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Tredpidation
The window of the car carried the same picture of nonsense.
Dean could feel the car moving, but the picture outside the window never changed.
It remaid a morphing abstraction of nonsense.
He was drugged.
Chloroformed to be specific.
In the back of the impala he laid, hands tied painfully.
He struggled against the binds, careful not to attract attention.
He couldn’t grasp a single factor of knowledge, nothing made sense.
The roof of the car morphed and swirled into a mandela.
The motion of car created a sensation of sinking.
One to which left him wandering for a firm reality.
There was no solid ground for his mind to walk upon, it floated endlessly.
Thus Dean scrambled for a clear notion.
He blinked weakly, focusing his vision onto the driver.
The man was large, broad shoulders and a thick back. His hair was cutt short, militarily grade.
Oh fuck!
Dean blinked rapidly, zoning onto the man’s statue, panicking.
It was dad.
It was his fucking dad!
Memories poured into Dean’s mind, flooding him with pure terror.
The memories burned with such a familiar sting,that Dean wondered if he was existing within the present.
Perhaps this was all a pre-existing memory, one that possessed his awareness.
But no, the pain of his bruises reminded him so.
Dean, deep in panic and traumatic terror,
remembered.
John had made Dean’s life a living nightmare.
From small touches, to which Dean could say nothing about, to hits and punches his voice broke against.
Dean had tried to make John quite, to make the abuse stop before it got worse.
Before it bleed into a dilemma promising affliction.
He couldn’t let Sam see how corrupt their childhood really was.
Thus he keept quite.
But once his blindfold termed a mask had to break, he had no choice but to disobey.
“Dad stop it! You don’t get to hurt me anymore!”
But Dean’s body, bent and torn under his father’s hand, betrayed him so.
For his body failed to be strong against his abuser, it surrendered.
Dean had been beaten into a shameful shambled mess, one that screamed submission.
He was his father’s toy and he should’ve listen, because now, death loomed in the air.
He had stood his ground, stood up for himself and failed miserably.
Dean tugged at the binds again, watching his father in the mirror.
The chloroform burned his lungs and eyes, his vision blurred.
He couldn’t focused onto John, nor could he understand how to work the knots that binded his wrist.
Baboom!
Baboom!
Baboom!
His head screamed, booming under the wrath of the chloroform.
His stomach boiled , fighting against the chemicals pressed upon his organs.
Fuck!
Dean blinked, biting back cries of pain as he shifted in the seat.
The ropes, binding his wrist together, only tightened against his struggled attempts to escape.
Everything stung, Dean felt as though he was burning alive.
“Stop!” A short, fierce voice snapped.
John had shattered the barrier between them. Dean could no longer hide behind the illusion of sleep.
Dean gazed up, tears in his eyes as he dared to ask. “Dad, what are you doing?”
He watched as John’s knuckles turn white against the steering wheel.
He listen attentively, dreading the answer.
Something twisted his stomach, a deep gut wrenching feeling.
Dean’s intuition bawled, crying a warning that he refused to acknowledge.
“Dad.” Dean begged when his gutt sank, when the silence spoke a dreadful warning.
“Dean shut the fuck up. Lay still and be quiet.” John demanded harshly, his voice shaking with nerves.
Dean layed, shocked by his father’s tone.
He had never heard John speak like that.
John’s voice never held emotion, not a leak would drip from his words.
Thus, Dean drowned in nausea and terror.
His body shook over the tone, and his mind vanished into a blank pattern of nonsense.
His memories and thoughts rambled together, screaming in panic, creating chaos.
Not a clear notion could be acknowledged within the structure of his mind.
Dean was lost, lost in panic and terror.
The chloroform circling within his body suppressed his weakening strength.
Everything clouded in darkness as his heartbeat amplified.
Dean fought, blinking rapidly and breathing heavily.
His eyes danced around the car, his vision running from the dark.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Dean could feel his father’s nefarious intention of malevolence weighing in the air.
Trepidation fueld his body into overdrive, overwhelming his lost mind and shattered body.
Weakness and fear, how the two creat such the perfect victim.
