November Rain - LadyMcButt - Supernatural (TV 2005) [Archive of Our Own] (2024)

November Rain

The worst thing about abuse is that you can get used to it. Used to the physical pain, the shame, the hiding, the neglect, the isolation; Dean Winchester is only 15 and is already used to all of it. Hell, he's a f*cking pro. Sitting at a bus stop wrapped in every shirt he has, Walkman blasting Welcome Home, he tries to hide the bruising around his eyes and the recently reset nose. He’s freezing his nuts off sitting out in the wind and rain that’s quickly turning to sleet. The cold metal bench leeches the warmth from his bones , it’s acrid stench of sour piss mingling with the smell of snow on the wind. Each throb of his ankle achoes the relentless ache in his heart, a dull reminder that he can’t afford to put weight on either. He couldn’t go to school with Sammy, too many questions from nosey adults. Sure as sh*t wasn’t going to stay at the hotel with Dad. Not today, November 2nd is the blackest day on the Winchester calendar; observed annually with the time honored traditions of binge drinking, violent rages, beatings and fasting. No food is to be cooked or eaten on this, the anniversary of his mothers death. The very smell of food on this day provokes Dad like nothing else. So, Sam and Dean went without breakfast and will have no dinner.

Shivering, he chews his lower lip until he tastes blood and digs his hands deeper into his pockets, wishing he had gloves. But he’d sent the gloves to school with Sammy. He’s bigger, older, he can cope. The shivering intensifies as the wind shifts. Hard slaps of half frozen rain beat down on the Plexiglas roof, loud enough he can hear/feel them despite the blasting music. An unwanted memory surfaces, sliming its way through his brain: Dad’s hands smacking his face again and again as he cried from the pain of it, snot and tears lathering his face, the sound of toddler Sam screaming STOP. It was Sam’s second word. The first was Dean. The memory hurts, balls his guts up and he hunches over as if punched. Remembers his father’s hands around his neck, tightening past the point of bruises. The horrible, awful things his father had called him. The shame of disappointing his Dad, the hero who fights monsters. The hot, wet, splat of mucus landing on his face when John’s finished with him. He can’t remember if he was 6 or 7 or maybe as old as 8 when that happened. But he knows the date, November 2nd. Knows it like he knows every scar on his body, every curse word and the smell of gasoline.

Dean’s mind drifts back to another bus stop in another state, a different year. He had been eight, Sammy was 6, and the day had begun almost normally. As normal as any day in the life of the Winchesters, anyway. It had been a cold crisp morning, the sunshine bright and brittle. The last of the leaves rattled on the branches like fingerbones. Sammy had tugged on his sleeve, big hazel eyes wide with curiosity. He’d been a kid with a million questions.

“Dean, why do we gotta stay here? I’m cold!” Dean had knelt down, the bite of cold concrete sharp through his secondhand jeans. He forced a smile despite the growing pit of dread in his stomach. “It’s just for a bit, Sammy. We gotta wait for Dad. Won’t be long, I promise.”

But hours had passed. The sun had climbed and then fallen, painting the clouds with a soft orange glow that looked a lot warmer than he felt. John’s promise to be back “soon” became a ghost of a word, haunting Dean as the shadows lengthened. Too many ugly possibilities swarmed his brain like hornets. What if Dad didn’t come back? What if he was dead? Or if he just didn’t want them?

Finally, he’d heard the welcoming rumble of the Impala’s engine. Saw it approaching from the other side of the street. Watched it park. Saw his dad stumble across the street, could smell the reek of alcohol from a yard away. His eyes glassy and unfocused, Dad had looked down at Dean and slurred, “Dean, where’s your brother?”

Dean’s heart slammed into his throat. Sam had been right there a moment ago, holding his hand as they pointed out the shapes of clouds. But now, he’d wandered off. Tired of waiting or afraid of Dad? Panic surged as he sprinted down the street, calling Sammy’s name until his voice was raw. He found him, eventually, hiding behind a Dollar Store dumpster, his small frame shaking with sobs. The relief was short-lived. When they returned, John’s anger was palpable, a storm waiting to rain holy hell down upon him.

“You let him out of your sight?!” John roared, his hand striking Dean across the face. Dean hit the ground hard, his cheek stinging, tears blurring his vision. “You’re supposed to look after him!” He’d cut himself when he’d fallen, broken glass stuck deep into his palm. He’d needed stitches.

The next year, it was worse. Dean, now nine, had tried harder to keep everything together. But on this day, John was meaner, angrier than any other day of the year. The mission he left them for was dangerous, and he came back wounded, furious and already drunk.

“You worthless sh*ts” he spat, the smell of whiskey heavy on his breath. Dean shielded Sammy with his body, taking the brunt of the blows. The belt. God, he hated that f*cking belt. The next morning, he woke up bruised and battered, the memories of the night before etched in pain across his skin.

When he was ten, the storm of John’s rage reached a new height. John came home late, someone else’s blood already on his clothes, and something in his eyes that made Dean’s blood run cold.

“I told you to stay out of my way!” John yelled, shoving Dean hard against the wall. He hadn’t been in Dad’s way. Hadn’t seen the blow coming. Dean’s head hit the plaster, white stars exploding in his vision. He barely heard Sammy’s cries over the ringing in his ears.

“Dad, stop!” Sammy’s voice was small but brave, trying to push John away from Dean.

