year after Dad had started really hurting his little brother. But he knew that, no matter how careful they were, no matter how good they'd become at prevaricating about their adult supervision ( a life skill Dean had been forced to become an expert in by age 7), at some point, somehow, some time, someone would figure out that they were two underage kids living without adult supervision, and some well-meaning moron would call DFS. They'd be put into The System and, in all likelihood, separated. And being separated from Sammy? Dean's heart ached just thinking about it. It was, in all honesty, something he didn't think either of them would survive.
So they waited and didn't actually try to get away until Dean became a legal adult at 18. He and Sammy waited until Dad left for a hunt, then contacted a Family Law center with the story that their Dad had died recently, and Dean wanted to take custody.
They'd almost pulled it off. Another two, maybe three days, and they would've been GONE. But the hunt Dad was on ended much sooner than anyone expected it would, and Dad had come home nearly a week early.
It was one of the few times Dad had really laid into Dean, as well as Sammy (of course, Sammy got it worse, because such a defection had to be Sammy's fault, right?), and Dad had made it crystal clear that if they ever tried such a thing again, he'd track them down and bring them back. And since their Dad was probably the greatest Hunter in the world, there was no doubt in any of the Winchesters' minds that John would find them, and drag them back to whatever crappy motel du jour they were at, and then… well, it was obvious neither Dean nor Sammy would like the results. Particularly Dean, who found that more often that not, he was far more upset when Dad beat the hell out of Sammy than Sammy was himself.
There was always the possibility that Dean could leave on his own, of course. He was of legal age, after all, and there was nothing Dad could legally do to stop him. But he had no illusions as to what would happen to Sammy without Dean around, and Dean would never put his baby brother at risk. Well, at more risk than usual.
Besides, what was legal for John Winchester to do and what he'd actually do generally only waved at each other in passing.
Dean looked at his watch again. 28 minutes, he'd been sitting here, and he was done waiting. He finished his beer and tossed it into the trash can near the front of the cabin, and stood.
That was as far as he got.
The cabin door opened, and his Dad stepped out. Dean's eyes grew wide as he watched his father wipe splatters of blood from his hands and face with a bandanna.
"I'm going out," John told him, heading to the big black truck parked next to the Impala.
"Yes, sir," Dean managed to force the words out around the heart firmly lodge in his throat.
"You're not to leave this cabin until I get back," John continued and paused to meet his eldest son's gaze. "Either of you. Under any circumstances. For any reason. Is that clear?"
"Yes, sir," Dean said softly.
"What?"
"Yes, Sir!" Dean repeated and pulled himself to attention.
"Okay," John nodded, climbed into the truck and in seconds was gone, no doubt to find booze or a woman. Or, probably, both.
Dean stood in the yard in front of the cabin, for a moment, trying not to hyperventilate remembering the blood his father had wiped away.
"Sam," he whispered, and ran full tilt into the cabin, slamming the door behind him.
"Sam!" he called as he took a quick look at the large, open space at the front of the cabin which created a great room, combinng the tiny kitchen, living room and dining area.
No Sam.
"Sammy?!" he repeated, louder this time, and for a moment, started up the steep ladder-like stairs which led to the bedroom he and Sam shared in the loft area above. (He knew his Dad well enough to know that there was no reason to check the downstairs bedroom, where Dad slept. For whatever reason, if John had a separate sleeping area wherever they stayed, he never punished either of his sons in his own bedroom.)
He was two steps up the stairs when he stopped, and looked down the hall towards the back of the cabin, where the screened-in porch overlooking the French Broad River led to the mud room and a connected bathroom.
"Sam? Sammy!" he called, and jumped off the ladder, drawn by some undefinable pull towards his baby brother.
He barely glanced at the mud room, and totally ignored the porch beyond, turning instead to the bathroom. The bathroom door was closed, but (thankfully) not locked, and Dean slid the pocket door into the wall.
His breath caught in his throat at the sight in front of him.
At first, all he could see was the blood. It was…everywhere. All over the intricately tiled walls; running into the slightly sunken drain inside the walk-in shower. It coated the sink, decorated the base of the toilet. It looked like a damn crime scene.
Or the end of a Hunt.
It was a full 30 seconds before his gaze followed the blood running to the drain back to the source.
"Sammy!" He rushed to his brother, who lay curled up with his back against the far wall. Dean dropped to his knees, reaching out to gently brush his brother's hair — stiff with blood, he was quick to note — out of Sammy's bruised, bloody, and swollen face.
"Oh, Sammy. I'm so sorry," he breathed, and moved his shaking hand down to rest lightly on his baby brother's blood-covered throat, half expecting to find it ripped out, as if a vampire or werewolf — not his father — had been here.
Sam's pulse was easily found, stronger, steadier than Dean expected, and he breathed a sigh of relief.
With a soft moan, Sam moved his head a little, as if to look at Dean.
Actually looking at Dean wasn't entirely possible, as Sammy's left eye was swollen completely shut and surrounded by a number of cuts. His right eye wasn't much better, but had at least the theoretical potential to open to a slit.
"Oh, god," Dean whispered, and began to expertly examine his brother for the extent of injury.
