Disclaimer: this has strong mentions of child abuse. The boys aren't mine.
A/N-This has just been floating around in my head for a long, long time. I have to versions of John in my head, the nice one, and the ass-hole. Clearly this is where he's an ass.
It's funny, no matter how many times I see Dean hurt, bleeding to death, or sick, he's never looked weak. He's always been the strong silent type. Well, not so silent all the time. But seeing him lying in that bed, all the wires and tubes, he looks so, small, insignificant. Not like my son, the one who could be dying but worrying about Sam's miniscule scratches. It kills me now, looking at him, so fragile, to think about all the shitty things I've done to him. All the things I've dumped on him. All the times I hurt him. I remember the first time…..
"DEAN! What the hell is taking so long?" I yelled. A 11-year old Dean came racing out of his room, hair in disarray, his black shirt on backwards.
"Sorry, sir." He said, out of breath.
"Don't be sorry, be faster."
"I would be if Sammy would hurry his ass up!" he muttered, not thinking I heard.
"What did you say?!" I yelled, grabbing his shirt. He looked at me, hazel eyes wide with fear.
"N-nothing, sir."
"So now your lying? I heard what you said!"
"I'm sorry!"
"Sorry isn't good enough Dean!" Dean nodded his head quickly and I released him as Sammy came racing into the room.
"Sorry daddy." He said.
"It's ok kiddo, let's get you to school." I said, ruffling his waywardly hair. Sam raced out the door, and I looked back at Dean. I froze. He looked so much like Mary it scared me. And before I knew it, he was on the ground, one hand covering his bleeding cheek. I looked down at him angrily, and stalked out the door.
It had only gotten worse after that. Growing up he started to look more and more like Mary. Every goddamn day! Then the drinking started. Something I could loose myself in, bury my pain. And beatings became nightly rituals, Dean was someone I could take my aggression out on. I stopped thinking of him as my son, he was a soldier, that's all. Expendable. But now? I can't bear the thought of living without him. He was such a happy little kid, with that big goofy smile. In all respects, he still is a little kid, god knows he sure as hell acts like one. But he's not a soldier, he's my son. My blood. Not a soldier. He should be my everything, not just Sam. I remember the day Sam left for college….
"If you walk out that door, don't even think about coming back!" I yelled as Sam slammed the door behind him. Dean was staring at the closed door in disbelief, and he sprang into motion, running to the door and flinging it open, just in time to see Sam's cab disappear down the street. He came back in, shoulder's slumped head down, and before he could look up I was on top of him. Fists flying, blood splattering. He took it, not making a sound. After what seemed like only seconds, but must have been minutes my arms were tired, so I stood and looked down at Dean. His left eye was swollen shut, his right, well on the way to being there. His face was bleeding profusely from many cuts, and he was barely breathing. I should've stopped, right then and there, but I was so, angry. So I started kicking over and over again, even after I felt his ribs give, and after I saw him choke on the blood he was coughing up, I kept kicking until I collapsed from exhaustion. Sam had left. All I had left was Dean, or what was left of Dean. I glanced over at my son, broken and bruised and rose, dressing his injuries, whispering apologies over and over again.
That was when I realized that it had to stop. So I stopped, but I don't think I said another word to him for at least 2 years. I need him. Please Dean. Open your eyes…………………………
I know what I have to do.