John turned on Sammy, the anger boiling over. Dean found strength he didn’t know he had, pulling himself up, standing between them. “Leave him alone! It’s me you’re mad at!”

The blows rained down, a blur of fists and pain. The last thing Dean remembered was Sammy’s terrified face before darkness took him.

Each year, the pattern repeated, each incident branded into Dean’s memory. He learned to anticipate the violence, to prepare for the worst. He would find safe places for Sammy to hide, try to placate their father with silent compliance, but nothing ever worked.

Now, sitting at the bus stop, Dean’s eyes open to the present. The memories fade, but the pain remains, a constant companion. Every year, it gets worse. Every year, the date brings fresh hell, another reminder of his failure to protect Sammy.

He wonders what time it is. What’s Sammy doing? Is it lunch time yet? There’s a pharmacy down the block. He could probably shoplift a candy bar or two. But couldn’t run on a gimp ankle if they caught him. f*ck. He knows he can’t stay here all day; he’ll freeze. Doesn’t have enough change on him for bus fare. f*ck it, I’d rather freeze than face Dad. Not today. But Sam’ll be home after school. He won’t leave twelve year old, pint sized Sammy to handle John alone. Never. But that’s still hours away.

The next song on the tape starts. It’ a mix a friend named Sean had given him two hotels ago. Lots of Metallica, Motorhead and Ministry. The opening strains of Unforgiven start. He misses Sean. He’d been fun, goofy, loved horror movies and stealing his mom’s smokes.

Part of him longs for a chance to escape. To take his brother and just… go. Go anywhere that John isn’t. To have a real permanent home, with a real kitchen where he can make his brother real meals not from a can or cardboard box. Tears slip, scorching hot from blurred eyes as he remembers the taste of home cooked food. Mom’s meatloaf had been the best, the very best thing in the world. Ok, her apple pie was even better. His stomach churns, he’d only had a bag of ranch Doritos yesterday and nothing at all today. The memory of hot savory food cooked with love, eaten together in a home filled with laughter…. He thought the sweet pain of that memory might just kill him today.

A loud whooshing, groaning sigh announced the arrival of the 166 line. A big blue and white city bus with ads on the sides, the orchestra, community college, lawyers, real estate. The font is so big and colorful he can read them through his tears. The accordion doors hiss open. The interior is black and blue, like his face, his ribs, his heart. Warmth billows out, the driver must be blasting the heater. No one gets off. No one else is at the bus stop with him. He just waves like nah man, I’m all good just gonna wait for the next one. But the door doesn’t shut. A brash male voice, gentler than Dad’s is carried out on the borrowed warmth.

“You getting on?” the driver barks, not unkindly, just loud enough to be heard over the traffic and the big diesel engine.

“Nah. I’m waiting for someone,” Dean lies.

“Looks like you’ve been waiting a while.”

Dean just shrugs. Doesn’t know what the man wants him to say. “I’m ok.”

“How about you get in, get warm? I’ll drop you at the mall or something.” The man is shorter than dad, big shoulders like a bulldog but sloppy with middle aged fat. His hair is salt and pepper and he’s clean shaven except for mutton chops that had gone out of style thirty years ago.

“Got no fare,” Dean admits, still hunched into the pain of his hunger.

The man makes an overly exaggerated shushing gesture with a finger to his lips and said, “It’ll be our secret. Come on, you’re gonna catch your death out there.”

It’ll be our secret the words reverberate through Dean, alarm clackons shriek dangerdangerdanger the last time an adult had said that Dean had needed new underwear. To this day he still can’t wear tighty-whiteys without vomiting.

“Nah man, I’m good. My ride’ll be here soon.”

“Ok, suit yourself.”

The bus pulls away from the curb. Slowly Dean’s heartrate returns to something closer to normal. He’s still on edge. Still miserable. His mind full of hands. Big, masculine hands. Stronger, insistent, demanding. He leans over and retches. Nothing comes out except clear frothy foam. He’d given Sammy the last of the milk before school. There was nothing in Dean at all now. Nothing but misery.

Painfully, he hauled himself to his feet with the help of the bus shelter wall. He couldn’t sit here any longer. The smell of stale piss and vomit was too much. Too many memories tied to those smells. He turned up the collars of his shirts, tucked his chin down as low as he could and decided to walk with his back to the wind, to let it pick wherever he was going.

Damn it Mom, he cursed bitterly to himself. Why did you have to die? Why you? Why us? We could have been normal, just like all the other families. Images of TV family sitcoms flick through his mind. What would it be like to have a home like the Huxtables? A family like the Seavers or the Tanners? To go to the same school year after year with the same friends like Zack, Lisa and Screech? His ankle was throbbing but held as he stepped along the slick sidewalk, maybe it was just bruised and not sprained.

What would Dad be like if Mom hadn’t died in the fire? Dean has no memories of John from before that night. Nothing beyond a general masculine presence in the house, a voice in another room. Would Dad still be a drunk? Did he ever hit Mom like he did his boys? Would they have siblings, maybe a sister? Dean couldn’t imagine his father as anything except what he was: a rough man, an expert killer, brutal, efficient, drunk, domineering and at the best of times… absent.

What about Sammy? What would his freaky, geeky little brother be like if he wasn’t always jumping at shadows and sudden noises? Would he still make little pillow nests in the closets, burrow in like a badger and devour one novel after another? He'd always be the smartest kid in class but would he still be a mathaleet? Or would he branch out into other geeky sh*t like Dungeons and Dragons or learn Klingon? Dean sighed heavily.