…..
“Dad?” Dean whispered, when the car door shreiked open and cold air consumed him.
The cold had dragged the pieces of his mind back together.
Shards of reality slowly pieced together and his emotions reflected against the mended reality.
It’s dark colors wailed a warning Dean cried under. He didn’t want to listen to his intuition.
He didn’t want this reality to exist, he convet for a bed to awake in.
For the sky to break apart and bleed forth a safe gateway.
But no, this dark reality was true.
John said nothing, his teary eyes gazed at Dean with a dead fixation.
Dean could read every emotion John swam within and it petrified him.
Their was deep guilt in John’s eyes, and fear.
A gravity that preyed upon his clarity, leaving his mind murkey and sinful.
“Dad?” Dean dared to question.
“Dad wh-what are you doing?” He stuttered.
But John continued his muteness, saying nothing as he grabbed the ropes around Dean’s wrist.
Dean closed his eyes as he felt the ropes being tugged.
He didn’t dare to let a drip of reality nourish his dry awareness.
Bam! His body slammed into the ground, pulled from the impala.
“Dad!” Dean weeped as John began to drag his body into the woods.
Dirt and mud stained his clothes, damping the cloth.
He struggled weakly against the direction, against his father’s will.
Dean swallowed a cry, the ropes burn and nawed at his wrist.
The strains rubbed against his skin, creating blisters that stung.
Everything within him wanted to be yelled out, wanted to escape in a rough breath of wind.
But Dean refused to let John hear his frightened cries.
Instead he played a brave character, the hunter and he spoke.
“Dad stop!” He demanded, harsh and quick.
But John ignored and continued his drunken trudge through the thickening forest.
“Dad! I said fucking stop!” Dean yelled thunderously.
He twisted his arms and pulled away, freeing himself from John’s clutch.
Bam!
His head hit the ground brutally and black dots filled his vision.
The voids threatening to swallow him.
Everything blurred into a spiral of colors, collasping and forming into an infinite cycle as his brain failed to grasp reality.
Once again his mind floated, astrayed from any awareness.
His body was left as a numb puppet.
One John could easily pinned down into the dirt.
One John could easily control and dominate.
The ropes stung Dean as his arms where pinned above his head.
He cried in agony and fire filled his lungs, cutting out his voice.
He coughed sorely, letting the fire crawl up his throat.
He tasted metal in his mouth and upon his lips.
The connection of it all made him nauseous.
“Dad?” Dean whispered weakly once he caught a glimpse of John’s eyes.
They where brimful of fear and guilt.
“Dean I-“ John whispered, but his voice was taken by a sob.
John shook violently, nerves fueling his delirious mind.
He placed his free hand onto Dean’s cheek and caressed his skin, wiping away the blood.
“Son I-I went to far.” John cried, guilt choking out his voice.
Dean blinked, focusing his vision onto John’s eyes.
Reality slowly sunk into him.
“St-stop.” He gurgled, blood spilling from his mouth. “We-we can put it a-all b-behind us.” He pleaded weakly, attempting to tug against his position.
As Dean’s eyes became focused and John’s absent eyes became clear, Dean leaned into his father’s touch.
Breathing in his whiskey scent, and absorbing the warmth of his fleash.
“I-I can’t Dean.” John cried, his voice wavering. “I went to far.” His voice broke, fracturing against the guilt.
He dugg his nails into Dean’s skin, biting his tongue when Dean flinched.
“Dad, do-don’t.” Dean whispered.
“Sa-smy.” He mumbled through a weak gasp.
His body struggled to breath, for his lungs were on fire and blood choked him so.
The red liquid dripped from his lips and poured into a river, flowing down his chin.
His shirt was red, along with his pants.
His hair was red as well, and his wrist and arms.
His body was painted in red, he was red and he saw the color too.
It was a bubble in his vision, expanding widely into an impossible shape.
It covered the night stars and the tree tops, but it never covered his father’s eyes.
The color melted around John’s absent eyes.
Dean called on the angels, for he could hear their voices singing in melody.
Playing with the strings of his heart and tugging it down.
