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What You Don't Know, Could Fill A Warehouse	By : BosieJan Category: Supernatural > General Views: 1368 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-What You Don't Know, Could Fill A Warehouse
- 1
It had been the longest two weeks of Dean’s life, and he’d swear that from his point of view, it lasted long enough to seem like a lifetime.
Sam was found and the search dogs could be sent home, the volunteers called off and the helicopters turned back, only none of those things had happened. Since John discovered Sam had gone missing, Dean had stayed virulently silent with the older man, even going so far as sleeping early so they couldn’t stay up and argue with each other.
Dean never slept on his side facing away from John, nor did he sleep without the benefit of a knife under his pillow, ready to take any fight with his father as a threat. He’d never hurt him with any real malice in mind, but protecting himself while fighting to find his brother had Dean on edge throughout the length of Sam’s absence.
Like a petulant child throwing a tantrum and running away to some place down the street, Sam had done what he’d set out to do, but the report John had put out through the hunting community had every hunter he could trust within a hundred mile radius looking for him.
One solitary hunter—Cal Dannings—had come upon Sam at the truck stop/outpost just south of Flagstaff proper, keeping the teen with him until John could come to collect him, after they’d gone back to Sam’s hideout to gather his things. John had admonished Dean all over again before leaving the motel to pick Sam up, and was in a ripe mood by the time he’d returned, slamming the door open and throwing Sam’s bag onto the bed beside Dean.
“-and you’d fucking know what’s good for you, Sammy. Christ, I don’t even know where the hell your head’s been lately. Like you’re living in the goddamn clouds!”
Dean was on his feet as soon as they’d entered, inwardly cringing at John’s tone, sure that Sam had gotten an earful during the entire car ride. It was an hour to the truck stop and an hour back, so besides wasting John’s time, Sam had managed to waste fuel and wear on the car, both things on John’s ‘constant bitch’ list.
Dean stowed Sam’s bag on the floor beside his own and sat back down, cowed by their father’s anger, as he’d been on the receiving end of it relentlessly for the first week, and occasionally during the second week, his attitude readjusted by John every time he saw fit.
“You’re on full-time watch from now on, got it? Coming along with us on hunts and anywhere else we’ve gotta go, but if you think for one goddamn second that you’re gonna be left alone by yourself or with your brother, then you’ve got brain damage, boy. Now sit your ass down and keep any sass you’ve got coming up buried. I hear any back talk from you and you’re gonna fucking feel the back of my hand, understand?”
Sam bee-lined for the bathroom and barricaded himself inside for more than an hour. By the sounds of it, Dean could tell that he showered and possibly shaved (kid was growing up fast!), did his toilet business for a lengthy amount of time and brushed his teeth. By the time he emerged—naked save for his underwear held in front of himself, so he could fetch another pair from his duffel for sleeping in—Dean had cleared the guns from the bed and put them back together, neat as you please.
John’s were handed over without any fanfare—left on the table beside him, where the gruff hunter had flopped back into the chair for more TV—and Dean’s pair of pistols were separated; one under his pillow and the other tucked into his duffel for safe keeping.
The air in the room was so tense that it could stop bullets. Dean went about his nightly routine of checking the doors and windows for their salt lines, then prepping himself for bed.. An efficient shower and his teeth brushed had the young hunter in a slightly better mood, having been expecting more of a fight from their father, once John returned. His silence ate at Dean, however.
It meant something was up, when John went silent. He wasn’t hitting the bottle, which was a plus, but his dead-eyed stare at the television and the firm set of his mouth a bright red warning signal if ever Dean had seen one. He sighed softly and slipped into bed, curling onto his side away from Sam, asleep before his body could fully relax.
——————————-
Three days passed in awkward silence. They hunted a were creature in a small mining town in New Mexico, saving the animal’s claws for Bobby in a glass jar. Sam spent the silent, lengthy drive to Bobby’s place tipping the jar every few seconds, causing the jagged, sharpened points to tink against the glass.