Sammy wanted nothing more than to be normal. But unlike his big brother, he’d never had a taste of it. Never knew what he had lost. Dean knew and the knowledge churned inside him like gravel and broken bones. He didn’t blame Sammy. He wanted the same thing too. A home. A family. A normal life. But he also wanted what Dad wanted, revenge. He wanted to find whatever had killed his mom, had killed their chance at belonging. But? What had really happened? Had anything really killed her besides the obvious fire? Dad swore it was a demon.

Dean believed in demons. Believed in all of it, the ghosts and monsters so he guessed he believed in demons too. But…. If there are demons then what about angels?

The dove gray spire of a church rose on the horizon, a modest cross at its tip standing bravely against the blasting snow. Dean didn’t know if he believed in God. He’d seen too much, suffered too much, to put his faith in some invisible father figure up in the sky. It was comforting to imagine balance in the universe, hunters versus monsters, demons versus angels. But a great big all-knowing all-powerful God? A god who knew Dean and cared about him as a unique individual soul? No f*cking way. Or else the dude was a sick f*ckin sad*st. His game ankle carried him past the cement and stone church, our lady of perpetual something or other.

Sammy believed; he knew that. Had heard his little brother praying on a few occasions, his lips red with blood our father who art in heaven smack, thud, hallowed be thy name sniffle snuffle… He remembered standing with his back to his brother who crouched down in the corner, hiding under pillows and praying that their dad would stop throwing things at them. Bottles, books, plates, cans of food and even a lamp. Sam had prayed. Dean had begged. Neither one had escaped. God had not answered Sam’s prayers any more than Dad had listened to Dean’s pleas to be left alone. Then he slammed the door and left for the bar. Dean had stitched a gash in Sam’s arm lo though I walk through the valley of Death I shall fear no evil… and they’d slept in the same bed, Dean wrapped around his brother like a protective shell.

Dad had been gone for three nights after that drunken rage. He’d left no money, no food. Dean had gone out to try and shoplift but had chickened out. When Dad had returned he didn’t speak. Not a word. They never knew if he’d been in the drunk tank that whole time or on a hunt. He’d been gone. They’d been safe. Hungry, abandoned, alone in a nameless town but safe from their father’s angry eyes and hungry fists. They’d stayed in bed, under the covers, watched cartoons and gameshows, played a million games of tic-tac-toe and Dean sang Sammy some of his favorite songs.

“De, what happens if Dad doesn’t come back?” Sammy had asked on the second day, his head resting on his big brother’s shoulder, his could feet tucked up against Dean’s legs.

“I don’t know, squirt. I guess we could go to uncle Bobby’s or Pastor Jim’s. But don’t worry, he’ll be back.” He’d tried to sound strong, confident, in control.

“I don’t want him to,” his baby brother had confided.

“Shhhhh,” Dean had whispered into Sam’s mop of dirty brown hair. “Don’t say that. He’s family.”

The wind shifted and Dean turned left at the next street, keeping his back to the pelting sleet. The wind was really going strong now, he felt almost weightless with some of the gusts. Others bore down him like his father’s belt. Dean welcomed the brittle sharpness, the snarling cold that tore into his lungs with each breath. Pain was something he understood. Something he could endure. He’d had more than a decade of practice ignoring what his body wanted. Food? Unnecessary until Sammy was fed. Rest? He hadn’t had a full eight hours of sleep since the fire. Between the nightmares and the constant vigilance sleep was just something that happened to someone else. Comfort? Love? Human touch? Unless it was Sammy, he went without. Was never in one place long enough to make any real connection beyond a friend to share music and smokes with for a week or two.

But a punch to the face? He knew how to take that. A quick blinding flash of pain followed by dizziness and a headache. A kick to the ribs? Breathless agony, panic as the diaphragm won’t expand, can’t suck in air then the sickening sharpness of a broken bone. Stab wound? That’s a different type of pain, piercing and vibrant agony that throbs with each heartbeat. One second a manageable level or awful and the next it’ll spike to blinding pain only to sink back to almost acceptable. Depending on where the stab is, of course. Burns? He's got quite a collection. He hates the smell more than the pain; it hurts sure and is hard to ignore but the smell always wrecks him. Is that what mom had smelled before she died?

Once, his dad had even shot him with buckshot. Just to show him how it feels and to teach Sam how to clean the wound. The little pockmarks still speckle across his back. He pretends their acne scars if anyone ever asks. But most people don’t.

The tape clicks. He hadn’t even been aware of the last four tracks. He slides the Walkman out from under his layers and flips the tape. Sweating Bullets starts up. He grins. The opening lyrics always bring the same image to mind. Hello Me, meet the real Me in this misfits way of life… He sees himself standing in front of some antique mirror, ornate wooden frame and sh*t. His reflection is bigger, grown strong and tall, plenty of muscles and a confident grin. The man in the reflection is the Real Me in the song. The Real Dean Winchester that lurks within this underfed, broken frame. That man is braver, stronger and just plain BETTER than Dad could ever be. That man understands family, understands love, devotion, and will do absolutely anything to protect the people he loves. He’s not driven by revenge, or fear, or any of the sh*t that drives John. He’s not poisoned with the filth inside this Dean, the shame, the certainty of his own worthlessness. That man doesn’t hide in a bottle, doesn’t speak with his fists. The man he wants to be, the Real Me, is everything John isn’t.

