fandom: supernatural

tw: self harm, child abuse, mild language 

set: 1996

category: gen

summary: when john discovers that dean has been cutting himself, his reaction is everything dean was afraid of. 

word count: 2,902

    It had been just another day, just another hunt. But Dean had been forced to drive the Impala a little hard in the process, and when they’d walked out of their current dingy, extended-stay hotel the next morning, they’d been greeted by a puddle under the beloved car.

    Apparently, in the action of the day before, something had hit somewhere on the transmission hard enough to cause a leak. It had the potential to be as simple as a punctured pan or as complex as a cracked torque pump, but whatever it was, it was Dean’s fault and John was not happy.

    He’d sent Sam to school but kept the older son home to ‘fix what he’d broke’. That was fine with Dean… he’d rather spend his day under a car anyway. John had gone to one of the nearby bars and he’d taken the opportunity to swipe a beer from the stash in the hotel room to keep him company while he worked.

    It didn’t take him long to discover a small pile of problems on the underside of the Impala. He wasn’t sure what he’d run over the day before, but whatever it was had been enough to puncture the transmission pan and crack a fluid line. In addition, either their frequent run-ins with fire had finally been too much (if that was the case, Dean could relate to the poor car), or the last time John installed a new gasket he’d failed to align it properly, because it too was sporting a small crack.

    Those weren’t complicated replacements, and they weren’t overly expensive parts either. However, that didn’t mean they had the money on hand. Besides, John was angry enough about the leak without him asking for money to repair it.

    So, since they were in no short supply in this part of town, Dean went to a different bar than the one his father had yet to return from, hustled some poker and then a game of pool, and walked out with more than enough for the parts he needed. 

    He’d spent what he had to, stashed the rest for the next time they needed it, and was back under the car, about to get to work on the replacements, when his father made a reappearance. 

    Luckily, Dean had already gotten rid of his empty beer bottle. He never knew how his father was going to react to him drinking. Sometimes, it was John who gave the alcohol to him, either in celebration when a hunt went well, or as a pain killer when one didn’t. However, other times, he completely lost it at the sight of a bottle in his older son’s hand. Started yelling about how he wasn’t going to be the father of a drunk.

    John seemed to be in good spirits when he came swaggering up the walk and over to where Dean’s long legs were sticking out from underneath the car. 

    “Ya know,” he commented as he dropped to kneel next to his son, “Maybe it isn’t so bad you’re such a terrible driver. It’s been too long since I took a day off.”

    Dean didn’t reply directly, keeping his focus on removing the old parts as he said, “Apparently I punctured the pan and cracked a fluid line yesterday. Dunno how long the gasket’s been bad, though.”

    “I replaced the gasket just a few months ago.”

    Dean wondered how drunk he’d been when he did it, to misalign it as it was now clear he had. 

    “Are you sure it’s cracked, Boy?” 

    The teen shrugged as he got the part loose, handing it out to his father without moving his gaze from the transmission he was staring at.

    “Take a look.”

    He felt his father take the part from him and started to retract his hand to move onto the next step, but before he could, it was jerked further in the other direction, accompanied by a sharp, “What the hell did you do to your wrist?”

    The words were all it took for panic to rule Dean’s mind and body. He jerked away from his father’s grip and shoved his sleeve down, desperately trying to keep his voice steady and casual as he replied.

    “I caught it on a sharp edge up here.” A quick nod to the car above him. “It’s fine.”

    “Don’t lie to me, Boy, I’m not stupid!” 

    “Dad, I hunt ghosts for a living,” Dean snapped. “I get a little scraped up. Drop it, it’s fine.”

    “You don’t get to decide when we drop what!” Drunken good-nature had turned to drunken fury in a matter of seconds. “Now get out here and show me your arm!”

    “Dad, I told you, I’m fine. I’m trying to fix the car.” 

    Before he knew what was happening, a hand closed around his shirt collar, and he was being yanked in the direction of his father. Drunk John pulled up too soon, and Dean heard himself emit a grunt of pain as his head slammed into the underside of the Impala.

    His father offered no apology, only the correction of dragging him out further before hauling him upright, standing as he did and forcing Dean to get his feet under him as well.

    “When I give you an order, you obey it, you understand me?”

    Dean’s heart was pounding in his head, all of his usual submissiveness being overridden by blind fear. “It’s fine, Dad. Just leave it alone.”

    A hard blow across his face snapped him back to reality, where he did as he was told, no matter what.

    “You obey it!” John yelled. “Do you understand?”

    Dean pressed his eyes closed, desperate not to let any tears out. This was not happening. This couldn’t be happening. But he managed to whisper, “Yes, Sir.”