John finally reached back—at the cost of nearly hauling the car into the ditch—and batted them out of Sam’s hands with a growl, the jar landing on the floor of the backseat and remaining there. Sam turned his head and glanced out the window the rest of the drive, leaving Dean to chew the insides of his cheeks as if he were feeding upon them.
Tensions were even higher once they reached Bobby’s place and the old fool had to come out with his own two cents in tow. John hollered something in his direction and the pair of them headed right back into the house, leaving the boys to bring the bags in, and the items they’d been collecting for Bobby’s spells and tinctures.
“Dean, I-”
“Later, Sammy. Let’s just do what Dad wants and we’ll talk about this later.”
The exchange left Sam in a predicament. The only person he figured would have his back didn’t seem to, and he sourly shouldered the bags containing the items for Bobby, while Dean got their duffels. They trudged in silence over the gravel driveway and up into Bobby’s mudroom, where Dean would set about getting what laundry they had started, and Sam would normally run to the country-fried hunter and show off the things they’d brought, but John’s raised voice could be heard from below them, where the pair had disappeared into Bobby’s basement. Had they been in the panic room, he wouldn’t have heard them, but the words were clear as day, and chastising the youngest Winchester up and down.
Dean got the laundry going—one man’s stuff at a time, since he didn’t feel like sorting through to separate things later—and ventured deeper into the house, trying not to seem as if he were babying Sam when he was on the wrong side of John’s happy list, though he kept a vague eye on him so he didn’t get into any trouble while they were staying with the other hunter.
John and Bobby finally showed themselves again, John looking tired and worn, while Bobby—god bless him—had pink in his cheeks and a hard frown set onto his aging face, his eyes glancing at Dean but locking on Sam. Dean saw his brother visibly wilt and he opened his mouth to address Bobby, but was cut off by the scrapper’s wicked tirade.
“Don’t you ‘hi, Bobby’ or ‘how ya doin’, Bobby’ me, ya idjit. I don’t even know how much of a strip your daddy ripped off of your backside, but ya can be damn sure that I’m gonna tear ya a second one, so this shit never happens again. I ever hear about ya runnin’ off and makin’ your daddy fret like that again, and I’ll hunt ya down myself. And I don’t mean ‘hey Sam, let’s go home’ nice and Family Living kinda polite huntin’, neither. I’ll either shoot ya in your goddamn kneecaps and haul your ass back in traction, or hog-tie ya and throw ya in the back of my pickup, where ya can bounce along in the dirt and cow shit until we get back. Do I make myself clear?”
Sam’s mouth had fallen open and he stared, nodding numbly from the verbal onslaught. Dean’s hands were clenched into fists, wanting nothing more than to defend Sam to the viciousness of Bobby’s tirade, but he knew that having both hunters against him—plus a brother who might not want to be defended—was a bad situation to be ballsing up to.
“And you,” Bobby started while turning toward Dean, an engine grease-stained finger pointed at him. “Should be fuckin’ ashamed of yourself as a goddamn protector. Older brother material, my ass. I ain’t takin’ your daddy’s side in this, just ‘cause we’re practically family, but you’ve got a shit ton of learnin’ to do when it comes to watchin’ for things like disinterest and passin’ remarks that’re showin’ signs of someone’s mind slippin’. This kinda shit doesn’t happen overnight, Dean!”
Dean took the onslaught with gentle aplomb, though he was seething inside. How much could one kid take? First John tears him a new one two weeks ago, when he’d first been told that Sam had run away. Then throughout the following weeks, every chance John got.
Then again before John went to pick Sam, and now again? If he hadn’t been so hardened by years of listening to the belittling, being on the receiving end of drunken rages and actually feeling like he deserved it all, Dean was sure he would’ve broken.
“Yessir,” he managed, his head down, his gaze on the intricate pattern of the devil’s trap painted onto the hardwood of Bobby’s sitting room floor. “It won’t happen again.”
