Title: A Little More Tequila…

Author: Ice Cube

Rating: T just to be safe…deals with images of child abuse, and a liberal use of rather profane language…

Spoilers: For the episode Nightmare…

Disclaimer: Right, if I owned them anywhere outside of my dreams, the characters that are forthwith mentioned in this story would be making me a lot of money and very happy…so no, they aren't mine, and I'm a broke college student who has no money, so if you're going to sue, feel free, you won't get anything.

Characters: Sam, Dean, John

Archives: Feel free; just let me know where so I can find it again.

Summary: PL Wynter's challenge: What if Sam and Dean had Max's childhood?

Warnings: To re-iterate, there will be some graphic images of child abuse portrayed in this…so if that is going to upset you, please be warned. Also, I tend to write my stories as if they were a series, even though each one is a standalone, there are certain prefaces that I stick to…this will go against everything I've written previously about John…occasionally a drunk, yes, but I never believed him to be abusive to his boys…not to this extent especially.

To those who think that I am capable of writing a fic that is torture free…I can't, and thus, if you don't want to see h/c, various possible tortures, and other forms of angst, find another story. Also, to those of you looking for slash, when I mean friendship and brotherhood, I take that in the trust you with my life and have no problem telling you about my current crush who is of the opposite sex way. In other words, if you're looking for slash, you won't find it here.

I don't have my stories beta'd, I'm too impatient to wait for someone to proof it after I've written it, so I apologize for any mistakes, and if you email me to tell me that they're there, I'll fix them later. Reviews are always a plus, it's great to know that people are reading my stories and like them, but as I'm a horrible reviewer, I won't hold my breath for them. Flames, however, will be treated with the utmost respect they deserve…they will be ignored completely or poked fun at with friends.

That said, on with the tale…


"A little more tequila…a little less demon hunting…"

Sam Winchester, 1x14 Nightmare


Chapter 1

Dean knew how to be a good big brother, just like the other boys in his class. He knew how to tie Sam's shoes and how to make sure no one picked on him at school. Just like his classmates, he knew how to teach the baby of the family everything he needed to survive. Unfortunately, those things didn't include how to throw a football so it didn't look like a girl had tossed it, or why girls really did have cooties, or even why baseball was such a fun game. No; ten-year old Dean Winchester was too busy teaching Sam how to hide under the bed behind the old boxes so that no one could tell he was there. He had perfected his baby brother's talent for climbing out the second story window into the old oak tree near their room, and had reminded the boy constantly that his big brother loved him and would always protect him. Sam knew all this, and he was only a whopping six years old.

The only problem with this was that Dean wasn't protecting little Sammy from monsters in the closet or teaching him how to be the best in his class at hide-and-seek, even if the boy was indeed that. Dean had to protect Sam; his mother had told him that the night she died. Before they had gone in to Sam's nursery to kiss him goodnight, she had sat down with the four-year old and taught him all about being a big brother. It was the last pleasant memory Dean had.


Six-year old Sam Winchester knew to wait down by the bus stop after the bus dropped him off until Dean had checked to make sure the coast was clear. He knew that if Dean came back right away then he could make it up to the bedroom they shared without incident. He also knew that if his brother didn't come back right away that he was not to move from his hiding spot unless it got dark. And if that happened, he knew how to climb that old oak tree to the window and when he got inside to immediately hide under the bed if he didn't see anyone in the room. These were necessary rules and the small boy didn't question them; he knew better. There were monsters at night that wanted to hurt him, and if Dean couldn't help him, he'd be safe under the bed. That's what his older brother had told him, and the ten-year old would never lie to Sam. They got enough of that from their father.
The bus ride home was quiet as usual for the two boys huddled in the front seat. Dean's black eye from recess was starting to swell his eye shut, but he didn't even notice anymore. He knew that his father was going to be pissed that he'd gotten into another fight, but it was worth it. Some of his classmates had cornered Sam and were pushing him around, trying to get a hold of the younger boy's lunch box. They had started pulling the long locks that John could never be bothered to get cut for the first grader, and when Sam had cried out in pain, Dean had snapped. No one he could stop would ever hurt his little brother. Not ever. He saw that often enough at home.

The four boys were nursing far more cuts and bruises than the elder Winchester boy, and Sam had gotten away unscathed, but they both knew as soon as their father got the message that he had to accompany Dean to school tomorrow, it wouldn't look as though he had won the fight quite so decisively. Just another excuse for the man to not have to be careful.

Sam waited for the bus to turn the corner and scampered into the bushes, nodding to Dean that he would wait right there. A book in his lap and a small jack knife fisted in his hand just in case, the small boy settled down to wait, hoping that he wouldn't have to wait long. It was starting to get cold out again.

With a sigh, Dean scurried home, praying to whoever would listen that his father would still be at work. He knew that there was no way out of facing the music, so to speak, but he could hope that the man would at least be gone until Sam was sleeping. He hated the look on his little brother's face every time Sam had to help patch him up.