The Real Me wouldn’t just stand between Sam and their father. That Dean would stop John. Stop him cold. Put him in his place. Wouldn’t be the peacemaker. The wimp that just wants everyone to get along, to pretend for just one f*cking day to be normal and functional. The Real Dean would tell John what’s what, would explain how this life is damaging his boys, how his obsession is more of a curse than any hex from a witch. And John would have to listen to that Dean.

Another blast of wind nearly knocks him over, he bangs his left side into a corrugated metal fence. He catches himself. The metal is warm under his hand. The wind is moving the wrong way to be sure but that might be smoke he sees. He shifts the foam earphones and catches voices on the other side of the rusty orange metal. Sounds like some guys bumming around a fire. He finds a place to peek through. Three guys, skinny and strung out are sipping from paper bags and standing around a trashcan with orange licks of flame dancing at the top. He listens for a while, long enough to be almost kinda certain that they aren’t total scumbags. He looks for a way through the fence, finds it and is relieved instantly by the break from the wind.

Three faces turn. The talking stops. Two white guys and a black guy, they could be homeless or they could be like him… hiding from reality. He gives them one of his chummy smiles, “Hey guys, can I join you? This wind really sucks.”

They share a glance back and forth. The black dude shrugs, “Sure man.” Dean nods his appreciation and approaches, turns off the music and slides the headphones back to settle on his neck.

“I’m Dean,” he says, keeps his hands in his pockets. They nod and introduce themselves as Steve, Scot and Alan.

“Got yerself quite a shiner,” says Steve through the few teeth he has left.

“Yeah, been a hell of a day.”

“Looks like it,” says Alan.

“Need somethin fer the pain?” Steve asks, there’s a rattle of pills from inside his coat pocket. Great, a dealer.

“Nah man, it looks worse than it feels.”

No one speaks, hands come from pockets. Bottles rise to lips. Dean stretches his hands to the fire. Debates if he’ll take a drink if they offer. Decides not to. He doesn’t know them, no reason to trust them.

They conversation resumes. Sports. Mike Tyson. Jordan. Dean nods along, his mind is on Sammy. He’s worried, what if Sam’s dropped off before he gets there? Jesus, what might their dad do to the little dork? He should probably turn around in a bit, once he can feel his toes again. Head back to the hotel. Scrape Dad off the floor. Take care of Sam. Always, number one, take care of Sam. Dad can f*cking fend for himself. f*cker could sleep with his head on the toilet for all Dean cares, he’ll piss in the parking lot instead.

But if he’s not there and Sammy walks in to find Dad on the floor, covered in piss and puke? What might that do to the kid? Or if Dad is still somehow upright? Images flash before his eyes of John’s big, scarred fists, what it looks like to see them flying straight at you. The belt. The lighter. Shivers race through him again. Can’t let that happen. On November 2nd John might not stop after first blood, he might just keep going until someone’s dead.

“You ok, kid? You look like yer gonna chuck,” Alan stops his discourse on the Chicago Bulls.

“Yeah,” it comes out in a strangled gasp. “Any of you know the time? I need to be home before my brother gets off the bus.”

Scot who had up until then been silent, pulled up his sleeve and checked a dime store watch, “Quarter ta two,” he proclaims.

Dean sighs in relief. School gets out at three, earliest Sam’ll be home is 3:30. “Thanks man.”

“Yeah, no problemo. So uh, it’s none my business,” says Scot as he sips again from his bag. “But what happened ta ya? If yer brother’s in school why aint you?”

“Family drama. Nothing big.” He hunches in on himself, tries to hide as much as possible inside his layers.

“Uh-huh. Know a bit bout that. Ya know, there’s a shelter a few streets from here. Hot meals. If it’s dicey at home you could always grab yer bro and head there. It’s behind Our Lady of Perpetual Mercy, little blue and white place. Beds are clean.”

Dean nods noncommittally. Images of social services, child protective services, the police, Sammy being put in The System never to be seen again set his mind spinning. He feels out of control, off balance. He wants help. Wants the pain to stop. Wants to be normal. But he can’t lose Sam. Can’t take the risk that they might be lost from each other by the foster care system. What might happen to Sammy then, on his own? Molestation at the very least. No. He can’t let the state take control.

“Thanks man, I’ll keep that in mind. So, who do ya think is going to the Superbowl this year?”

“Fourty-niners fer sure,” says Steve. The topic is set, the group debates one team against another.

After what Dean guesses is forty-five minutes of mindless chatter Dean thanks them for the fire and heads back into the wind. The rain has stopped, it’s now officially snowing. Cold brittle crystals, not the white fluffy angel feather type of flakes, these make themselves known like buckshot on his exposed flesh. Walking into the wind now, he hurries past the church and the unseen blue and white building behind it. He cranks up the music, lets the fast beats keep him moving. Sex and Death is a great one to keep pace with. His ankle throbs at the speed but he can’t baby it, the storm is getting worse. Clouds glare down at him like the empty eye sockets of skulls.

He's sweating from the pace but freezing both inside and out. What’s waiting for him back at the hotel? What’s going to happen tonight? How bad will it get? What contingencies should he prepare for? He starts to calculate the likelihood of being ditched again, rates it in the mid 70%. The likelihood of a beating is in the upper 90%. Stitches? Between 40 and 60 percent. Will tonight be the night he pulls a gun on his father? What if Sam fights back? Tries to hit Dad? Dean begins to run without even realizing it. Dad would f*cking kill Sam if he tried that. And Sam was getting to the argumentative years, the age of constant questions fading into sullen defiance. Nowhere near full teenage rebellion, thank God. But still, not what Dean needs on November 2nd.