    His father’s hand struck his face again, just as hard as the first time. “Look at me when you’re talking!”

    The boy forced his eyes open, clenching his fists to keep his hands from shaking. “Yes, Sir.” The words were said through teeth which were gritted against the suppressed tears. 

    “Now show me your arm, Boy.”

    He pressed his eyes shut again for just a moment, desperately trying to swallow the water begging to be let out. His voice came out a whisper as he opened them again. “Dad. Please. Please, just forget about it.”

    The hunter didn’t ask again. Instead, he moved his hand from Dean’s collar to his wrist, using the other to shove the sleeve of his flannel back to his elbow.

    And that was it. That was eleven months of a secret kept, going down in flames in a matter of seconds.

    There was a beat of silence as John stared at a forearm covered in red cuts and white scars, then another. 

    Dean wanted to say something, anything, but it was hard to speak when he wasn’t breathing.

    “What the hell is this?” The question was quiet, raspy. The evidence of a man about to explode.

    “Dad. I can explain, I swear,” Dean choked out at last. “I…” He couldn’t. There was no explaining. They both knew what he’d been doing.

    “Did you do this to yourself?” John growled.

    Dean opened his mouth to deny it no matter how hopeless that seemed, but John spoke again before he could.

    “You tell me another lie and I swear I’ll take Sam and leave you here, Boy.”

    He stopped breathing again, staring into his father’s anger and alcohol-clouded eyes, searching for a sign that he was bluffing and finding none. 

    “Now, did you do this to yourself?”

    The teenager’s eyes closed again as he tried desperately to suppress an overwhelming wave of fear, self-hatred, and shame. Not to mention those tears. If he cried, it would only make this so much worse.

    “Yes.” The word was barely audible. 

    John struck him a third time, the hardest of the three. “What is wrong with you?” He was full-out screaming now. “Who taught you that’s alright? Cuz it sure wasn’t me, Boy! It sure as hell wasn’t me!”

    “Dad,” Dean whispered, his voice shaking, “Please. Not here. Someone’s gonna call the cops.”

    He knew the request was just sealing his fate, but he didn’t want authorities involved. Besides, he deserved everything his father was about to dole out on him. 

    With a low growl and barely-suppressed anger burning in his eyes, John took hold of his son’s arm and wordlessly jerked him in the direction of the motel building. Dean didn’t try to fight him, just stumbled after him best he could and silently cursed his own existence.

    His father unlocked the door with his left hand so he wouldn’t have to release him in the process. He shoved Dean through, pulled the door shut behind him, and Dean braced himself for the storm. 

    John shoved him further into the room, finally letting go of Dean’s arm, and clenched his fists at his sides. “Take it off!” he barked.

    A whole new pit of dread opened in the boy’s chest at the request. He couldn’t… he couldn’t… 

    “I said take it off!” John yelled, pacing a step closer to his son. 

    Dean’s head dropped in defeat, his eyes squeezing shut against the shame that was overwhelming him, and he slid off the flannel he’d been wearing over his t-shirt. He was shaking too much to hold onto it, and it was left lying at his feet.

    Its absence left his scarred skin exposed to the air, something he hadn’t allowed in the presence of another person since he’d made the first slit almost a year ago.

“What is wrong with you?” 

John closed the remaining distance between them as he screamed the question, so that his face was only inches away from Dean’s. He wasn’t that much taller than his older son anymore, but the few inches that did remain felt like a foot to Dean as he wilted under his father’s glare. 

“I asked you a question, Boy!”

Dean’s hand came up to cover his eyes in one last desperate attempt to hold back his tears. “I don’t know,” he choked out. “I… it just… it just helps.” 

“Helps what?” John bellowed. “What have I done wrong that you need to cut yourself like some sort of a freak?”

Before Dean had the chance to reply, the older hunter’s hand grasped his jaw, yanking his chin up from his chest.

“Look at me when I’m talkin to you!” 

Dean forced his hand down from his eyes in obedience to the command, but he was unable to hold his tears back any longer.

He’d known John would react like this. Almost every part of him had been sure of it. And yet, a tiny fraction of his heart had clung to the hope that he wouldn’t. That maybe, he’d try to understand. Or even if he couldn’t understand, that he’d love him anyway… offer him a hand out of the darkness he felt like he was drowning in instead of condemnation for drowning in it in the first place.

Now, that tiny hope was dead, and he was being faced with all of his worst fears come to life.

“When did you get it in your thick head that this crap is okay?” John asked him now, taking hold of the scarred wrist and shaking Dean’s own arm in his face. “You’re a Winchester. I raised you better than this!”

“I know,” the boy whispered. “I know. I’m sorry.” 

