Chapter Text
“Dad!”
Dean’s ears were ringing as it was. Sammy’s sob-screaming was not doing anything to help.
“Dad! It wasn’t his fault! Stop! It wasn’t his fault!”
He couldn’t be screaming like that. Even in a motel like this, someone was going to get annoyed enough to call someone.
“Sammy.” The word croaked out of a raw, hoarse throat. “Yo–you gotta quiet down, Sammy.”
“No!” If anything, the twelve-year-old was screaming louder now. “No, Dean! Let them call someone! They should!”
“Enough, Sam!” Before either of the boys knew what was happening, John had turned on his heal, away from where he’d been towering over Dean, to bring his knuckles across Sam’s face in a sharp, by no means gentle blow.
Then, everything seemed to move in slow motion. Despite the force, the look on Sam’s face as he stumbled backwards was more shocked than pained. Dean stared at him for a long second, looked at his father, and felt it hit him like a semi.
He’d done it.
He’d done what Dean had sacrificed his body and soul alike for the past decade, to make sure he didn’t.
Nights on the street, untreated concussions, endless lies to teachers and authorities and suspicious Bobbies and strangers on the street. Turning his back on the closest thing he’d ever had to a home the second the Impala appeared in the driveway. Spitting in the face of outstretched hands that really did just want to help and cutting himself to pieces just to cope with the pain that often felt like it was going to consume him.
He’d taken it all, and he’d taken it without a word of complaint, and he’d done that to keep this from happening.
To keep John from ever laying a finger on his little brother.
The suspended moment of time ended, and suddenly everything was once again too loud and too hot and the world was once again spinning.
Satisfied that he’d shut up his younger son for the time being, John turned back to his older.
He clearly wasn’t expecting Dean, freshly battered at the hands of both a ghost and a man and barely conscious as of a moment before, to be on his feet when he did, and the boy used his moment of surprise to take a single, stumbling step forward, weakly shoving against his father’s chest as he did.
“Don’t.” The word was thick and choked with either blood or tears—Dean wasn’t really sure anymore. “Don’t touch him.”
This time, Sam and Dean both knew exactly what was coming, the younger helplessly crying his brother’s name even as their father’s hands closed around his collar and slammed him against the wall behind him.
“Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do, boy!” John spat, his breath thick with alcohol on Dean’s face.
His son continued to meet his gaze anyway. “Do this,” he croaked. “This’s fine.” A shaky breath. “Not Sammy.”
“Dean!” Sam cried again. The shock of the blow to his face had halted his sobbing, but that only meant that yelling was an easier task. “Stop! It’s not fine!”
“Shut up, Sam!” John bellowed. “Or I’ll make you!”
Dean shoved against his hands, still pinning him against the wall, though uselessly, much too weak to hold his own against the larger man. “No, you won’!” he gasped. “Please, Da’, yo–you can’t!”
The room spun more violently. Nausea rose in his stomach as his head screamed. He didn’t even remember exactly how he was injured anymore… just that he felt more dead than alive.
Before his father could respond to the plea, though, a voice carried to them from the motel room next door, and all three of them froze.
“I think there’s three of ‘em. A father and two sons. They’ve been yelling for twenty minutes, and it sounds like someone’s getting beat.”
Dean and Sam both looked at their father with wide eyes. They’d had some tense encounters with the cops to be sure, but had somehow avoided ever having them so directly called on them if trespassing or other illegal hunting activities weren’t involved.
Neither boy knew what happened now.
A second passed, then another. Then, John’s hands released Dean, allowing the teenager to crumple to the floor, then strode towards the door purposefully, snatching his still-packed duffle from the bed as he did.
“We’re going, Sam,” he barked.
“What about Dean?” the kid took a step towards his brother, but John’s freehand closed around his collar before he could take another, yanking him towards the door.
“ Now .”
“No!” Sam tried to jerk away, but his father was twice his size and three times his strength, and he had no intentions of letting him go. “No, we’re not leaving him!”
“Your brother has a lesson to learn,” John growled as he continued to drag the struggling boy across the motel room. “And you do too.”
With his duffle hanging on his forearm, he used that hand to yank open the door, then stormed through it, still dragging Sam in his wake.
“No!” the kid was yelling again, punching and clawing at a father who was much too intoxicated to feel it or to care. “No! You can’t do this! We can’t leave him!”
The door slammed behind them. Dean willed himself to get up and go after them. At this rate, John would have to knock Sam out in order to shut him up, and it seemed he’d be more than willing to do so. Dean couldn’t let that happen.
But as he ordered his legs to stand up after them, they didn’t move. He tried to push his weight up off the floor, but he couldn’t even get himself an inch up before he fell back against the wall, his head screaming, the room turning like a teacup ride.
This wasn’t happening. This could not be real.
He’d sworn it wouldn’t get this bad.
He’d sworn he was fine.
He’d sworn Dad wouldn’t touch Sam.
But it had, he wasn’t, and that was exactly what Dad had just done.
And now, there was nothing Dean could do to stop it.
He should’ve known. He should’ve never risked his brother’s safety.
This was all his fault.
It was his last conscious thought before darkness overtook him.
He came half-awake to the door flying back on its hinges. Through swimming vision, he saw two police officers on the other side, guns raised and ready.
Selfishly, he hoped one would shoot him by mistake.
However, he was quickly disappointed, as one pulled his gun to his chest as he rapidly crossed the room to clear it and the bathroom, and the other put his away completely and rushed to his side.
“Hey.” A firm but gentle hand closed around his wrist to check his pulse. “Hey, Kiddo, can you hear me?”
Dean swallowed hard and did his best to nod. He was rewarded by a stab of increased pain in his head, then more blackness.
This time, it only took him a few seconds to come back to, hearing as he did the other cop’s voice approaching. “Room is clear. Only one left is a teenager in bad shape. What’s the status of that 10-52?”
Dean couldn’t make out the response, but it seemed to satisfy the officer. “Copy that. No backup needed. Over.”
“We’ve got an ambulance on the way, alright?” the other one, still kneeling beside Dean assured. “Couple minutes out, tops.”
Dean squeezed his eyes shut and tried to pass out again. However, the plan was quickly ruined by the hand on his wrist squeezing, another coming up to hold the side of his face.
“Try to stay awake for me, okay, Kiddo? Can you open your eyes?”
Reluctantly, Dean did.
“Good.” The officer was just a blurry blob of a face in front of him, but his voice was low and steady and comforting. “That’s good. Now can you tell me your name?”
The teen swallowed again before croaking, “Dean.”
“Dean?”
The slightest nod confirmed it.
“My name is Officer Mirenda,” the voice replied. “My partner, Officer Tomlin, is watching our sixths from up there. We’re here to help, alright?”
Dean knew better than to believe the police would actually help, but his groggy mind desperately wanted to believe in this one.
He heard sirens approaching, and the man squeezed his hand once more. “There’s our 10-52. Just stay with me for a little longer, okay, Dean?”
The boy nodded even as blackness began to consume his vision once more. This time, it wasn’t purposeful.
“‘m sorry,” he croaked the moment before his lids slid shut and the room finally stopped spinning.