Chapter Text
Dean felt his heart beat like a drum as he stood outside his bedroom door.
The light had stayed on hours ago. His father had told him not to turn it off. Usually, it went off; electricity, payment, blah blah. Low rent costs. It was unusual for his father to be like this -- to be so careless with his little crumbs of money -- but Dean knew the reason as soon as he had said not to come out tonight.
It was Sam's turn.
Shadows moved under the lamplight. A towering, looming figure, grabbing onto a smaller ones shirt. Small whimpers. Hurried and hissed out words. Dean couldn't look, not even through the crack in the door, his feet rooted to the spot as he watched as his brother got dragged downstairs, kicking and screaming and yelling out.
"I'm sorry!" He cried. "I'm sorry, Dad, I'm sorry!"
Dean heard the creak of the steps, before Sams voice cried out as a slap ringed through the house. "Don't say that shit to me!" His dad yelled, before he dragged Sam downstairs. "You fucking think you can run? Huh? No. Not this time."
"Dad! No!"
Dean felt his heart lurch into his throat. His palms were sweating, his knees weak, stomach rolling with leftovers. Sam was screaming for his damn life, his wails echoing off the walls as their dad dragged him down into the cellar.
"Dean!"
Sam. Dean flinched, eyes wide.
"Dean!" Sam's voice was raw already, tears streaming his voice. "Dean, help, help--!"
"Shut the fuck up!"
A loud slap echoed throughout the house. Dean could hear Sam's voice wavering, trying to cry his name out again, but only more blows came down. The last thing Dean heard was his father cussing Sam out before the basement door slammed shut, enveloping the house in an eerie silence that threatened to make his dinner roll out of him in nauseous waves.
Dean stood next to the door for a while. He wasn't sure how long -- just that he must've gone to bed at some point, because when he woke, sunlight was already streaming through his blinds.
He made his way downstairs. His dad was already dressed: leather jacket, boots half tied, coffee with a million different shots in hand. He didnt glance at Dean as he opened the fridge, just grabbed his keys and walked to the door.
"Dean," he said, not looking back. "Don't let it out. I'm going."
The door shut behind him, but Dean already felt the pit in his stomach grow. 'It' -- whenever dad got like this, Sam was always stripped of his humanity. Whether or not it was because useless. His dad just didnt see anything else but a monster, apparently. Dean sighed, plated two pieces of bread with jam, and started to chew on one.
Well, it wasn't like this would be the first time-- Dean couldn't even count how many times Sam had ended up like that on two hands -- but still, his gut twisted uneasily all the same. It never really got any better. Not with Sam's screams tearing through the fragile 'normalcy' that his dad was begging to bring up, and definitely not after, when the air was so thick and his dad couldn't even look at Sam in the eye, not after what he'd done to him.
Well. Considering Dean even got a wink of sleep last night, Sam must've not been too hurt. Right?
His eyes welled, throat working around a lump. Swallowing the first toast, Dean picked up his plate and cracked open the basement door.
It was musty, first off. The basement stunk of middew and piss, and despite the landlord saying that they're better off finding a different lot to pick, Dad chose this one. Probably because the basement had thick walls: easier to hide the screams in the dead of night. By any means, Dean really shouldn't be surprised to find his baby brother, slumped against a rag of a mattress in the far corner, but he is.
Sam...
Well. What can Dean say? He doesn’t look all that good.
His jaw is purple, an ugly black eye matching. His hairs mattered with blood, and Dad must've used the iron again, because his shirts ripped and ugly welts line his collarbone. Beyond that, his skin is mattered with bruises and cuts; one of thems pretty deep, with the bandage already soaked through. The arms turning blue. The rest of him bares a similiar look: his knee looks busted, and his left ankle is definitely sprained, if not broken. Sam doesn't look up when Dean enters. Sam doesn't even seem to be breathing.
He looks like absolute shit.
Dean coughs once. Sam flinches, but doesn't curl into himself. Instead he just lays there slumped. Dean makes his way over towards him and, when his shadow catches Sams line of sight, the little kid curls into himself -- well, as much as his broken body and chains allow him to, anyway. Dean sighs.
"Its me, Sammy," he says, squating down and placing the plate just shy of the kids hand. "Just, uh. Came to give you breakfast."
Sam doesn't say anything. He just curls in more. Dean waits for a beat before standing back up. "I'm, uh, gonna go," he says, awkwardly. "Dad--" Sam flinches-- "should be back late. I'll get you in a couple hours, okay? Don't.. don't move. Alright?"
Sam doesn't give a response, still sat scared out of his head. Deans gut twists. He gives one last look at the kid before turning and walking back up the stairs. Its protocol, you see -- if Dad comes back home too early, and Sam's out of the basement without Dean there, well. There's hellfire to pay. Worse then the beating he got last night, for sure.
And by God does it hurt Dean to see his little brother like that, but this is the best outcome, realistically. This is the only thing keeping Sammy alive at all, no matter how much this life hurts him.
Dean packs his bag, toes his shoes on, and locks the front door behind him.