Visible injuries included his eyes, his lower lip, a cut on his left cheek, a slightly crooked and bloody nose…Hell, just save time and call it Sammy's FACE and move on.
Sammy was lying on his right side, holding his left hand to his stomach in what looked like a protective gesture, but that could mean either a hurt arm, wrist or hand; or bruising in his stomach or abdomen and possible internal bleeding.
Dean gently ran his hand down Sammy's left arm, immediately finding the dislocated shoulder, which Dean mentally marked down to be handled first after triage. Trailing his hand down the arm, Dean could feel an uneven surface in the upper arm which Dean had, unfortunately, reason to know was new; this not being their first post-beating rodeo, after all. Further down, two similar surface bumps roughly side by side.
None of the bumps were too pronounced, happily, so he could probably set them properly and bind them in a splint until he'd be able to beg and plead for his Dad to take Sammy to a hospital for proper care. Or, more likely, until Dad left on his next hunt, hopefully (and typically, after an altercation with Sammy) tomorrow morning.
Dad, in his parting instructions, had made it perfectly clear that Dean was not allowed to take Sammy to the hospital while he was out, as they were not to leave the cabin under any circumstances, for any reason.
Dean would hold to that, to avoid Sammy having to keep a second appointment. Unless, of course, Dean felt that Sammy couldn't wait for medical attention. If Sammy was that badly hurt — well, Dean would find a way to keep Sammy safe. Even if he needed to call DFS. Something that, even after all these years, he'd never once considered.
Moving on, there were several cuts on both of Sammy's hands, wrists and lower arms — defensive wounds, he knew. Not too many, actually — far fewer than one would expect, given the injuries received — but Dean knew Sammy tried not to fight back as much as possible. Still, reflex was reflex, and although their Dad had been trying to beat it out of him for years, Sam did still retain some instinct for self-preservation.
Dean gently moved Sammy's left arm away from his stomach and moved to straighten the wrist, but stopped when he found it both slightly swollen and warm to the touch. He'd wait for Sam to wake up fully before he checked if that was broken or just strained.
Carefully, as gently as possible he lifted the injured arm away from Sammy's torso, being careful to only rotate at the elbow, not the shoulder, and started to pull up his brother's tee.
"No," Sammy whimpered and Dean let go of the shirt to reach his hand up to gently stroke his brother's forehead.
"Easy," he whispered. "Take it easy, Sammy, it's just me."
"D'n?"
"Yeah, little brother, I'm here. I got you."
Sam gave a small sigh and visibly relaxed.
Dean lifted the left arm again, noting Sam's slight wince, and pulled the tee shirt up as far as he could.
Dean's own stomach tightened and he bit his lip, hard, to keep himself from crying.
Sammy's entire torso was a patchwork of dark bruises, some of which had the distinctive shape of a steel-toed boot, a few of them reflecting the tread. There were also a few actual cuts, the cause of which Dean couldn't immediately identify. They weren't from any knife he'd ever seen, he knew that much.
He pulled Sammy's shirt down again and lowered the left arm to rest once again on Sammy's stomach.
"Sammy," he said softly, "I'm gonna roll you onto your back, okay?"
"Unh-huh," Sammy agreed and hissed a little as Dean slowly, gently pulled him away from the wall and rolled him off his right side.
Right arm next. Much better shape than the left, Dean noted. Bruised, certainly, with the same sort of defensive wounds he'd found on the left. A little swollen around the elbow, but no breaks that he could feel, and nothing dislocated.
On to the legs. One look at the right ankle and it was obvious that was broken. Feet did not normally lie at that angle. He couldn't find any more breaks, but then again, he was checking through denim. He'd have to get Sammy undressed for a better evaluation, but that could wait a little while at least.
Dean shifted, and moved up to kneel by his baby brother's shoulders.
"Sammy?" he said softly and lightly stroked the blood-soaked hair, checking for active bleeding even as he tried to comfort. Several open gashes, one still actively bleeding— it felt wide, might need stitches— and at least two rising lumps, each about the size of a golf ball.
Probable concussion, then, which changed the priorities.
"Sammy, come on, wake up," he urged and lightly tapped the blood- and tear-streaked cheeks.
"Mmmm"
"Sammy, come on. Come back to me, little brother. Come on, Sammy. Wake up. Come on back, bud. I need to check you out, here. I need to see your eyes."
A soft snort, and Dean knew Sammy was back among the conscious.
"Okay," Dean smiled. "I need to see your eye. As much of it as you can show me, anyway."
Slowly, with obvious difficulty and pain, Sammy forced his right eye open. It didn't open much but it was enough to make sure that Sammy was reasonably alert.
"Dean," he muttered, only the right side of his mouth really moving.
Dean frowned and gently ran his fingers over the bloody, swollen face again, eliciting another hiss of pain. He couldn't find any breaks or dislocation at the jaw or cheek bone.
Hopefully the lack of movement was just from the swelling on that side of his face, and not (please, please, not) a stroke triggered from the beating.
"I'm here," Dean told him and gave a little smile that he hoped was more encouraging than horrified.
"He gone?"
