Whiskey, Alt. Ending's Ending
Whiskey, Alt. Ending's Ending
(Yes, I am confusing myself...)
Summary: Now Dean shows up.
A/N: Seeing as it's my birthday today, I thought I would give you guys a present. Everyone wanted to see Dean's reaction, so here it is.
Warning: Dean is angry. He swears a fair bit.
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Dean felt his good mood vanish as soon as he opened the door and saw John, planted at the kitchen table with the whiskey bottle visible over his shoulder, the muscles in his back tense.
Dean knew he didn't fully understand his father's grief and that his own sense of loss didn't come close. He tried to help, to make things easier at this time of year, but these late night solitary drinking sessions seemed to start earlier and last longer every year. It was getting out of hand and he couldn't think of a damn thing to stop it.
“Hey, Dad,” he said quietly, to announce his presence before John got spooked. Once, last year, he took Dad by surprise when he walked in and found himself against the wall with a knife at his throat.
He stepped over the salt line and locked the door behind him. He never knew what to expect at this time of night, at this time of year. John might want him to sit down and cry over photos with him, or maybe he'll want to tell stories about Mary, or maybe he'll be furiously and drunkenly poring over old books, reading things he's read a thousand times before in a desperate attempt to finish the one hunt he couldn't solve.
John didn't react at all though, just sat with his back turned, hand firmly around his glass. When Dean stepped forward he tossed the whiskey back and set the glass down on the table far harder than was necessary.
Dean saw the shattered glass then, spread across the table, glimmering faintly in the meager light of the single naked bulb that hung from the kitchen ceiling.
“Dad,” he said in alarm, but a few quick steps forward showed that there was no injury. He could see John's face now, expression hard and tight. His eyes didn't leave the whiskey bottle.
Dean's sigh hitched halfway through as he turned and his eyes landed on Sam's school books. Two were on the floor, one open and upside down, pages crumpled beneath it and another hung half off the coffee table while a broken pen leaked ink into the paper.
Sam wouldn't leave his books like that. He damn near worshiped the things.
Dean spun around, back to the statue of grief that was his father. “Where's Sam?”
John's jaw clenched. He moved to pour himself another drink. “Bathroom,” he grunted.
Something was very wrong. Dean felt it in every step he took down the small hallway to the bathroom door.
“Sammy?” he called anxiously, pressing himself against the door as he (just) suppressed the urge to barge on in. “Kid, you okay?”
Sam didn't answer and Dean jammed his ear against the wood. With the sound of crying barely audible any thought of restraint vanished as he fumbled to shove the door open.
He didn't know what he was expecting (he just knew something was wrong. Sammy-radar.) but this... It wasn't this.
Sam sat on the floor with his back pressed against the shower stall, knees brought up to his chest, elbows on his knees and forearms crossed over his head, in this small Sammy ball. He didn't look up when Dean burst through the door, sobbing into his jeans, and his hair...
“Jesus, what the hell happened?” Dean asked, unable to keep the shock from his voice. He crossed the bathroom in two small steps and knelt down by his brother amongst the, shit, amongst the scatterings of hair on the tiles, trying to gently tug Sam's arms down.
“Don't,” Sam sobbed, pulling away and trying to curl into a tighter ball.
“You're bleeding,” Dean pointed out dumbly, eyeing the graze towards the side of Sam's - Jesus - Sam's shaved head.
The silence dragged as Dean knelt there helplessly, interrupted only by Sam's hitched breaths.
“Sammy... fuck, talk to me, kid, please.”
Sam didn't answer but moved an arm to swipe over his eyes and -
“What the fuck?” Dean exclaimed, taking matters into his own hands and forcing Sam's head up so he could get a better look at, yup, that was definitely the beginnings of a spectacular black eye, skin starting to darken, swollen tight.
There was some sort of invisible connection between seeing Sam hurt and Dean's adrenal gland (there must be) because it was pumping before and now it's freaking racing.
“Who the fuck did this?” Dean demanded, still holding Sam's chin, even as the kid tried to hide his face again. “Tell me who the fuck did this, Jesus, what the fuck?”
Sam flinched as Dean's palm smacked the tile, bloodshot eyes that held remnants of terror and stark devastation looking up at him.
“I didn't learn the exorcism,” he whispered finally, voice wrecked.
It took Dean a long moment to understand. He almost asked, 'Who the fuck cares if you didn't learn a stupid exorcism?' but then it clicked. He knew exactly who cared. He could barely believe it.