There’s the bus stop, he can just make out it’s blue Plexiglas walls through the intensifying snowfall. There’s a churning, growling rumble coming up behind him. He steps wide from the road, doesn’t want to get splashed with sleet. It’s the 166 again. The bus slows, pulls over, the same driver smiles at him through the open door.

“Guess you did have somewhere to be,” he looks warm and well fed.

“Yup, headin home now. Thanks again for the offer,” Dean nods his thanks but doesn’t pause. Sam might already be back if school was closed early due to the storm. The bus creeps along at a snail’s pace next to him.

“Offer still stands, kid. If you’re heading up this way I can give you a lift until 178th street, I take a left there.”

Dean thinks. The bus would be faster. And the hotel is before 178. He turns and nods his acceptance, steps up onto the steps with the gimp ankle. It nearly gives out, he lurches hard to the right but recovers.

“Thanks man, just let me off at the GasNSip on 160th. I can make it from there,” he turns to find a seat. There’s only three other people on the bus, an elderly couple and a pregnant woman who doesn’t look much older than him.

“You betcha. It’s lookin to be one hell of a storm. Best to get inside while ya can,” the driver shuts the door with a hiss and the bus heaves into motion once more.

Dean settles into a seat right over the heat vents. Watches the snow packed onto his boots and the cuffs of his jeans melt. Looks out the window and watches a city snow truck work its way past, orange safety light rotating steadily. It’s a lot darker out there than he’d realized as he was walking. What time was it? No one was close enough to ask and he didn’t want to move away from the heater. He’d be at the GasNSip soon, and then back to the hotel.

He leaned back and turned up the music. We're A Happy Family, not one of his favorites but it definitely didn’t suck. He let himself zone out as he kept an eye out for his stop. He wanted his mind to just rest, to go blank, to relax. But it wouldn’t. Not today. Today it was on high alert. And for Dean Winchester high alert was very very high and extremely alert. Every shift of the other passengers drew his attention. Every gentle tick-tick-tick of the motor in his Walkman was monitored. He wanted to relax but his brain wanted him to survive, and survival required situational awareness and the ability to predict the behavior of those around him. It was the only way he’d survived to the ripe old age of 15. Maybe when he was 18 he could take Sammy and leave. Just vanish, the Winchesters were masters at packing up and disappearing. But that was three long years away. And while he already had a fake ID saying he was 18 he knew he didn’t look it and didn’t have a birth certificate to back it up.

Three years. Just have to make it through three more November 2nds. Keep Sammy safe. Keep us alive and relatively functional. Then he could relax. Get a job. A home. He imagines the Real Dean, all grown up in a house of his own with a hot wife and Sammy crashing in their attic like on Full House. They’d have kids, raise their families together. Never be apart. Never be hurt. Always, always be safe and loved.

The bus stopped. The blue and gold light of the GasNSip spilled onto the snow and Dean got out, thanked the driver again, and headed off towards the sh*ty hotel of the week. The song now was Damage Inc. and the beat was a great one for fighting, it drove his feet through the snow until he could see the Impala parked before a faded yellow door. Her black and chrome body hidden under a veil of ice and snow. No tire marks in the slush. Dad hadn’t gone anywhere.

Small black footprints scuffing through the muck, past Baby and straight to the door. f*ck. Sam had beat him back. Dean ran. f*ck the pain of his ankle. This was a disaster! He sprinted through the storm, feet sliding on the ice lurking under inches of snow. No one had thought to put out salt at a dive like this. He slammed up against the door, stabbed his key into the lock, battled it into twisting, opening. He can hear shouting. The f*cking door is stuck. He throws a shoulder into it. Did Dad barricade it? No. Just the ice.

Inside now, Dean has stepped into a warzone. He knows he’s not the only kid with a Nam Vet for a father, knows that the term is practically a synonym for abusive alcoholic asshole, but he doubts any other kid has walked in to find his Dad holding an SKS automatic rifle to the chest of his youngest son. Sam’s dark eyes are huge, glassy with unshed tears, his lower lip trembles. Dad’s shouting. Shouting about how it’s all Sam’s fault. Mom’s death, the fire, all the sh*t they live with is Sam’s fault. As if, asshole!

Dean’s heart dropped. Guilt gnawed at his insides. He should have been here. He should have protected Sammy. “Dad, leave him alone. He didn’t do anything.”

Every year, the same horror. Every year, he failed to shield Sammy completely. The weight of responsibility pressed down on him, almost suffocating. John's face twisted with rage.

Dean doesn’t even think just grabs the shotgun from next to the door with both hands on the barrel and brings it down on John’s arm like he was cutting wood with an ax. The rifle dropped. John shouts, spins to face his eldest son.

But Dean’s not done. For a split second he thinks go for the head, bash his brains in, end it but he can’t. So, he swings low at the older man’s knees. John sees it coming and grabs the stock of the shotgun. What’s it loaded with? Dads got his finger on the trigger. Dean’s about to find out. A roar, like nothing he could imagine explodes inches from his chest and he’s thrown back against the closed door. He lands hard, blood is everywhere. Blood and rock salt.