"Yeah," Dean nodded. "He went out. Just for the night, so far. His duffle's still here."
Sam tried to nod and gasped instead, raising his right arm towards his head.
"Hup," he muttered, then paused and frowned. "Help me…up," he tried again.
"You sure?" Dean frowned. "You probably have a concussion, dude."
Sam turned his one slit eye onto his brother and somehow managed to convey a bitch face under all the blood and swelling. "Of COURSE I have a concussion," he confirmed, his words only slightly muffled and slurred. "Help me up, Jerk."
"Okay, okay. Don't get snippy, Bitch," Dean grinned. If his brother was snarking at him, the injuries might not be as bad as he thought.
Dean locked his elbow through Sam's right one and slowly pulled him up, slipping his other arm behind his brother's back to steady him.
For a moment, Sammy squeezed his one (really not all that) good eye closed and breathed deeply a couple times, before reaching up and patting Dean on the shoulder, letting him know they could unlock arms.
"How you feeling?" Dean asked.
Again, the implied bitch face. "Just dandy. You?"
"Not so hot really," he admitted, and Sam managed to imply a raised eyebrow in amongst his bruises. "See, my little brother got the shit kicked out of him, and wouldn't let me help."
Sam shifted slightly towards him, and Dean slid around behind his back, letting his baby brother lean against his chest, as their legs stretched out in front of them. Gently, Dean wrapped his right arm around Sam's chest and sighed into Sammy's unruly hair — still stupidly soft, Dean noted, excepting where the blood was dried in — as Sam relaxed against him.
Sam reached his right arm up to pat Dean's. "You're helping now," he said quietly. "Now's when I need you."
Dean nodded. "Okay. Okay, Sammy."
They stayed that way for a few minutes, then Sam spoke quietly.
"Figure my left arm's royally fucked up," he said softly.
"I felt a dislocated shoulder, and breaks in the middle of the humerus, and one each in both the ulna and the radius, about two, maybe two and half inches below the elbow," Dean confirmed. "That wrist is swollen too, and hot to the touch, but we can check that out in a few."
"Thanks, doc," Sam more or less (okay, less) smiled. "Think he broke my right ankle when he stepped on it. I don't think that was on purpose, though," he hastened to add when he felt Dean stiffen behind him. "He was trying to get me into the bathroom and I fell. My sudden stop, his momentum. Snap."
Dean nodded, but didn't feel any better about it.
"How're your ribs?"
"Decent, bruised at most," Sam shrugged and gasped in pain. "Okay, shouldntdothat," he admitted, pain making his words run together.
"Don't let little brother shrug," Dean confirmed. "Check."
Sam laughed a little and winced again. "Ooof."
"No laughing either," Dean added, deadpan, making Sam chuckle.
"You are such a jerk, big brother."
"I know," Dean grinned into Sam's hair. "But I'm your jerk big brother."
"Thank god," Sam agreed and rested his head back on Dean's shoulder with a sigh.
They stayed that way for several more minutes before Dean spoke up again.
"I need to look at your back and legs, Sammy."
"Bet you say that to all the girls."
"I do, yes," Dean readily admitted, "but for much more fun reasons. Seriously, dude. I need to finish checking you out."
Sam nodded. "Yep, I know," he agreed, and forced himself to sit up, away from the comfort of Dean's support. He reached his right hand down to the bottom of his shirt and tried to pull it up. "Ohh," he groaned softly in pain as his left arm moved.
Dean shook his head, knowing that anyone else — himself and Dad probably included — would have screamed when jostling a dislocated shoulder connected to an arm broken in three places. His baby brother's pain tolerance was way too high.
Dad would blame Hunting.
Dean blamed Dad.
"I hope you're not too attached to that shirt," he said quietly, and reached into his back pocket for his pen knife. "I think we're going to have to cut you out of it."
"Nah, not attached," Sam assured him. "It's yours."
"Asshole," Dean laughed and folded out the blade.
"You're the one who forgot to do laundry," Sam reminded him and tried to look over his shoulder, but stopped and took another deep breath.
"Another movement to add to the no-go list?" Dean guessed and cut the shirt from the bottom of the left sleeve all the way up to the neck, before pulling it away from Sam's left side and cutting from the hem to the neck. From there, it was easy to pull the remnants off Sam's right arm.
The knife clattered to the floor, and Dean tried to force himself to breathe.
"Dean?"
"Oh, god," Dean whispered and covered his mouth as he swallowed, hard, and concentrated, just for a moment, on keeping his hot dogs where he put them.
His right hand shook as he reached out to feather a touch over the crisscrossing cuts and welts on Sam's back. "How…" he began, but stopped when his voice came out too broken.
"His belt," Sam said in the matter of fact tone of discussing the weather.
"But…" Dean stopped, bit his lips and tried again. "He's used his belt before," he said quietly, trying to keep his voice as level and businesslike as his brother's. Failing. "It's never…cut you like this."
"Oh, yeah," Sam said and stopped himself from shrugging again. "He used the buckle end for a while."
"He…?"
