SPN Fic: Abandoned (1/1)
Title: Abandoned
Category/genre: Gen, pre-series, hurt!dean
Rating: R for violence and swearing
Characters: Dean, John, mentions of Sam
Summary: Set immediately after Sam leaves for Stanford. John and Dean aren’t handling it well.
Warnings: Abusive!John, themes of past child abuse
Word Count: 1170
Disclaimer: Supernatural and its characters aren’t mine in any way. Boo.
Thanks to jackfan2 for the beta!
Abandoned
It’s as if the air got sucked out of the place with the slamming door. Neither he nor Dad move. Just stare at the empty cabin, not believing it really happened.
It feels all wrong. Sour. Sickly.
The feeling hangs there and roars in his ears. He only dares shallow breaths, as if maybe he doesn’t move that door will open and Sam will stroll back in and everything will be fine.
But soon the truth sinks in.
He’s gone.
Gone.gone.gone.gone.
He should have been able to stop him. Stop the fight. Smooth things over like always.
He belongs with us. Dad Dean Sam--fighting the good fight. Dean tries taking a deep breath but his chest won’t expand and where.the.fuck.is.all.the.air ?
He dares a look at Dad. He’s pacing now, then stops to pick up something, then changes his mind and goes back to pacing. Dad’s breathing so heavily his shoulders and chest rise with each breath. Probably about to hyperventilate. Seems he’s getting enough air for both of them.
Dad can’t handle this. Dean knows he can’t, not after Mom. Not after everything he’s done to protect them. Take care of them. And Sam threw it all back in his face. There’s a word for what Sam did to Dad. Betrayal. The word feels like a rotten knot of flesh lodged in his throat. Dean knows that’s how Dad sees it. Knows it’s killing him inside.
Knows what’s coming next.
And Dean’s glad for it.
The fight earlier got Dad all riled up. The anger’s pent up and ready to explode. Only a matter of when. Hell, it’d happen even without that half bottle of whiskey pumping through his veins.
Finally he stops pacing and hurls a lamp across the room. Crash. Bits of ceramic rain onto the TV. The end table is next. Dean’s disappointed it doesn’t break, it would have felt better if it’d broken.
He’s going for another lamp when Dean steps in front of him.
“Get outa my way.” Dad tries shoving him but Dean gets right back in his space.
His eyes are so full of hurt and rage that Dean bets he can’t even see straight.
“Get the fuck out of my way.” Dad’s hands curl into fists.
He doesn’t have to respond, just stand his ground for…one, two, three seconds. The punch lands on his cheek--bright light and pain radiates to the back of his head and he falls against the counter.
“You goddamn stay there if you know what’s good for you,” Dad says. But his eyes say differently.
He won’t be stopping.
Dean shakes the cloudiness from his vision and gets back in his face. Dad grabs him by the shirt and knocks him against the cabinets.
“I’m sorry about Sam,” he says and knows it’ll add fuel to the fire.
“Shut up,” Dad yells. Dirty dishes crash as Dad lifts him and throws him back again. Again and again. Swings him around and Dean catches his balance on the back of the couch and Dad’s on him again, throwing punches.
Dad needs this.
Dean needs this.
Should have been able to stop him from leaving. Sammy.Sammy.Sammy.Sammy. Another punch as the white lights explode behind his eyes.
In the drift he hears a soft, familiar sob coming from the next room. It’s just a memory, but it feels so real that he can almost picture him there, waiting it out, as Dean told him to do. That when it’s over, he’ll go in there and find him hiding under his covers. Wipe his tears and tell him it’s all right.
A knee to the gut knocks the wind out of him and Dad’s showing no signs of stopping.
Maybe this time he won’t stop until he’s gone too far.
Dean’s oddly okay with that thought. He smiles, his face half squished into the dingy carpet. And when did he land on the floor anyway?
“Disloyal. Little. Bastard.”
Dad’s not talking about him. He tunes out the rest.
He’s lost in his safe little pain-induced daze when a coherent thought floats by.
I’ve missed this.
And damn, then his brain is thinking again because who in their right mind would miss getting the shit beat out of them?
And then another thought pops in: He never realized the beatings had stopped. But they had. It’s been years since Dad has so much as slapped him.
