SPN: Broken Part XX
Broken: Part XX
Title: And the Thunder Rolls
Fandom: SPN
Pairing: past John/Dean, implied OMC/Dean
Warnings: implied sexual abuse, angst, sexual content, spoilers for season 1, dark content, child abuse
Rating: PG
A/N: Completely done and the rest will be posted throughout the week.
Summary: In which there is a confrontation, Winchester style.
Previous Parts
And the Thunder Rolls
Sometimes, during the worst of battles, there was a moment of silence.
Sam remembered as a child looking out the window of the Impala and being struck by the eerie stillness outside. When he asked Dean (not Dad, never Dad, not then or after), Dean said, “A storm is coming.”
Sam walked out of the bathroom and stared at Dean’s still form. He heard thunder rumbling outside.
He walked toward the bed and hesitated. Dean breathed below him, a gentle in and out that almost soothed Sam. Too bad he knew it was fake.
Just a month ago, Sam would not have hesitated. He would have sat down. He would have touched Dean. Was it worse now to hesitate or not to hesitate before?
Sam sat. Reached out. Rested a hand on Dean’s shoulder.
His hand looked huge.
He had a plan. Like when he was a child and Dean and his teachers told him what to do if he was caught in a storm, a plan existed in his mind, fully formed like Athena and just as ready for battle.
Like when he was a child and frightened by that first strike of lightning, his plan fled his mind now.
“Dean?” he whispered. He sounded like the one asking for comfort rather than the one comforting.
But it worked. Dean opened his eyes and looked at him. A fatigue clung to him that had nothing to do with supposedly interrupted sleep. No games, not now. “What, Sam?”
A start. Or maybe a transition, the start in the bathroom to the beat of grunts and groans.
Thunder in Dean’s too-even breaths. Lightning in his blank eyes.
Sam swallowed. Those websites offered lists of possible questions. He couldn’t remember a single one. “Who hurt you?”
To Sam’s surprise, Dean closed his eyes and laughed. Laughed. It spiked through Sam, hot and fierce.
“Go to bed, Sam. We’re leaving in the morning.”
Dean’s voice was thin but sharp, one last Get away.
One more push.
“Tell me, Dean,” Sam coaxed, and suddenly he thought of Jessica, worried and tender, asking the same from him.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Boom.
Dean jerked up and knocked Sam’s hand away. Flailing backward, Sam almost fell off the bed.
“Brilliant fucking Stanford Sam,” Dean snarled. His eyes were not blank anymore. “Can find a fucking needle in a fucking haystack but didn’t see this?”
Sam flinched like Dean had smacked his face rather than his hand. “I --”
Dean laughed that laugh again. “So fucking smart. You can identify a fucking wendigo but you never noticed this?”
Sam shrank back. His butt started slipping off the bed. “I--I--”
Deans freckles stood out against his white face like tiny bruises. Dean shook his head, and Sam saw an actual bruise high on his neck. Teeth marks.
“Fuck,” Dean whispered. He rubbed his face. “Fuck.”
Sam couldn’t look away from that sharp bruise. He hadn’t noticed it before.
Or maybe he hadn’t looked.
“I didn’t mean that, Sam,” Dean whispered. The skin around that green bruise looked grey. “I had it under control, okay?”
Had it under control. Something did happen.
Sam didn’t look.
He tried to speak, but for one of the few times in his life, his voice failed him. Sam shoved away from the bed, blinded by tears.
“Sam?” Dean asked, and he sounded panicked.
Sam couldn’t stay. Unable to look at Dean, Sam fled.
And the skies opened above him with a crack of thunder.
Title: And the Thunder Rolls
Fandom: SPN
Pairing: past John/Dean, implied OMC/Dean
Warnings: implied sexual abuse, angst, sexual content, spoilers for season 1, dark content, child abuse
Rating: PG
A/N: Completely done and the rest will be posted throughout the week.
Summary: In which there is a confrontation, Winchester style.
Previous Parts
And the Thunder Rolls
Sometimes, during the worst of battles, there was a moment of silence.
Sam remembered as a child looking out the window of the Impala and being struck by the eerie stillness outside. When he asked Dean (not Dad, never Dad, not then or after), Dean said, “A storm is coming.”
Sam walked out of the bathroom and stared at Dean’s still form. He heard thunder rumbling outside.
He walked toward the bed and hesitated. Dean breathed below him, a gentle in and out that almost soothed Sam. Too bad he knew it was fake.
Just a month ago, Sam would not have hesitated. He would have sat down. He would have touched Dean. Was it worse now to hesitate or not to hesitate before?
Sam sat. Reached out. Rested a hand on Dean’s shoulder.
His hand looked huge.
He had a plan. Like when he was a child and Dean and his teachers told him what to do if he was caught in a storm, a plan existed in his mind, fully formed like Athena and just as ready for battle.
Like when he was a child and frightened by that first strike of lightning, his plan fled his mind now.
“Dean?” he whispered. He sounded like the one asking for comfort rather than the one comforting.
But it worked. Dean opened his eyes and looked at him. A fatigue clung to him that had nothing to do with supposedly interrupted sleep. No games, not now. “What, Sam?”
A start. Or maybe a transition, the start in the bathroom to the beat of grunts and groans.
Thunder in Dean’s too-even breaths. Lightning in his blank eyes.
Sam swallowed. Those websites offered lists of possible questions. He couldn’t remember a single one. “Who hurt you?”
To Sam’s surprise, Dean closed his eyes and laughed. Laughed. It spiked through Sam, hot and fierce.
“Go to bed, Sam. We’re leaving in the morning.”
Dean’s voice was thin but sharp, one last Get away.
One more push.
“Tell me, Dean,” Sam coaxed, and suddenly he thought of Jessica, worried and tender, asking the same from him.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Boom.
Dean jerked up and knocked Sam’s hand away. Flailing backward, Sam almost fell off the bed.
“Brilliant fucking Stanford Sam,” Dean snarled. His eyes were not blank anymore. “Can find a fucking needle in a fucking haystack but didn’t see this?”
Sam flinched like Dean had smacked his face rather than his hand. “I --”
Dean laughed that laugh again. “So fucking smart. You can identify a fucking wendigo but you never noticed this?”
Sam shrank back. His butt started slipping off the bed. “I--I--”
Deans freckles stood out against his white face like tiny bruises. Dean shook his head, and Sam saw an actual bruise high on his neck. Teeth marks.
“Fuck,” Dean whispered. He rubbed his face. “Fuck.”
Sam couldn’t look away from that sharp bruise. He hadn’t noticed it before.
Or maybe he hadn’t looked.
“I didn’t mean that, Sam,” Dean whispered. The skin around that green bruise looked grey. “I had it under control, okay?”
Had it under control. Something did happen.
Sam didn’t look.
He tried to speak, but for one of the few times in his life, his voice failed him. Sam shoved away from the bed, blinded by tears.
“Sam?” Dean asked, and he sounded panicked.
Sam couldn’t stay. Unable to look at Dean, Sam fled.
And the skies opened above him with a crack of thunder.