Dean cracked, and crawled around on his knees to face his baby brother. His bruised, broken, cut, whipped baby brother. He pulled Sam into his arms, mindful of the broken and dislocated left arm, of the bruises covering his face, the cuts and welts on his back, all left there, not by a monster they had hunted, but by their own father.
He stroked the matted flop of hair, pulled Sammy's head to his shoulder, and rocked them both, an old movement that had soothed his little brother — and, if he were honest, himself — since before Sammy could walk.
"I hate him," Dean said, for the first time ever, and it felt right, it felt good to hate the bastard who did this to his little brother. "I hate him," he repeated. "I want to…I need…FUCK."
"Hey, hey," Sam said softly, "it's okay, Dean. I'm okay."
"OKAY?" Dean repeated and held Sammy closer — if that were possible. "Have you looked in a mirror?"
"No, actually," Sam said, his voice, growing ever stronger, now laced with amusement. "I mean, I'm in the bathroom, but I haven't been able to get off the floor in a while."
"Dammit, Sammy!" Dean's voice broke again.. "How can you joke about this? He…I…God dammit, if it were anyone else — anyone else, I'd kill the fucker for this!"
"I know, I know," Sam soothed him.
Sam soothed him. And that might be the most fucked up thing about this whole monumentally fucked up situation.
"I'm sorry," Dean whispered. "I'm so sorry, Sammy."
"You got nothing to be sorry for, Dean."
"You told me," Dean continued, ignoring Sammy's opinion. "You told me, just today, you told me. He hates you. He really HATES you. Why didn't I…we shouldn't have come back," Dean decided. "As soon as you told me, we should've turned around and headed straight for Pastor Jim's. Or Bobby's. Or California, fucking Alaska, or…anywhere but back to him. What kind of…God, Sammy, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
"Stop," Sam told him and gently disengaged, keeping his right hand on the back of his brother's neck. "Look at me," he told his brother and Dean tried, but had to look away, feeling sick, feeling lost, feeling so fucking ashamed.
"I as much as did this myself," Dean told him, softly.
"Stop."
"I'm supposed to protect you. That's my JOB, and I…there's no limit on who I'm supposed to protect you from."
"Dean, Stop."
"There's nobody I should just give a pass to, nobody, not even Dad. God Dammit! I should've…"
"DEAN!"
Dean snapped his eyes back to his brother's face.
"Stop," Sam repeated, his voice as gentle and soft as his right hand now cupping Dean's cheek and wiping the few tears Dean couldn't quite hold back away with his thumb. "It's okay. Really. It's okay."
"How?! How is any part of this fucking 'OKAY'?"
"Because you're here," Sam said calmly and managed a smile, with both sides of his mouth this time.
And was the swelling going down? His right eye was fully opened, and the left side of his mouth moved.
That's weird, Big Brother Dean couldn't help but think. Isn't that weird?
That's weird, Hunter Dean agreed.
But Sam was still talking, smiling and seemed…better. Which couldn't be a bad thing.
Could it?
"Sure, now I'm here. AFTER you get the snot kicked out of you, I'm here. What good does that do?" Dean scoffed.
"It does me a lot of good. I know that you've got my back, Dean."
"I've got…Seriously, have you seen yourself? Have you felt yourself?" Dean stopped and frowned. "That…I don't think that came out right."
Again, Sam smiled a smile he shouldn't be able to smile for at least another week. "I got it," Sam assured him.
"Why— WHY, after the way I let him treat you, every day... He always says that you can't do anything right. No matter what it is, anything good that happens is down to me, and anything bad that happens is always because of you. I swear he blames bad weather on you. High gas prices. And me? I barely even argue with him on it. Not because I agree with him, but because I convince myself it's better. It's not better. It's just easier. For everybody but you, and you're the one…" Dean closed his eyes and bit his bottom lip, trying to hold back the wetness gathering in his eyes. "And you think I have your back," he scoffed, "even now. Even after the way he…. After what I let…I fucking abandoned you, and he…God dammit, Sammy, when I first came in here, I thought he'd fucking killed you! This place looks like a serial killer's playroom!"
"I didn't think the tile was that ugly."
"Dammit, Sam!"
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Sam smiled at him again.
"Look around you, Sam," Dean challenged. "Look at the blood on the floor, and the sink, and…just…everywhere…and tell me again how I have your fucking back!"
"Okay," Sam said, far more calmly than the situation warranted, in Dean's opinion. "But I need you to listen, Dean. Really. LISTEN."
Dean took a deep breath. He didn't understand how his brother thought this was okay, how he thought that Dean was worth anything at all to Sam — to anybody — but if Sam wanted to explain — hell if Sam wanted to talk about anything, no matter how geeky — Dean would listen. He owed his baby brother that; so much more than that. He nodded and held his little brother's gaze, even though the soul-deep shame made him want to look anywhere else.
He could do this.
For Sam, he could do anything.
"I knew it was going to get bad, Dean," Sam admitted. "I knew that when I made you promise to leave."
"I never should have—-"
"Listening," Sam reminded him. "Not talking, not commenting, Dean. LISTENING."
Dean raised his hands in apology and nodded.
"Okay. I had a reason for not wanting you in the cabin while Dad was…being…well, Dad," Sam shook his head with a half-smile, as if talking about their father leaving his socks on the floor.