Above him looms his father, the man that kills monsters. Dean can smell piss. Did he just? Well, he’d been shot point blank… Dad tossed the spent shotgun aside and snarled, “You think your man enough to take me? You little fa*ggot?” A steel toed boot slams into his stomach. It’s a known, quantifiable pain. But still, it pulls a sob from him.

"You think you're a hero? You think you can save him?"

Through the haze, he heard Sam’s screams "Dean! Dean! Dad STOP IT!"

Dean forced himself to look up, to meet his father's eyes. "Please," he whispered, barely able to get the word out. "Not in front of Sammy."

For a moment, John hesitated, his expression flickering with something that might have been guilt. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by cold, hard fury.

“You think you’re tough? You think you can take me?" John spat, his boot coming down hard on Dean’s outstretched hand. He screamed, the sound raw and animalistic, pain shooting up his arm.

Worse, he could hear Sam’s sobs, could feel his own tears mixing with the blood on his face. Every year, it got worse. Every year, the beatings were more brutal, the terror more consuming. And every year, Dean’s resolve to protect his brother grew stronger, forged in the crucible of their father's rage.

“It’s not Sam’s fault,” Dean gasps before the next kick lands. The force of it pushes him like a blood-soaked mop across the linoleum until his back is to the closed door. The third kick lands close to his groin, he clamps his thighs tight to protect his nuts. Curls up, blocks his head with his arms.

Now dad’s bending over him, his fist wrapped tight in the collars of Dean’s shirts. He can’t get free. Dad’s face is a foot away, a sneer twisting his fierce features before he spits a huge wad of whiskey scented phlegm unto Dean’s face.

“You piece of sh*t pansy. Is that the best you got? Get up, if you think your man enough.” He doesn’t give his son a chance, just lifts him one handed until Dean’s feet are under him again. He looks frantically for Sam. Sees him digging through the black duffel where they keep the weapons. Jesus Sammy, no. He’ll kill you.

Dean steadies himself. Raises his head. Staggers a bit on wobbly legs but didn’t fall. He couldn’t fall. Not now. Doesn’t make eye contact, that would only antagonize his father. Stares at the hollow divot in his clavicle, imagines driving a knife into it hilt deep. “No, Sir,” he hears himself say in a robotically calm voice. “It’s my job to protect Sam. And none of this is his fault.” And I'm failing him. Again. Just like every other year.

“Then who’s f*cking fault is it, you piece of sh*t? Mine? You think I’m to blame? Is it my fault Mary is dead? My fault our house burned? You think I started the fire in Sam’s nursery?” his arms are flailing wildly like he’s trying to emphasize the lunacy of such claims but really, he just looks like a puppet on crank.

“Well, it sure as hell wasn’t Sam’s fault,” Dean sounds so calm, like he’s not covered in his own blood and his father’s spit, like he didn’t just get shot, his hand probably broken under his father’s boot.

“That’s not what the demons say,” John growled and spun, catching Sammy and raining punch after punch down on the small kid. Every year, it got worse. Every year, he failed a little more.

“Demons lie, dad! You’re always telling us that! There’s no possible way it could be Sam’s fault. He couldn’t even walk let alone start a fire.” Dean tries to wrench his father off of his baby brother, but the man is too big, Dean feels like he’s trying to haul Baby one handed while she’s in park. Sammy is crying, begging his dad to leave him alone. His nose is gushing blood.

Dean needs a plan. Fast. He scans the room. Sees John’s wallet, it’s next to the keys. He grabs both, tucks them into his back pockets. Sees Sam’s math book falling free from his backpack. Grabs it in both hands, the broken hand shrieks like a banshee but he swings it like a baseball bat right at the base of John’s skull. There’s a horribly loud crack. Dad drops like a stone. Sam runs to his big brother who calmly, in a voice that sounds nothing at all like he feels, says “Get your coat and boots on. And your homework. Get in the car.”

Dean grabs his .45 from under his pillow, tucks it into his waistband. He doesn’t have a coat. Is already wearing just about everything he owns. His pants stink of pee but he’s not going to take the time to grab clean ones. Never turning his back on the slumped heap of flesh that was his dad, Dean makes his way out of the room. Locks the door. Gets into the Impala. The motor turns over smoothly. He’s never driven in the snow before. But what better time to learn than now?

“Dean?” Sam’s voice was small, broken. Dean tried to sit straight behind the wheel, biting back a groan of pain.

“It’s okay, Sammy. It’s okay.” Sam scooched across the bench seat until he was leaning against him, his little hands shaking as he reached out to touch Dean’s face. “I’m sorry, Dean. I’m so sorry.” Dean pulled him into a tight one armed embrace, wincing as his battered body protested. “It’s not your fault, Sammy. It’s never your fault.”

But he couldn’t shake the feeling that it was his fault.. The burden of responsibility weighed heavily on his shoulders, a constant reminder that he should have done more, should have been stronger. As he held his brother, Dean’s mind raced. He had to get them out of here. He had to find a way to protect Sam, to break the cycle of violence and fear. But how? Every plan seemed too flimsy, too risky.

Sam is crying in the seat to his right. Deep, heart breaking sobs that tear at Dean’s soul. Where can they go? They have half a tank of gas. It’s snowing like crazy. They’re both beaten, if a cop sees them it’s CPS for sure. He slides the transmission into reverse and pulls slowly out of the parking lot.

“Where are we going?” Sam asks between hitched breaths. Dean fishes some napkins from the glove box and tells him to put pressure on his bloody nose, to tilt his head back so the blood doesn’t get on his clothes or the seats.