He didn’t want their open arms.
He didn’t want their comforting presence.
He wanted their help.
The universe held his beating heart in it’s hands.
He could only pray that it carried the life to saftey, away from the darkening void of death.
Oh death, it loomed in the air like a gas.
It pressed upon both of their conscience, letting its presents be known.
Dean could feel it’s fingers ghosting his skin.
John could feel it weighing down onto his mind like a spirit.
“Son, you know I love you-“
“Don’t!” Dean snapped.
“If you l-love me…my blood w-would be on your ha-hands.”
He whispered in reply, eyes fluttering as he gasped for air.
John went still and silent, light slowly glowing into his eyes.
Such an unfamiliar sight it was.
He continued to dig his nails into Dean’s skin, sobbing quietly to himself.
“I’m-I’m- I’m sorry. I’m so-s-so sorry,!” He rambled on in rapid, delirious mumble of apologies.
“Then le-let me go.” Dean pleaded, his tears mixing with his blood.
He wheeze, fighting back a cough.
Brrriinnmggg!!!
A phone went off, it’s chime rapturing the intensity weighing upon the atmosphere.
They both flinched, sucking in air and holding it in.
John’s pupils widen, blackening his eyes.
The colors of his face drained into an ugly, death-like gray.
John became silent and still as water.
Dean sought the opportunity and wrestled against his binded wrist.
Fighting to grabb the phone chiming in his pocket, for it had opened a gateway.
But he was weak and slow, John slammed him back into ground
Bam!
Dean cried in pain, only to be gagged by a cloth.
He let out a strangled mess of words as John tied the fabric.
Dean struggled again, fighting with all his strength as John flipped open the phone.
“Heya Sammy.” John spoke, his voice eerily calm.
Dean shuttered before it and continued to fight.
Bam!
His head was smashed against the ground and his wrist were twisted.
John held them down, battling for his voice to be steady.
“No, Sam you’re good. I’m just a l-little drunk.” John spoke as he threatened to break Dean’s wrist. He mouthed at him to stay still and to stop.
But Dean refused and continued to fight breathlessly.
Pulling against John’s clutch and biting the cloth.
“N-no I haven’t seen Dean, Sam.” John lied, losing his fight against Dean.
Thus his voice shook and bleed with truth.
“He’s probably at the bar!” John hissed, as Dean kicked and wrestled.
Dean let out a cry for help, but it was muffled by the cloth tied around his mouth.
The cloth captured his words and killed them.
Snap!
Dean screamed in agony, while cold fire erupted from his wrist.
John had keept promise.
He squirmed frantically to be free, the pain driving his struggle.
He panted and wheezed uncontrollably.
“No Sam. I’m-I’m sorry he’s not here.” John continued to lie, his voice shaking with nerves.
He brought his knee up and drove it into Dean’s abdomen, making him cry in pain.
Guilt seared his soul, but fear made him continue.
He refused to be caught, to let his dirty sin be known.
“He’s probably at a bar Sam.”
Dean let out another muffle cry, which earned his skull a strike into the ground.
Dark bubbles filled his vision, mixing with the red.
He couldn’t see, his vision had been killed.
But he continued to fight, blindly.
He’s will to survive overpowering his physical machine, his body and its cries.
Sam and help loomed before him, it was within reach.
It was there and achievable, if only he could create the action to earn it.
To become it.
To appease the balances upon the scale, and let his favor outweigh the negatives.
The demons that preyed upon his peace and mind.
“SMm!” Dean gurgled out, scorching his throat and his lungs.
John’s eyes locked with Dean’s, and another promise was composed.
One that ment affliction and doom.
The nightmare haunting their conscience seeped into reality and death laughed.
Another pound of weight was added against Dean’s body.
John forced him into the ground, forced him to be still.
He aloud no movement.
“It’s Dean, Sam. He’s always running off to bars.” John lied, his voice becoming harsh and mean.
Dean spoke insults with his eyes, his thoughts souring John’s guilty conscience. Like soured milk poured and mixed into radium.
The angels continued to sing, their once beautiful melody mutating into bitter taunts. Nothing ever came about, no hope came and the movie continued to play.