Is his face really getting that much better? Big Brother Dean wondered. I mean, he's still bruised, but isn't his left eye opening up some?
Yeah, and I don't like it, Hunter Dean added in a voice that sounded suspiciously like Dad's. Ain't natural.
Dean kept his focus on what Sammy was saying, ignoring the very real warnings from his subconscious that something weird was going on, telling himself that he didn't care how or why, as long as Sam was better. If he told himself that enough, it might even be true.
Sam exhaled heavily, and looked away for a minute, as if drawing courage from the blood-splattered wall tiles.
"If you'd been here," Sam continued and forced himself to meet Dean's gaze again, "I would've been distracted. Focused on you, and whatever you were saying or doing."
"Huh," Dean breathed. "I usually find a little distraction kind of helpful when I'm getting the shit kicked out of me and there's nothing I can do about it."
Sam shot him another bitch face, and raised his eyebrows. Both eyebrows, Dean noticed. Even the left one, which Dean hadn't been able to see through all the swelling and blood when he had first found Sam lying on the floor.
"Sorry," Dean nodded. "Listening."
"Right," Sam scoffed. "Point is, if I'd been distracted — he probably would have killed me, this time." Sam paused and wiped his right hand over his mouth and down his chin.
Dean stared and his heart skipped a few beats, then started pounding full out as if Dean were chasing a werewolf or a wendigo. Or being chased by one.
"As it was, it took all I had," Sam admitted softly. "He's never gotten that close." Sam's voice dropped to a whisper and his eyes lost focus, and he nervously chewed his right thumbnail.
Without thinking, Dean pulled Sammy's hand away from his mouth, for probably the millionth time in their lives. Sammy's perfect, unmarked, completely healed hand.
"Sammy?," Dean said quietly, staring at the hand he held, and couldn't stop or hide the way his voice was shaking. He let go, still staring at it
Sam came back to himself, and met Dean's gaze again. Hazel eyes went wide at the confusion, concern and fear he saw in Dean's green eyes, more familiar to him than his own. "Dean," Sam whispered and reached that healthy hand towards his big brother.
For the first time in Sam's 15 years, Dean flinched away from him.
"You don't need to be afraid," Sam said quietly and let his hand fall to his lap. "Not of me, Dean. Please. Please don't be afraid."
A tear slipped down through the blood covering the left side of Sammy's face.
For half a second, Dean listened to the voices in his head.
What the hell is going on? Hunter Dean demanded. How is he doing that? How is he healing like that? What the fuck is he?
He's SAMMY, Big Brother Dean insisted and without another thought or hesitation, Dean reached out and pulled his (slightly less) injured brother into his arms.
"I'm not," Dean promised and ran a hand lightly, gently over the hot, sticky mess that was Sam's back. "Never afraid of you, Sammy. Couldn't be. You're my baby brother. That's all that matters."
He felt Sam sigh and lean into the embrace for a moment. "Thank you."
"But Sam," Dean said after a minute or two, "I just…Can you tell me what's happening? How…" Dean set his brother away from him, and picked up his little brother's unmarred right arm. "This was all scratched up when I got here. I know it was, don't tell me it wasn't, I didn't imagine that."
"No," Sam admitted. "You didn't imagine it. I wouldn't lie to you."
Dean looked at him, frowning. "But you won't tell me, either," he guessed.
"No," Sam shook his head. "I'm sorry. I don't mean — I will tell you, Dean, everything. Just…"
"When Dad leaves town," Dean nodded. "Yeah, got that. Just don't know why."
Sam sighed deeply and closed his eyes for a second. "It's not safe," he breathed, so softly Dean could barely hear the words. "Not for either of us."
"Either of us?" Dean repeated. "You mean — Dad wouldn't…"
Sam took a deep breath ,visibly pulling himself together. "Things kind of came to a head today," Sam admitted.
"One way to put it," Dean said sarcastically, looking at the bloody room surrounding them.
"That's not…When you left, Dad was in the yelling stage."
"Yeah, I heard," Dean admitted sourly. "Half the fucking river valley heard."
"He has got a set of lungs," Sam laughed and shot Dean a reassuring smile.
"Ain't that the truth!" Dean grinned, grateful for the small bit of levity.
"You'd been gone about 10 minutes," Sam continued, "and he got a phone call. I don't know who it was," he continued, beating Dean to the inevitable question, "but from the conversation, what I could hear of it, anyway, I'm pretty sure it was a hunter., and not anyone Dad knew. Whoever he was, he had info — and no, I don't know exactly what. But whoever it was, I could tell from what Dad said that the guy'd gotten Dad's number from Bobby. And since they're not exactly on good terms…"
"The only way Bobby would give a strange hunter Dad's number would be if there was information about…"
"The Yellow-Eyed Demon," Sam finished with him.
"Jesus," Dean sighed. "And he still…"
"When he got off the phone," Sam continued as if he hadn't been interrupted, "he was…" Sam hesitated, sucking on his (no longer swollen) lower lip and shaking his head.
"He was what, Sammy? Tell me."