When was the last time? Sante Fe? Boise? It was around the time Sam was learning to play the trumpet. Annoying as hell. All Sam did in those days was complain, play that damned instrument from hell, and eat them out of house and home. Though figures he ate so much since he grew to the size of fuckin’ Paul Bunyan that year.
Dean wakes up again because something’s different. It takes him a minute to figure it out--it’s over. He tries to move, but there’s no.fucking.way. He can’t get his eyes to cooperate, but can hear Dad near him. Hear him crying. Why’s he crying? Oh yeah. Sam. Sam left them. And oh hell that hurts, don’t think about that.
Then Dad’s right next to him, hand on his shoulder. Gentle fingers check his neck for a pulse. I’m fine, Dad. No biggie. Good as new in no time.
“Fuck,” Dad says and doesn’t make it to the bathroom before he’s throwing up.
He’s handling the Sam thing worse than Dean thought.
All in all, it’s not that bad. Some stitches, maybe a cracked rib or two. Dad’s got him propped up in front of the TV, remote in one hand, whiskey bottle in the other.
“Can you walk?” Dad asks.
“I think so.”
“Think so?”
“No, I can. I can walk.” Almost certain.
“Listen, there’s a week’s worth of TV dinners in the freezer.” Dad kneels in front of him, peels back the bandage over his temple and curses. “This one needs a couple of stitches after all.”
Dad pulls the kit back out and goes to disinfect the needle, but has trouble with the lighter.
He gets the nerve to mention it by the time Dad is finishing the stitches. “You broke your hand.”
Don’t feel so bad about it. Dad’s hunted with worse. It’s not your fault. It’s not. Not really.
He inspects his swollen knuckles, puts his hand in his coat pocket, and stands up, looking anywhere but at Dean. He leaves the first aid kit open on the coffee table with plenty of fresh bandages and finishes packing his bag in two minutes flat.
“I’ll see you in a couple of days,” he says and closes the door.
Dean stares at the closed door with an unsettling feeling that he ought to know something, but he can’t put his finger on it. Like that he should have put two and two together years ago. Something about Sam’s big growth spurt. About something stopping. He turns on the TV and settles into the couch, his head pounding. He’d rather not know.
.
Category/genre: Gen, pre-series, hurt!dean
Rating: R for violence and swearing
Characters: Dean, John, mentions of Sam
Summary: Set immediately after Sam leaves for Stanford. John and Dean aren’t handling it well.
Warnings: Abusive!John, themes of past child abuse
Word Count: 1170
Disclaimer: Supernatural and its characters aren’t mine in any way. Boo.
Thanks to jackfan2 for the beta!
Abandoned
It’s as if the air got sucked out of the place with the slamming door. Neither he nor Dad move. Just stare at the empty cabin, not believing it really happened.
It feels all wrong. Sour. Sickly.
The feeling hangs there and roars in his ears. He only dares shallow breaths, as if maybe he doesn’t move that door will open and Sam will stroll back in and everything will be fine.
But soon the truth sinks in.
He’s gone.
Gone.gone.gone.gone.
He should have been able to stop him. Stop the fight. Smooth things over like always.
He belongs with us. Dad Dean Sam--fighting the good fight. Dean tries taking a deep breath but his chest won’t expand and where.the.fuck.is.all.the.air ?
He dares a look at Dad. He’s pacing now, then stops to pick up something, then changes his mind and goes back to pacing. Dad’s breathing so heavily his shoulders and chest rise with each breath. Probably about to hyperventilate. Seems he’s getting enough air for both of them.
Dad can’t handle this. Dean knows he can’t, not after Mom. Not after everything he’s done to protect them. Take care of them. And Sam threw it all back in his face. There’s a word for what Sam did to Dad. Betrayal. The word feels like a rotten knot of flesh lodged in his throat. Dean knows that’s how Dad sees it. Knows it’s killing him inside.
Knows what’s coming next.
And Dean’s glad for it.
The fight earlier got Dad all riled up. The anger’s pent up and ready to explode. Only a matter of when. Hell, it’d happen even without that half bottle of whiskey pumping through his veins.
Finally he stops pacing and hurls a lamp across the room. Crash. Bits of ceramic rain onto the TV. The end table is next. Dean’s disappointed it doesn’t break, it would have felt better if it’d broken.
