An AU following the prompt: What if they had Max's childhood?
Up to you what ages they are; I would have said Sam was about four or five, but up to you; this fits about any pre-series age (yes, I am obsessed with teenchesters.).
Disclaimer: own nothing at all.
NOT SEXUAL ABUSE.
Summary: What if they had Max's childhood? AU. Every night, they'd wait for the man to come home.
Every night, Sam would lay in his bed, the sheets tangled around his body to keep out the cold, his back turned to the door, his big brother sitting next to him with one hand on Sam's back, his head drooping on his own shoulder.
The wind would whistle through the window, an eerie, scary whistle. The trees would rustle against one another, hissing and scratching, branch against branch. The rain would slap against the window, over and over, the trails bleeding down the chipped glass.
But Sam felt safe. Even in the dark, he knew he was safe.
Safe in his brothers arms, in their room, snug under their tent, The Man still far, far away.
But then the two car lamps would shine through the curtainless window, and Sam could hear his brother shake himself awake.
Sam's own heart would beat faster.
For a moment, the lamps would stay on, shining in on their faces, stinging their tired eyes, the loud engine rumbling through the storm.
Then, the rumbling would stop, and leave them enveloped in the fake safety of darkness, and the door would click open.
Then bang shut again.
Sam would start to breathe real shallow, and real quick, matching his brother's fear.
But Dean would shush him as the footsteps rattled their house as they stumbled up the wooden steps, and he would rub his back and kiss his head.
The front door would be thrown open.
Dean would freeze.
Sometimes, the man would leave them alone. He would swing the door shut with a crash, the windows quaking in their frames, and kick off his boots. He'd stumble to the kitchen, and a cupboard door would open and shut, the hanging handle clinking against the wood. There would be silence for a moment, and the cupboard would swing closed. Then The Man would drag himself across the hallway to his bedroom, and sleep until late the next day.
Not often enough, in Sam's mind.
Usually, he would swing the door closed with a crash, the windows quaking in their frames, but he wouldn't take off his boots.
Then, he'd yell: "Bring that God damn kid here! Bring that murderous, bastard child to me, and I'll show him what it's like to hurt, I'll show him…"
Or something similar.
Sam would start to shake as The Man spat the words, even though he didn't know what they meant.
But he knew they were mean words.
And he thought, just maybe, The Man wanted him to go out to out there.
But Dean would slip out of the bed, his own hands shaking. Sam would turn to look, but Dean would push him back to the wall, and tell him to cover his ears, like always.
Sam always did.
Dean would slip out of the room, sometimes crying, sometimes not.
The Man would yell some more, but Sam tried not to hear.
But sometimes, the noises would creep in.
"…killed your mother… monster…fucking murdered her… crib…"
Then he'd hear awful sounds of Dean's cries, and the pounding of fists on flesh, and slaps across the face, and boots meeting skin.
Just like on the TV shows that would come on sometimes, only louder. And horribler. And meaner and crueler and all the other not-nice words Sam knew.
Then The Man would cry, and stumble to his bedroom, his boots still on.
And Dean would stay away for a few moments. Sometimes long, sometimes not so long.
But he always came back.
He'd crawl, or drag himself, or limp back into their room, and back into bed.
And Sam would cry when he saw his big brother all bloody and bruised, even though he knew it shouldn't be him that was crying.
Then they'd fall fast asleep, Dean promising to get them away, and buy them a nice house on a nice street with a garden and a dog and a park on the next block. One day, they'd leave this wooden shack, the street with the wooden shacks, and the ratty yard out front and the warehouse with the scary men on the next block.
One day, they'd get away.
But not today.
Feedback always appreciated.