John dropped the arm so that both hands were free to shove his son hard in the chest. “Sorry doesn’t cut it, Dean! Nothing’s gonna cut it! You can’t--”

He was cut off by the door slowly creaking open to reveal the apprehensive face of the youngest Winchester. Obviously, he’d heard his father yelling. The look in his eyes was a little scared, but more protective as he looked at his brother, accusatory as he looked at his father. 

There was a long moment of silence among the three of them. The tension was thick enough to cut with a knife. It was Dean who broke it, pushing through his panic to hurry over to his brother.

“Sammy…” His voice was hoarse and raw as he dug into his pocket for the leftover money from that afternoon. “I need you to do me a huge favor, okay? Go get yourself something with this. Whatever you want. Ice cream, soda, a book cuz you’re a nerd like that. Anything it can buy. Alright? Jus get outta here for a bit.”

Sam pushed the cash back towards his brother. “No, Dean. I’m not a little kid anymore. You can’t distract me with ice cream.”

Dean leaned down, going to place both hands on the boy’s shoulders, before realizing his mistake and quickly gluing his left to his side and settling for just the right. “I know, Sammy. I’m not trying to treat you like a kid, alright? I jus…” He swallowed hard against a fresh wave of tears. “I screwed up bigtime. I don’t want you to get caught in the crossfire.”

“Yeah, well I don’t want him to hit you!” Sam reached out, his hand balling around the loose fabric of Dean’s t-shirt. “I know he hits you! You can’t lie to me anymore, Dean!”

“I…” The older brother allowed his head to drop, allowed his eyes to fill as he stared at the carpet and searched for something, anything to say to the kid in front of him. “I know it looks bad, Sammy. But I promise he only does it when I deserve it. He wouldn’t hurt me unless it was necessary.”

“That’s not right, Dean!” Sam argued, beginning to cry as well. “You shouldn’t think it’s okay!”

“Sammy.” Dean squeezed his shoulder, trying to pull his attention back in. “Trust me. You trust me?”

Sam opened his mouth, turmoil in eyes, faltering for a long moment. “I… Yeah. Of course, Dean. I jus…”

“Then just go. Okay? I’ll be okay. I promise I’ll be okay.”

Sam’s shoulders dropped in defeat as his brother pressed the cash into his hand. Tears were freely sliding down his face as he turned around, allowing Dean to close the door behind him. 

An hour later, John Winchester stormed out of the motel room and back down the street, to the bar where he’d spent most of the day. He left behind his older son with a quickly swelling eye, blood leaking from his nose, and a sharp pain in his side whenever he breathed. The injuries didn’t hurt half as much as the hour’s worth of screaming loud enough for the entire motel to know that Dean was a freak who hurt himself for fun. 

In his furious hurry, John completely missed his younger son, sitting on the sidewalk beside the door with his knees tucked to his chest. 

Dean leaned over painfully to retrieve his flannel from the floor and pull it back over each arm before slowly making his way to the door, which John had slammed so hard that it had bounced open again. 

It was a sixth sense that always kept track of his baby brother that led him to look down. 

The older Winchester exhaled slowly. Somewhere in the beating, he’d stopped crying, but now the water was threatening him anew, and he had so little energy left to fight it.

“How long you been there?” he asked softly as he held out his hand to help the boy up.

When Sam took it, Dean felt tightly wadded cash in his hand. “I never left.”

Dean’s shoulders dropped. That was exactly the answer he’d been praying not to hear. John had been screaming loud enough for the next state to know about Dean’s issues. If Sam had been right outside the door, he would have heard every word.

He placed both hands on his younger brother’s shoulders as he guided him inside and closed the door. 

“Whatever you heard, Sammy,” he whispered, “jus… jus know I’m okay. Alright? Don’t worry about me. Please don’t worry about me.” He began to cry for real as he said it.

Sam did too, staring at the carpet with water running down his face. “Dean?”

“Hmm?”

“I hate him sometimes.”

“No you don’t.”

“Yes, I do.” 

Dean didn’t have it in him to argue any further. It was probably true. It was probably his fault.

The thought took the last of the strength out of him, and his legs gave out. He found himself sitting on the floor with one of the beds at his back, and he couldn’t find it in himself to get up again. 

He leaned back and squeezed his eyes shut, an extra ache opening in his chest. How had everything fallen apart so quickly?

He felt two arms wrap around one of his, and he opened his eyes to see Sam curling up beside him, desperately hugging the part of him that they both knew was cut and scarred beyond recognition under the flannel sleeve. 

His face tightened against yet another wave of tears. But somehow, these ones were different. 

He wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that. 

Finally, though, he gently pried the kid off of him as he shakily got to his feet. 

“I gotta go make the car drivable,” he said softly. “I think we’re going to Bobby’s.”