There’s almost no cars on the road now. It’s barely five at night but the streetlights are on. He’s got the windshield wipers going, the screech of them feels like ice picks behind his eyes.

“Somewhere safe,” he says. But he has no idea where that might be. The weight of their situation presses down on him, a heavy cloak of responsibility and fear. They creep through the night, snow crunching under the tires. He doesn’t even need to touch the gas pedal, Baby’s idle is plenty fast enough on a night like this. They pass out of the business district and into the suburbs. An idea begins to form.

These houses are big with lots of bedrooms, attached garages, big yards. These are Huxtable and Tanner houses, some are already sporting Christmas lights along the eves and fence lines. Going this slowly, it’s easy to scope out each house. To look for exactly what they need. He finds it. Two stories, wide driveway with no tire tracks. Outside lights on but none inside, no footprints anywhere and a big red For Sale sign in the yard. Yahtzee!

He lets the car slink past the house. Keeps rolling until he finds a parking lot close enough to walk from. It’s an Episcopal church, or Catholic Light as Uncle Bobby calls them. He slides Baby into park and kills the engine.

“Come on, Sammy, I’ve got an idea.” They get out, he locks the doors and opens the hidden compartment in the trunk. Just in case the .45 isn’t enough he grabs a couple of knives, a large sack of salt, flashlight and an iron crowbar. He can’t use his left hand at all, it’s swollen up like a whiffle ball.

“Can you help me with this, kiddo?” he asks.

“Don’t call me that,” but Sam takes most of the load, adds it to his school bag and slips both shoulder straps on.

Flashlight in his right hand but not turned on, he leads his brother out into the blizzard. The streets are a grid. He won’t get lost. He turns and checks their prints, the snow is filling them in nicely. God I hope this works….Dean’s legs felt like they were made of lead, but he pushed on, guiding Sam through the dark streets. His ribs throbbed with each breath, a painful reminder of their father’s rage. Sam clung to him, his small body trembling with fear and cold.

They make it back to the house he’d chosen but didn’t walk up the drive or the cobbled walkway that led from the mailbox to the front door. Instead, they walked along the hedge that separated one yard from another. The strong smell of pine filled his nose. Much better than the smell of his own piss and blood. He checked their tracks again, looked good. Around the back was a swing set and trampoline the size of a swimming pool. No sign of a dog or anyone inside.

Ducking down into the shelter of the back wall, Dean studied the door. There was a real big padlock on it. But the windows looked do-able. “Pass me the crowbar,” he whispered. Sam dropped his bag and drew out the iron bar.

“There’s no way you’re getting that lock off,” Sam said with certainty.

“Nope. Not even gonna try. But these windows look pretty simple,” he wedged the thinnest edge of the crowbar under one wide windowsill, tapped it in with the butt of the flashlight, then levered down with all his weight. Felt something in his hand definitely break.

“f*ck! I’m gonna need your help, my hands busted,” he tried to shake it off but the throbbing burn of pain couldn’t be ignored. Sam stepped between him and the window, lifted up his skinny arms and said, “On three?”

“One, two, three!” together the boys pulled down as hard as they could. The window creaked then popped and sprung open.

“Sweet!” Sammy was up and over in a second. Dean tried to push himself up but his hand wouldn’t do it. “I got it,” Sam said from the warm darkness of the house. He vanished for a second then returned with a kitchen stool. Pushed it out into the snow. Dean settled it, climbed up and slid into the warmth, pulled the stool in behind him and shut the window.

He clicked the flashlight on and studied their hideout. It was nice. Real nice. First, he walked to the garage to check for cars. It was empty. Then he lifted the phone on the kitchen wall, no dial tone. No one lived here. But the heat was on, probably the water too, don’t want the pipes to freeze before someone buys it. He checked the fridge, the light inside turned on instantly. There was even some stuff in there, ketchup, co*kes, Tupperware filled with mysterious leftovers.

For the first time in hours, he allowed himself to breathe. Sam looked around, eyes wide. “Dean, this place… it’s so nice.” Dean nodded, swallowing hard. Even abandoned, it was nicer than any place they’d ever stayed.

There wasn’t a lot of furniture but there was a big couch and recliner, a dining room table with four chairs and some bookshelves. Upstairs were three bedrooms, each with a neatly made bed. Nothing on the walls. Nothing in the closets. But when he checked the drawers in the dressers he found clothes neatly folded. He pulled out a pair of jeans and checked the size. Chick jeans. But f*ck it, they were clean. He was just about to change into them when Sammy called out, “Found some sweats instead.” They were grey and had the name of some college he’d never heard of down one leg. Way better than chick jeans.

He looked over at his brother. Poor kid was a mess. His legs wet to the knees from snow, face covered in blood. He smiled as another idea came to him.

“Go take a bath, Sammy. I’m gonna wash our clothes and find something to eat.”

“You need a shower more than me,” Sam protested stubbornly.

“Yeah, I definitely do. And once you’re clean I’ll take one too. Promise.”

“Ok, but put some ice on your hand. It looks like sh*t.” Sammy weaseled out of his clothes and was halfway to the tub by the end of his sentence.

Dean gathered up the dirty clothes and carried them down to the laundry room that separated the garage from the kitchen. Stripped down to the skin and filled the washer with lots of expensive detergent and fabric softener. Pulled on the grey sweat pants. Turned it on and grinned as it whirred into motion.