Sam shot his brother a quick look, then stared at his blood-covered jeans, picking at a seam. "I've never seen him that mad," he admitted, and glanced at Dean again. "Not after any hunt; not after Flagstaff." Sam exhaled deeply and forced himself to look into Dean's eyes again. "Not even after we called that Family Services lawyer."
"Shit. That's mad."
Sam scoffed. "It wasn't even how he looked. I mean, it was. You can always tell just how pissed off Dad is just by looking at him, and believe me when I tell you he was at full on DefCon 1. He really wanted me dead. Not just beaten, not unconscious, not even just…gone. DEAD."
Dean nodded and looked around at what was one of the bloodiest rooms he'd ever been in, even on a Hunt. "I believe that," he admitted.
"It wasn't just the way he looked, though. Wasn't even how hard he hit, or that he used the buckle end of the belt on my back and chest. That wasn't the worst," he said softly and looked down again, swallowing hard against a sudden lump in his throat.
Dean shifted toward his brother, and wrapped one hand gently around the nape of Sam's neck, resting their foreheads together.
"Tell me," he breathed. "What was the worst?"
"It was what he said," Sam breathed. "He's never... I mean, yeah, he's been blaming me for Mom's death for years. That's not new."
"It's not true, either," Dean assured him. "You were six months old, Sammy. It couldn't be your fault. It wasn't."
Sam nodded slightly, and reached his own right hand around to hold the back of Dean's neck. "I know. I know. But today…"
Sam's voice faded away, but Dean didn't press him to finish. He just waited it out, knowing instinctively that, whatever Sam was about to say, was going to be more painful than anything he'd heard in his whole life.
"He's always talked about…when he's hitting me, really going to town on it…how I brought the Demon into the house. How if I hadn't been born, the Demon wouldn't have come at all. And if it hadn't come…no fire. Mom still alive. No hunting. No moving around. You'd've stayed happy. Just the three of you."
"Fuck, Sam," Dean breathed so softly he wasn't sure that Sam could even hear him.
"But today…today…well that was something different. For the first time…" Sam pulled back, just far enough to look Dean once more in the eye, not even trying to hide the tears that were starting to flow. "He was talking like I didn't bring the demon. He was talking like I was the demon. Or at least, a demon."
"What? That's…Sammy, that's insane. He's insane," Dean repeated and some small part of him looked at that phrase and knew it was, at least in part, a truth he'd been hiding from for at least the last 5 years.
Sammy didn't respond and the ache reflected in the familiar hazel eyes stabbed at Dean's heart.
"You know that, right? Sammy? You know that's crazy. You're not a demon, you're not — you're just a kid. You were just a baby. Tell me you know that," Dean nearly begged. "Sammy? Tell me you know that!"
Sam shook his head. "I don't know anymore," he admitted quietly.
"Well, I do!" Dean snapped. "You. Are Not. A Demon. You are My. Little. Brother. And I…" Dean shook his head. "I'm gonna kill him," he decided. "I am. I'm gonna kill him. Beatin' the shit out you. Filling your head with this..this…bullshit. I'm gonna fuckin' kill him."
Sammy's smile was sad, and so full of love and trust that Dean's heart broke a little more.
"No, Dean," Sam shook his head. "That's not an answer."
"No? 'Cause it's sounding pretty good to me," Dean admitted.
"Yeah, well…" Sam muttered and looked away again. "There's more."
"MORE? Beating you literally senseless. Dislocating your shoulder, breaking your arm in three places. Breaking your ankle. Giving you a concussion. And then, to top it all off, he tries to pin Mom's death on you and tells you that you're a Demon?" Dean ranted. "What MORE could there possibly be!"
"He said…" Again, Dean noticed that Sammy was having a hard time looking him in the eye. "Apparently," Sammy continued, "demon kind — they have a nickname for me."
"So?" Dean challenged. "I've got several. Doesn't make you an actual Princess, now does it?"
Sammy chuckled and shook his head. "I needed that," he admitted and finally looked Dean in the eye again. "But the demons. They call m…". Sam stuttered to a stop and took and and exhaled a deep breath. "They call me The Boy King."
"The what now?"
"Yeah," Sam scoffed. "Apparently, according to Dad…"
"Not sure he's a reliable source of information at this point," Dean interjected.
"Well, maybe not, but Dad said that the demons say…When I'm older? I'm going to lead them." Sam chuckled at the look of complete disbelief on his brother's face. "Yeah," he confirmed. "I'm gonna head up a big ol' demon army and march across the world, wipe out humanity. Get good old planet Earth ready for Satan's rule." Sam scoffed and shook his head. "Apparently? I'm the fucking Anti-Christ. Or I will be," he amended and let his gaze shift to a suddenly fascinating water stain in the corner of the ceiling.
Dean took a deep breath. Closed his eyes, counted to ten, listening to the argument going on in his head.
HAPPY? Big Brother Dean demanded. Look what doubting him has done to his head.
I didn't doubt him, Hunter Dean corrected. I just…wanted more information. I still say there's something going on with him. But the idea that Sammy could be the anti-Christ? That he could ever be something actually EVIL? That's just….
