This story is going to switch between the past and present. I'll try to make it was easy to follow as possible. A huge 'Thank you' to everyone who has read and reviewed this story.
Disclaimer: I own nothing from Supernatural.
Eighteen years before Chapter 1.
A swell of panic and fear filled the eight year old as he saw his father's black truck in the driveway. The man wasn't suppost to be back until tomorrow. The wave of despair within him grew. He already knew he would be in trouble for leaving the house, no matter the reason. To John, it didn't matter that his oldest son went to get food and medicine for his youngest. All that matter was that Dean had disobeyed an order. A shudder passed through him at the thought of what waited for him. However, this one brief moment is all he allowed himself. Sammy was in the house with their father all by himself. Normally, he would have taken the little one with him but Sammy was too sick.
Dean had only been gone for half an hour. Yet he knew firsthand that was more than enough time for John to inflict maximum damage. Carefully, Dean opened the front door and went inside. Immediately, his father was there, gripping his arms.
"Boy, where have you been?" the man demanded, leaving bruises.
The fear swelled once again. "I-I went to the store, sir."
"What for?" his father asked, shaking him slightly.
'F-food and medicine." The boy barely got the words out before his cheek began to string.
Closing his eyes tightly, Dean silently waited for more. However, nothing came. He opened his eyes to find that John had moved away and was putting things into a bag. Overwhelming relief swept through him. Thank God! John was leaving on a hunting trip. Not wanting his father to see his joy and decide to stay like he had in the past, Dean put his mask into place.
"Boy, I'm going away for a few days. There's money in the kitchen – don't waste it. Stay inside and don't answer the phone." John said, picking up his bag to leave. The man was almost to the door when he turned back to his son. "Samuel misbehaved while you were shopping. He's in his room. Don't go up there and coddle him like you usually do. He has to grow up sometime."
Dean fought the urge to tell his father that 'Samuel' was only four years old and too sick to misbehave. What he did say was a quiet 'Yes, sir.' The boy waited until he couldn't hear the truck anymore before racing up the stairs, his bags of groceries completely forgotten.
'Oh, Sammy' was all Dean could think as he spotted the little boy. The four year old lay on his bed facing Dean. The older brother could see that Sammy had been crying but now he just stared at nothing. This scared the eight year old more than he would ever admit. From the way Sam's shirt was pushed up, he could see a bruise on his stomach. After quietly leaving to get a wet washcloth Dean, as gently as picking up a newborn from a crib, lifted Sam into his lap.
The little boy still said nothing, just sat with his head against Dean's chest, listening to the heartbeat beneath his ear. As he began to clean off the tiny face, Dean started to talk.
"Someday, we're going to get away from him. We're going to go some place where he'll never be able to hurt us again. It'll just be you and me…no one else. And we'll look after each other forever. Just like always. We'll be happy…just you and me."
Looking down, pure happiness ran through him as hazel eyes stared back at him. Eyes that no longer held that dull and detached look.
"Tell me again."
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