He stopped at the fridge, pulled out a bag of frozen peas for his hand and an XXL Everything frozen pizza. Read the instructions, turned on the oven and returned to the living room.

It was so silent. No TV, no traffic, nobody next door shouting or f*cking. They were alone here. Safe. He heard the bath water stop running and figured he had 20 minutes for the rest of his plan. He studied the tiled fireplace. No cinders or soot. Looked for a switch and turned on the gas. Warm amber flames danced for him for the second time that day.

Smiling, he went back upstairs and stripped the beds. Tossed some clean sweat pants into the bathroom, they’d be way to big on the kid but they were drawstring and he could roll up the cuffs so he didn’t trip. One handed and limping, Dean hauled all the bedding down the cream carpeted stairs and dumped them in front of the fireplace.

Went to the dining room, dragged each chair out to join the blankets. Put the pizza in the oven and set the timer. Heard Sammy pull the bath plug. Checked the kitchen closet and found a mop and broom, added them to the heep. The bathroom door opened, releasing a humid breath of floral soap and clean Sammy. Thwap thwap thwap came his baby brother’s naked feet down the stairs.

“Your turn!” Sammy chirped before turning the corner and stopping in confusion. “What’s all this, De?”

“Well, it’s gonna be a pillow fort. But I can’t do it with a broken paw. So I was thinking, maybe you could use that big brain of yours to do it while I clean up.” He thought his heart would burst from the joy that lit Sammy’s face. The kid ran right at him, hugged him tight before remembering the kicks Dean had taken.

“OK kiddo, take the pizza out of the oven when the timer goes off. And have fun!”

“You got it, De!”

It hurt to smile this much with a broken nose but he reveled in it. There was no way John could find them tonight. No way he could take this away from them.

The shower was going to feel amazing. He cranked it as hot as he could handle. Studied the damage he’d taken from the salt round. Water was going to hurt but the lacerations and burns needed to be cleaned. His face was three shades of purple and his ankle was black. The hand was a horror show. It hurt just to look at.

He stepped under the water and tried to relax. Probed the swollen hand as best he could. Felt like two broken metacarpals and busted knuckles. He flattened his palm as best he could to the tile wall, exhaled, flattened his other hand on top of it and slammed down all his weight. A vomitus level of pain dropped him to his knees but the bones were set. He decided to finish his shower sitting on the floor.

Finally washed clean of blood, spit and piss Dean dried off with the fluffiest towel he’d ever seen. It smelled like flowers. But it was soft and clean. So were the sweatpants. Maybe someday he’d find out where Earlham University was.

Downstairs Sammy had built a veritable palace using all four chairs, the back of the couch and recliner. The mop and broom had been joined by a rake and spanned the distance from one chair back to another. A quilt covered in a celestial pattern of moons and stars draped to make a roof and purple sheets made the walls. Inside Castle Winchester the floor was thick with pillows and more quilts.

Sammy walked in from the kitchen with the pizza carefully balanced on a game board. Looked like Battleship. “I put the clothes in the dryer. How’s your hand?”

Dean pulled a piece of pizza from the box top and stuffed it into his mouth, promptly burning himself with nuclear cheese. “Hurts like a bitch,” he mumbled past the food. “but I set the bones. You ready for me to kick your ass at Battleship? I should warn you, I’m psychic.”

As the night wore on, Dean’s thoughts turned inward. The challenges they faced were enormous, the road ahead long and uncertain. At least another three years. But they had survived another night. They had found a place to rest, even if only temporarily. Small victories, Dean thought, are still victories.

“You sank my battleship,” he groaned in mock agony.

He allowed himself a rare moment of pride. Despite everything, they were still together, still fighting. He looked at Sam, his baby brother was having a normal night. Or as normal as it got for them. He was eating pizza, playing a game in a pillow fort by the fireplace in the suburbs. On this, the second of November, they had found a brief moment of peace in a world that offered them so little.

Sam packed the game away and pulled out a big hardback book. He pushed Dean into a half reclined position, his back braced on the couch, then settled himself between his brother’s legs and leaned back. The little guy’s bony back and shoulder blades hurt like a bitch on the broken ribs and shotgun blast, but Dean would slit his own throat before complaining.

Comfy now, his back against his big brother’s chest Sam angled the flashlight and opened the book.

“In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort….”

Dean closed his eyes and listened as Sam read to him. In the quiet of the empty house, he allowed himself to dream, just for a moment. Not about hobbits and dwarves but a dream where they had a home, a real home, with walls that weren’t stained with memories of violence. A place where Sam could go to school and make friends, where Dean could find a job and provide for them. Three more years. Could they survive that long?

He looked down at Sam, his little brother, whose trust in him was absolute. They had been through so much, but it had only made their bond stronger. Sam was his responsibility, but more than that, Sam was his heart. Everything he did, every sacrifice he made, was for Sam. Their bond was their greatest strength, their shield against the world. No matter how bad things got, they had each other. And as long as they had that, there was hope.

Dean’s eyes grew heavy as Sam sang a song about misty mountains and pines roaring on the heights. He closed his eyes, holding onto the fragile hope that tomorrow might be better. He would find a way. For Sam. For both of them.

As Bilbo studied a contract Dean whispered a silent promise to himself and to Sam. They would find their way out of the darkness. They would build a future together, one step at a time. And with that thought, he drifted into an uneasy sleep, his heart anchored by the unbreakable bond he shared with his brother and the unwavering hope that someday, somehow, they would find their way to a better life.