"That's Bullshit," Dean spat and grabbed Sammy's chin, forcing his baby brother to look him in the eye. "I don't care what Dad said. Or what the mystery Hunter who called him said. I don't care if Nostradamus predicted it. I don't care if every demon on the planet lines up in front of me and swears on…on…on whatever a demon swears on! That's BULLSHIT."
Sammy tried to pull away, and Dean pulled him back, sliding both his hands around the back of his brother's neck, and using his thumbs to tilt Sammy's head up so he had to look Dean in the eyes.
"You hear me?" Dean pressed. "Sammy. Do. You. Hear me?" he demanded when Sam didn't respond.
Sam closed his eyes against the tears that fell, and tried to shake his head. "But…Dean…."
"NO," Dean yelled loud enough to make his little brother flinch. "Look at me, Sammy. LOOK AT ME."
Sam's eyes popped open and he nodded, just slightly.
"You listen to me, little brother, and you listen good. Got that?"
Again, Sam nodded just a little.
"I know you, Sammy. I know you. And I admit it; there are apparently some things about you that I don't know, not yet. But I. Know. YOU. I know what makes you tick, Sammy. I know what scares you. I know what hurts you. I know how badly it tears you up to kill even a monster, if there's the slightest bit of good left in them. I know you have nightmares about every. Single. Person. We have ever failed to save."
Dean took a breath, and pulled back, no longer forcing Sammy to look him in the eye, and was heartily glad that Sam kept looking at him anyway.
"I know how much you love to learn. About anything! I don't get it," he admitted, "but I know. I know you hate hunting. I know you always have. I know you want out. I'm pretty sure that you've already taken the SATs at least once — no doubt acing them. And I know that if you haven't already done it, you're going to be applying to colleges soon."
Sam's eyes grew wide and his mouth dropped open, just slightly.
"I told you," Dean shook his head, chuckling at the stunned look on his brother's face. "I know you. And I know THIS, Sammy, so you listen to me now. You listen hard. Because I KNOW you. And there is categorically, without any doubt, NO ONE on this whole fucking, god forsaken planet who has a better, kinder, purer soul than you do. You could no more turn 'evil' than I can fuckin' fly! I don't give a damn what ANYone says," he repeated and took his brother's face in his hands. "You are GOOD, Sammy. And you always will be. I would bet my life on that one."
Sam's eyes drifted closed and he reached out with his right arm, let Dean pull him into a hug. "God, Dean," he whispered, burying his damp face against his big brother's neck. "I think you may have to." He wrapped his good right arm around Dean's back, fisting his hand into the back of Dean's shirt, just holding on to the only person in his life he'd ever been able to count on.
"Then I will," Dean vowed. "Without hesitation. Over and over and over again, if I have to. You are good," he repeated. "I raised you to be good, Sammy, and I know that you are. I know it like I know how to breathe. With every fiber of my body and soul, I KNOW. You. Are. Good. And you always will be."
"I hope you're right," Sam whispered and Dean sifted his fingers through the soft hair at the back of Sammy's neck.
"I'm right," came the assurance with such confidence and unending belief that Sam couldn't stop himself from believing it was true.
Dean ran one hand soothingly over Sam's back, gave the sweat- and blood-dampened nape a gentle squeeze with the other, both Winchester Code for it's all right now. I'm here. I've got you.
Dean didn't know how long they'd stayed that way, just holding on to each other, giving and sharing comfort, both of them bolstered by the simple act of being with each other. "We're all right," he said, over and over. "We'll be all right," and each time he whispered the words into Sammy's hair, Sam relaxed just little more, and his breathing became a little more regular.
And every time Sam relaxed, and with every steady breath, Dean believed it more, too.
They were still sitting there, wrapped in the comfortable bubble of themness that had always been at the core of their lives, when he felt Sam go stiff in his arms.
"Sammy?"
"He's coming back," Sam breathed, and pulled reluctantly way from the steady shelter that was just Dean.
"He…"
"Dad," Sam clarified, and his breathing was considerably less even now.
"Shit," Dean breathed, and closed his eyes for a moment, not able to see the fear in his brother's eyes and formulate a decent plan at the same time. "Okay. Okay," he said evenly and opened his eyes to reconnect with his frightened brother. "We got to get out of here…"
Sam shook his head, biting his bottom lip. "Not enough time," he said with a conviction that had Dean frowning slightly. "He's only…I don't know…like, three, four miles away? By the time you get me to the car, even if we don't take time to pack up anything, we'll run into him on the road. And the mood he's in…Dean, he'll run us into a ditch, thinking he's saving you from me."
"Shit," Dean repeated. "Three, four miles?" Sam nodded, and Dean glanced at his watch. 5:17. Rush hour. "That still gives us 15, maybe 20 minutes, with traffic, and the speed limit around here is only 35."
Sam gave a derisive snort. "And when has Dad ever followed a speed limit? We can't count on traffic, either. It's Friday. People leave work earlier on Fridays."
"Well, hell," Dean sighed. "Okay. Okay. We can do this. We'll talk to him."
"Dean," Sam said in a are you serious, right now voice, accompanied by a full bitch face. "There's no talking to him, now. I have to get upstairs."