The key to the house was turned, and the doorknob was opened. Dean gasped and had to take three steps back, falling down the small set of steps that led to their house as his father was standing right there. The boy landed hard on his back and pain shot up his wrist, but the man in front of him never noticed. Before he could register what was going on, Dean was hauled to his feet by a burly hand fisted in his sweatshirt, and thrown through the front door. He crashed into the wall behind him and slid to the ground slowly. The sound of the door locking chilled him to the bone. His father had never met him at the door before, and the bolt sliding into its place seemed to have a solid air of finality to it.

"Where the Hell is your brother?" The clarity in the tall man's words frightened Dean even more. He hadn't even started drinking yet.

"He's…over at Tommy's for the afternoon. Remember? You told him last night before bed that he could go." John had done no such thing, having passed out on the sofa sometime before dinner, but Dean knew the man wouldn't remember either way.

"Don't take that tone of voice with me, young man. Of course I knew that…wanted to make sure you hadn't dumped the little bastard somewhere. Too many questions if he disappeared after all."

Dean almost scoffed at his father. Almost. Instead he just nodded and stared at the floor like he'd been taught. You never looked at someone superior to you. Not in the eyes, or they could see every weakness that betrayed you.

Dean found himself on his feet too fast for his head to catch up as John dragged him up and out of the hallway. Tossed into the kitchen, hitting the floor once more, Dean couldn't stop the yelp as his arm caught most of his fall.

"Still a little weakling, aren't you, Dean?"

Dean just gulped and pushed himself to his knees, his head bowed. He looked like one of the altar boys that he had seen at his mother's funeral.

"Answer me, damn it. I taught you more respect than that. Are you still weak?"

"Yes, sir," Dean mumbled, knowing better than to go against whatever his father said.

"And you thought a good way to show it was to get into a fight at school? To get your ass kicked and get caught so that I have to miss a God damned day of work to get your ass back into school tomorrow?"

"I'm sorry, sir."

"Yeah, well sorry doesn't cut it, now does it, you little shit?"

"No sir," Dean wished his father would at least open a bottle of something. It would make all of this easier. Mainly because he could recall times when his father was just like other dads; tossing a football around with him and Sam, making them lunches when he remembered. And there was that one time the year before when little Sammy had gotten the chicken pox and given them to Dean that the boy could remember their father sitting with them through the night. At least when he was drunk, John's actions could be excused.

It seemed that Dean should be careful what he wished for, because just then his father began to rummage through the cabinets and pulled out a handle of his favorite drink. Dean could tell the difference between tequila and whiskey already, and knew that the former meant he was going to be in more pain tomorrow than if John had only found the Jack Daniels.

Half a bottle was gone before Dean risked a look up to make sure he was still expected to be kneeling there. His legs had gone numb, but all he could think of was how numb his baby brother must be, waiting in the dusk and worrying that Dean hadn't come back for him yet. Unfortunately, John had taken just that moment to contemplate how best to punish the brat at his feet, and saw the look as one of defiance. Glaring down at the boy, he backhanded Dean, watching in satisfaction as his offspring face-planted into the cracked tile once more.

Dean was slow to push himself up, and had to bite back a cry when he was lifted back to his knees by his hair. Blood trickled down from his nose and lip, and his bright eyes were dulled and cast away from his father's face.

"You don't even want to look at your own father now? Do you have that little respect for me?" Unfortunately for Dean, the words still weren't slurred enough to signal his father's impending unconscious state, and the boy could only hope that John got bored soon.

"I didn't want to disappoint you by looking weak, sir." The words were whispered, but they were exactly what John needed to hear to back off on that particular sticking point.

"Good. I wouldn't want to see what a sniveling brat I've raised." John stood up straight and shoved his son one more time, sending the boy crashing to the floor and into the leg of the kitchen table. A swift kick to Dean's side left a resonating crack echoing in the air, and masked the boy's groan. "Now get upstairs. I don't want to see you again until tomorrow morning. Do you hear me?"

"Yes sir." Dean didn't take a minute to catch his breath around the sharp pain in his chest, but stumbled to his feet and bolted down the hall and up the stairs. The door was locked before he allowed himself to sink back to the ground and let the tears fall. He was only ten years old, for God's sake; he shouldn't have to endure this.

The beating wasn't nearly the worst Dean had been through, but he had a sinking feeling that it wasn't over yet, not by a long shot unless his father managed to pass out in the next hour or so.

The sun was setting slowly as Dean remained curled against the wall, biting back the pain of cracked ribs that was trying to force him to sleep. He had to stay awake to hear what his father was doing. If the man did succumb to the drink, then Dean could go get Sam before dark. Otherwise, he was going to have to wait for the boy to make it home on his own. The ten-year old wasn't sure which thought scared him more.