He’s going for another lamp when Dean steps in front of him.
“Get outa my way.” Dad tries shoving him but Dean gets right back in his space.
His eyes are so full of hurt and rage that Dean bets he can’t even see straight.
“Get the fuck out of my way.” Dad’s hands curl into fists.
He doesn’t have to respond, just stand his ground for…one, two, three seconds. The punch lands on his cheek--bright light and pain radiates to the back of his head and he falls against the counter.
“You goddamn stay there if you know what’s good for you,” Dad says. But his eyes say differently.
He won’t be stopping.
Dean shakes the cloudiness from his vision and gets back in his face. Dad grabs him by the shirt and knocks him against the cabinets.
“I’m sorry about Sam,” he says and knows it’ll add fuel to the fire.
“Shut up,” Dad yells. Dirty dishes crash as Dad lifts him and throws him back again. Again and again. Swings him around and Dean catches his balance on the back of the couch and Dad’s on him again, throwing punches.
Dad needs this.
Dean needs this.
Should have been able to stop him from leaving. Sammy.Sammy.Sammy.Sammy. Another punch as the white lights explode behind his eyes.
In the drift he hears a soft, familiar sob coming from the next room. It’s just a memory, but it feels so real that he can almost picture him there, waiting it out, as Dean told him to do. That when it’s over, he’ll go in there and find him hiding under his covers. Wipe his tears and tell him it’s all right.
A knee to the gut knocks the wind out of him and Dad’s showing no signs of stopping.
Maybe this time he won’t stop until he’s gone too far.
Dean’s oddly okay with that thought. He smiles, his face half squished into the dingy carpet. And when did he land on the floor anyway?
“Disloyal. Little. Bastard.”
Dad’s not talking about him. He tunes out the rest.
He’s lost in his safe little pain-induced daze when a coherent thought floats by.
I’ve missed this.
And damn, then his brain is thinking again because who in their right mind would miss getting the shit beat out of them?
And then another thought pops in: He never realized the beatings had stopped. But they had. It’s been years since Dad has so much as slapped him.
When was the last time? Sante Fe? Boise? It was around the time Sam was learning to play the trumpet. Annoying as hell. All Sam did in those days was complain, play that damned instrument from hell, and eat them out of house and home. Though figures he ate so much since he grew to the size of fuckin’ Paul Bunyan that year.
Dean wakes up again because something’s different. It takes him a minute to figure it out--it’s over. He tries to move, but there’s no.fucking.way. He can’t get his eyes to cooperate, but can hear Dad near him. Hear him crying. Why’s he crying? Oh yeah. Sam. Sam left them. And oh hell that hurts, don’t think about that.
Then Dad’s right next to him, hand on his shoulder. Gentle fingers check his neck for a pulse. I’m fine, Dad. No biggie. Good as new in no time.
“Fuck,” Dad says and doesn’t make it to the bathroom before he’s throwing up.
He’s handling the Sam thing worse than Dean thought.
All in all, it’s not that bad. Some stitches, maybe a cracked rib or two. Dad’s got him propped up in front of the TV, remote in one hand, whiskey bottle in the other.
“Can you walk?” Dad asks.
“I think so.”
“Think so?”
“No, I can. I can walk.” Almost certain.
“Listen, there’s a week’s worth of TV dinners in the freezer.” Dad kneels in front of him, peels back the bandage over his temple and curses. “This one needs a couple of stitches after all.”
Dad pulls the kit back out and goes to disinfect the needle, but has trouble with the lighter.
He gets the nerve to mention it by the time Dad is finishing the stitches. “You broke your hand.”
Don’t feel so bad about it. Dad’s hunted with worse. It’s not your fault. It’s not. Not really.
He inspects his swollen knuckles, puts his hand in his coat pocket, and stands up, looking anywhere but at Dean. He leaves the first aid kit open on the coffee table with plenty of fresh bandages and finishes packing his bag in two minutes flat.
“I’ll see you in a couple of days,” he says and closes the door.
Dean stares at the closed door with an unsettling feeling that he ought to know something, but he can’t put his finger on it. Like that he should have put two and two together years ago. Something about Sam’s big growth spurt. About something stopping. He turns on the TV and settles into the couch, his head pounding. He’d rather not know.
.