"Up…Sammy. HOW?" Dean scoffed. "Your arm is fucked up on the left, your foot is fucked up on the right. Either one of those would make it hard to get up that…that ladder they call a staircase. What are we supposed to do, levitate you?"
"I don't know," Sam sighed. "But he can't see me. We can't let him see me."
"Sammy," Dean started, reasonably.
"DEAN," Sam interrupted. "He. Cannot. See me. If he does, I'm dead."
"Sam, I won't…"
"He knows what I looked like when he left, Dean. He knew what he did to me. Hell, I think he was proud of it! And look at me. Look at me now." Sam raised his completely unblemished right arm for his brother's inspection. "This freaked you out," he pointed out, not inaccurately. "How do you think Dad's going to react? All it'll do is prove to him that I'm what he thinks. He'll kill me. To save you, he will kill me. In front of you if necessary."
Dean paled a little, and looked at his brother's arm and slowly healing face. "Shit."
"Help me up," Sam directed.
"We still…."
"Help. Me. UP."
Dean scrambled to his feet and reached down to grab Sam's good wrist, pulling him as gently as possible to his feet.
"There's no way you can get up that ladder, Sam," Dean insisted.
Sam threw his good arm over his brother's shoulder, and Dean wrapped his arm around Sam's waist. Together, they moved as quickly as they could towards the stairs in the great room.
"What the hell else am I going to do?" Sam snapped. "Because I can't levitate. Just to be clear."
Dean stopped them at the bottom of the ladder, and stood quietly, looking at the ladder, then up at the loft, then back to the ladder.
It was nearly a staircase. The treads were seven or eight inches deep, and there was a banister on both sides. He probably could've helped Sam hop up them, if (a) they'd been wide enough for both of them to be side by side, and (b) they were at something less than an 80 degree angle.
So Sam getting up under his own steam wasn't go to work. But…maybe…
"Hey, Sammy!" Dean said with a forced cheerfulness that fooled neither of them. "Want a piggyback ride?" He grinned at the stunned look on his brothers face.
"I…What?"
"You can't get up the stairs on your own," Dean said reasonably, "not with those injuries. That means I have to carry you, and given how steep and narrow the stairs are…Hell, Sam. It's the only choice we got."
"I don't…"
"How far away is Dad?" Dean challenged abruptly.
Sam closed his eyes for a second, and when he opened them again, they were wide and slightly panicked. "Maybe a mile."
Dean shrugged and disentangled himself from his brother, keeping hold of Sam's good arm just to help the kid balance.
"Then climb aboard the Dean Express, Sammy!"
Sam looked at him, one eyebrow raised, and sighed. "Under one condition."
"Name it."
"You never say that to me again. EVER."
Dean laughed and turned his back to Sam. "Deal."
Sam half-walked, half-hopped behind his brother and tried to remember how he'd done this when they were still kids.
Okay. Good arm first. That goes around Dean's neck. Done. Bad leg up, around his waist…
"I can't believe…" Sam muttered to himself, and Dean just laughed.
"You never forget how to ride your brother, Sammy!"
"Dean. Ew!" Sam flinched and Dean laughed harder.
It was awkward and painful and entirely too ridiculous for words, but in just over a minute, Sammy was hanging from his brother's back like he'd last done when he was probably all of 8-years-old, and Dean started climbing the ladder to the loft above.
He took it slow, trying not to jostle his passenger too much, and flinching at every harsh inhale or exhale against the back of his neck.
It would have been much worse if Sam hadn't kept up a litany of complaints on the way up, distracting Dean from the pain he knew he was causing his brother.
"Of all the…This is the most ridiculous…I'm 15! I'm practically an adult, and…piggyback ride. I can't believe…."
They were two steps from the top when they heard the familiar grumble of Dad's truck.
"Fuck!" Dean spat, and ditched careful in preference for speed.
Dean crawled onto the floor of the loft and Sam unceremoniously let go and rolled off his brother with a small "oof" that was, Dean was sure, entirely too small to cover the amount of pain the move caused.
"You okay?"
"Yeah, go!" Sam responded. "You gotta be downstairs when he comes in. If he has to come looking for you…"
"I know," Dean nodded and gave Sam a quick pat on the chest. "Hang tough, buddy. I got your back."
Sam smiled and lifted his chin towards ladder, encouraging Dean to get his ass downstairs.
Dean slid backwards onto the ladder, grabbed the handrails and, keeping his feet away from the steps, slid all the way back down.
The door burst open just as Dean threw himself onto the leather couch.
Dad was home.
TBC
A/N For those who are unaware - Nostradomus was a "seer" who lived in 16th Century France. He wrote several books on his prophesies, some of which some people believe have come true.
DefCon returns to the United States' military Defense Condition, on a scale of 5 to 1. 5 means we are perfect peace with the world. As the numbers get smaller, the Defense posture excalates. DefCon 1 is basically a state of active war, where the U.S. expects to be attacked at any moment, or is already under attack.
Hoping to get a review this time! Please, let me know if you like this, and what you think of Dean's inner voices.
I'll try post more quickly, this time.