Sam could tell something was wrong when the pages in his book were flying by far too quickly for his liking. At six years old, the boy didn't yet have the best sense of time passage, but his brother had definitely been gone for too long. He stifled another shiver as the sun set slowly to his watch-side. Left, the boy thought, trying to remember what Dean had taught him about his left and right. As long as the watch was on his left wrist, the boy could remember which way was which. Now if only he could master his shoes.

Sam was bored. His teachers had said that he had a longer attention span than most of the children in his class, but he was still only in first grade, and could only occupy himself for so long. It seemed that the sun was dropping more and more slowly towards the horizon, and the temperature was dropping that much more quickly. The little sweatshirt only provided so much protection, meant more to hide the bruises that Sam didn't want Dean or his teachers to see.

An hour of trying to make the bunny story into a tied shoe, and then trying the 'loop, swoop, and pull' method that his ever-practical brother had tried to show him, and Sam couldn't sit still any longer. He was afraid, and the feeling in his stomach made him jumpy. He wanted to run around and try to escape the butterflies, but he knew better than to move.

And he didn't move. Not until it was too dark to see the words in his book, too dark for the streetlights to remain off, too dark for the boy's fears to remain hidden. As soon as the light in front of him cast its glow down onto the pavement, Sam was checking the street to make sure no one would see him, and then was on his feet.


Dean wasn't sure when he had fallen asleep, but he knew that it was a mistake when he realized what had awoken him. The pounding on the wood behind him was frantic and angry, and the ten-year old could only imagine what the face that was hidden behind it looked like.

"Dean Winchester, open this God damned door right now! I swear, if you don't, I'll break it down."

The boy gulped, unsure of what to do. His father's words were badly slurred by this time, but they hadn't reached the point of incomprehensibility, and so there was no hope for a lack of attention. And a quick glance at the darkened sky outside his window shot even more fear into his heart. Sam would be climbing through that window soon. He had to get his father out of here.

"Now, damn it!" Dean pulled himself to his feet and bit his lip. Quickly, the latch was thrown and he tried to slip out the door into the hall.

He had no such luck. As soon as the door was unlocked, his father was jamming his way into the room, throwing the light switch on as he did so. Dean was grabbed around his collar again; how hasn't that ripped yet? He was then thrown onto his bed.

At least it wasn't the floor this time. Dean pushed himself back into the corner of his bed, wondering what had sparked this new punishment.

"I just called Tommy's mom to see if she wanted me to pick Sam up." Dean's eyes widened, and not only because he was caught lying. He actually was going to drive Sammy home this drunk?

"Yes sir."

"And do you know what she told me?"

Dean curled up into an even smaller ball. "No sir," he whispered.

"She hasn't seen Samuel in weeks. Was wondering how he was. You told me that's where you dropped him off. Did you lie to me?"

Dean had no idea how to get out of this one. Apparently, however, it was a rhetorical question, because his father had lifted him up so they were face to face. Breathing in the smell of tequila, the boy shuddered before being tossed to the floor under the window. Landing hard, he felt the familiar pangs of nausea assault him. If his wrist hadn't been broken beforehand, it certainly was now.

"I spend my hard-earned money raising the two of you. I put a roof over your head and food in your mouths," Dean actually did scoff at this, but the drunken man didn't hear, only continued ranting. "I take care of the two of you after your mother was killed, murdered by something and left her on the ceiling, and all you two can do is spite me at every turn. You're lying to me, or Sammy's lying to you, which I doubt by the way; neither of you listens to me. You're getting in trouble in school. What the Hell do I do with the two of you?"

At some point during the ramblings, Dean stopped being able to understand what the man in front of him was saying, but he definitely picked up on the last mumble. He would later swear that he was possessed by something, but he finally snapped at the man in front of him. "You could try being our father, instead of a monster."

And he regretted it immediately. His father's foot found his side more quickly than anyone's should with that much tequila, and if it weren't for the wall, Dean was sure he would have gone flying. His father apparently thought he should have as well, because Dean found the closet door soon enough. Curled around his ribs once more, Dean dared to let a single tear slide, unchecked, down his face. Another kick sent the boy very close to the edge of consciousness itself, but a small face in the window that was now in his line of sight kept the darkness at bay for a second longer. The widened eyes relaxed as the youngest Winchester scrambled back down the roof towards the old oak.

John noticed his son's gaze being drawn from him and whipped around. Faster than either boy could imagine, the libertine had crossed the room. The last thing Dean saw was his father throwing open the window and dragging a squirming Sam through it.

TBC...


So look, I'm back! Only not really, since I've been writing this story since...forever, and it's just now finished. But never fear, it is finished, so I will be able to update fairly regularly...and hopefully write more regularly now that I'm a bonafide college graduate...going back to school in September. I'm never going into the real world, I swear.