“I’m tired, Sam! That’s why I sound snappy!” John lied once more.
“This is a burner phone, Sam. Dean and I traded phones during our last hunt.”
Dean, losing his touch with reality, wheezed.
His tugs and kicks against John became weak and useless.
The chloroform began to resurface and bubble.
Nonetheless, Dean endlessly fought.
He couldn’t bare to leave Sam.
Click!
Dean stopped, every ounce of determination fleed from his mind.
He became silent and still, as panic rushed through his vains.
Baboom!
Baboom!
His heart roared into his ears.
His mind became blank once again.
Dean didn’t dare to move nor speak, for there was a gun pressed against his temple.
He held his breath, sobbing as the cruel and ugly reality sunk into him.
There was a gun to his head, held by his father’s hand.
Dean didn’t know what to do.
He just listen and watched, possessed by a numbing trepidation.
“I’m sorry Sam. I worry too, you’re fine and I am sure he’ll show up.” John spoke, his voice a controlled calmness.
His eyes were now filled with something more than guilt.
A sorrowful somber, coated in sin.
He spoke all his intentions with his eyes, and Dean sobbed.
“Goodbye Sam.”
The phone was snapped shut, the gateway was sealed.
Silence hung in air at first, like the motionless state before a storm.
But a cough erupted from Dean’s chest and blood spilled out, shattering the fraudulent peace.
Dean was first to create a sound, so he was first to speak.
“Dad, do-don’t kill me.” Dean pleaded.
His breath was ragged and uneven, choked by fatigue and blood.
“Why? So you can r-run off to Sam?” John cried. “So you can betray me? Yo-you said we could put this behind us. Wha-what happened to that? Uh, what happened to that Dean!” He screamed fouly.
Dean choked when the gun was jabbed into his temple.
Tears ran down his cheeks like tiny rivers.
He shook his head, pleading with his eyes.
~God no! Don’t let this be it! Don’t let me die like this!
Dean remaind still, attempting to present peace.
Oh how pathetic he was.
“It’s- I went to far so-Dean. I’m sorry.” John whispered, his words messy and slurred.
Click!
Dean cried and jerked his head away from the gun.
Mud, blood and tears soaked every part of him.
His broken bones stabbed him.
His body obtained fire and the flames consumed him fully.
Dean gazed at his father, betrayal written in his tears.
John looked away and held his breath.
Bam!
The gun went off, gunpowder filled the atmosphere and death settled within it.
Dean was dead.
…..
There was a crack in John’s mind.
Everyday he’d down a bottle.
Everyday he inched closer towards death.
His heart was heavy, crushed by guilt and his mind couldn’t survive it.
Soon he fell apart, soon only his fleash held him together.
No bottle could numb the pain of his guilt.
No drugg could make him forget.
He didn’t eat nor did he sleep.
John became a walking corpse.
Karma transpired, and death had seized John in a much different way.
Sam had watched it all happened, he watched John fall apart and he watched him die.
He cried for an answer, sobbed until he lost his voice.
He pleaded to demons who’m did nothing but manipulate him.
Toyed with his mind and tarnished his soul with sin.
When months passed and no answers came, Sam became delirious.
Collage became a joke and Jessica became a name.
Stanford was just a town, a meaningless memory.
John haunted him and his brother too.
Sam lived in his head, lived in his memories.
He was on the same path as his father and he knew it.
Motel after motel, bottle after bottle, Sam lived in John’s past.
He was drowning deeper everyday.
The mystery of brother’s death driving him into insanity.
Hope was slipping from his sight, while guilt ate him up.
Sam became desperate and stupid.
He became both, the abuser and the victim.
It went on like this for month’s, until he couldn’t bare to look into the mirror.
Until he stopped eating.
Until he couldn’t function without the chemical supply of a drug.
So when two yellow eyes appeared in the dark one night, Sam didn’t run nor did he fight.
He stood still, his mind like a canvas and his clarity like clay.
Sam listen to every word yellow eyes spoke, betraying the Winchester name.
“Yes.”
The End…