“Dad did this?” he asked, horrified, eyes moving over the hair scattered on the bathroom tile, the purpling eye and the fuzz left on Sam's head.
The kid lost what little composure he'd managed to gain as he followed Dean's gaze, pulling away and dropping his head into his hands.
“He was so angry,” Sam sobbed, “He, he hit me and, held me down, and, and...”
“Hey, shh, it's okay.” Dean clasped Sam's shoulders tightly. It wasn't okay though. He was still reeling from the mental image of his father hurting Sam, holding the kid down. Jesus Christ, what the hell? And Sam's hair.
“It's not okay!” Sam cried, shoving Dean away so that he landed on his ass on the tiles. “It's not okay.”
His hands went up to cover the stubble on his head, sobbing harder, and Dean felt his shock turn to anger.
He pushed himself to his feet and let his rage carry him from the bathroom and down the hallway. He didn't stop to think and once he's reached the kitchen, he grabbed the whiskey bottle from the table and flung it at the wall.
Glass shattered and crashed to the floor, whiskey dripping down the faded wallpaper and spraying over his boots.
“What the hell-” John started, furious as he pushed himself to his feet, but Dean didn't give him the chance to continue.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he bellowed. “How could you do that to Sam?”
John swayed, planting his hands on the tabletop. “Still upset, is he?”
“Upset?” Dean scoffed. “Try devastated. Try terrified. He's got a fucking shiner that covers half his face. You fucking hit him, fucking held him down and cut his hair off. What the fuck is wrong with you?”
At this, John drew himself up to his full height. “He has to learn! A soldier who can't follow orders is a dead soldier! He-”
“He's your son!”
“He's a liability! None of my punishments stick. Maybe now he'll have some sense.”
“Yeah, you sure knocked some sense into him, didn't you, Dad?” Dean spat. “All because he didn't learn one stupid exorcism.”
“Don't you dare call it stupid,” John warned, voice icy. “That exorcism could save his life one day, could save your life one day! You think I'm going to risk losing you because of teenage rebellion? He needed to be taught a lesson.”
“You think that was a lesson?” Dean shook his head in disgust. “That's assault, Dad. That's abuse.”
John eyed him, almost challenging, but Dean thought he saw a flicker of remorse in his face. Not enough though.
“You're pathetic,” Dean spat, then turned sharply and headed for the bed, picking up the duffel that sat by it and began shoving in clothes.
“What are you doing?” John demanded, a looming presence behind him.
“What does it look like I'm doing?” Dean closed his hand around a simple black beanie, then tugged the duffels zip closed. “You think I'd stay here? You think I'd let you anywhere near Sam? Jesus, you really are smashed.”
“You have no right-”
“I have every right!” Dean yelled, spinning to face his father. “I'm the one who raised him. He's my fucking kid and I'm taking him far away from you!”
He didn't wait for John's reply, simply reached behind him for the duffel and slung it over his shoulder, marching down the hallway.
John didn't follow, so maybe he still had some sense. Dean took a breath before entering the bathroom, in a vain attempt to calm himself, but the sight of Sammy still in the same position on the floor worked better. The heat rushed out of him as Sam looked up.
“We going away?” he asked quietly, eyeing the duffel bag, though he must have heard Dean yelling.
Dean swallowed past the lump in his throat. “Yeah, kid. For as long as you want.”
He took the first aid kit from the bathroom cabinet before dropping to his knees before his brother. “Gotta get you cleaned up first though. Okay?” He ducked his head to meet Sam's eyes.
Sam took a shaky breath and reluctantly lowered his hands from his head.
Dean eyed the scrape, assuring himself that it was just that, a scrape, and set about cleaning the drying blood from Sam's scalp with a damp cloth. The bleeding had stopped, he noted grimly.
Sam shuddered under his ministrations, breaths hitching. Dean wanted to tell him that it would be okay but the words got stuck in his throat. He taped gauze over the wound, though it wasn't strictly necessary, hand itching to ruffle Sam's hair and tell him he was all set, like he usually did when he finished patching the kid up, but Sam's hair was carpeting the floor and Dean felt another rush of anger at his father.
Instead, he pulled the beanie he'd grabbed over Sam's head, tucking it over his ears and down the back of his neck so the evidence of John's drunken anger was hidden. Some of it, at least. The bruising was still darkening on Sam's face. Dean closed his eyes and let his forehead rest against Sam's.
Soon, he'll get up and lead Sam out the door, maybe for forever if that's what Sam wants. Maybe this night will be the last time he sees his father. He doesn't know. But he does know that this is the last time John will hurt Sam.
END