“You’re goddamn right, it won’t happen again. Now both of you, get outta my sight. Your daddy and I’ve got some stuff to talk about, and we don’t need you two sittin’ here sourin’ the place up. Maybe go on out back and chop me some kindlin’ or somethin’. Got a goddamn truckload out there and not a cord split yet.”
Dean headed right for the mudroom to throw his boots back on, Sam hot on his heels. With the security Bobby had on the property, it was unlikely that Sam would run a second time, though the men moved to the kitchen after the boys left, just so John could occasionally stand up and peek out of the broad window above the sink, the view directly in line with the area they were working.
They knew where the axes were and the heavy, waxed twine Bobby would use to bind the cords after chopping. Sam had the first log set up to chop onto, while starting on the second one seemed like a chore, with Dean standing beside him, staring at him like he’d caught fire.
“Dean, what’s wrong? You okay?”
The elder teen scowled at Sam, hating that they were forced to do the things they did, because of their father’s influence. He worshiped the man as a hero, but he knew how flawed John was, with his take-no-bullshit logic. Dean set his axe down on the ground and let it tilt off against the log Sam had righted, his arms winding around the other boy’s neck as he briefly buried his nose against Sam’s shoulder, shocking the younger teen into silence. He slowly let his own axe fall and slipped his arms around Dean’s waist, patting him on the back but not feeling Dean relax his hold.
“Dean?”
“Shut up, Sammy. Just gimme a minute.”
Sam allowed Dean his minute—actually four of them—and finally peeled the older hunter off of himself, pushing Dean an arm length away, though his hands remained on Dean’s shoulders.
“What was that about?”
Dean furrowed his brows and swatted at Sam’s arms, wanting to suddenly be free of them again. “You know damn well what that was about. We’re gonna talk about this right now, while we’re working, so I don’t turn into a goddamn crying mess and have Dad hold something else over my head. It’s like a goddamn torture chamber for me, every single day, what with the swords dangling right over me.”
Sam listened, fetching his axe and righting another thick log so Dean could chop from a higher height, as well. John and Bobby sat back down from where they’d seen the small interaction; Bobby all smiles and John frowning, though he wasn’t as angry as he’d been before they went outside.
“They’re decent boys you’ve got, John Winchester. Nothin’ like men who can see past their problems and admit that they’ve done wrong, even to each other. You might’ve run ‘em hard their whole lives, and you might’ve done ‘em wrong sometimes, too, but long as they can get along with each other after that sorta scare, they’re gonna be all right.”
——————————————
“You ran away on my watch. I looked everywhere for you, I thought you were dead. And when Dad came home…” Dean made a gesture that seemed like a horror-filled memory had flashed through his mind, the white of his eyes flashing as he exaggerated the emotion.
Sam sighed. “Dean, look, I’m sorry, I never thought about it like that. You didn’t give me all the details when we were out at Bobby’s that day, so this is all kinda news to me.”
“Of course you never thought about it like that. You didn’t have to deal with Dad’s anger. That little chewing out he gave you in the car, after picking you up from Cal? That was nothing—NOTHING—compared to the beating I got when he came back to find me hunched over the toilet, throwing up blood like a champ. I searched for you for hours, Sam. I screamed myself hoarse and was shaking like a goddamn leaf when I got back. I barely made it to the bathroom before the vomiting started. I was pale and cold and covered in panic sweat when Dad grabbed me by the arm and threw me out into the room. I couldn’t even talk because I’d screamed for you for so long.”
Dean’s eyes watered with unshod tears, his body shaking when he walked from one side of the motel room to the other, trying to convince Sam that what had happened after Sam’s disappearance had happened. Dean couldn’t have made anything so grotesque happen from even the darkest depths of his mind.
“You never wondered why I didn’t say anything to you, when he brought you back that night? Didn’t take a good, long look at the bruises on my upper arms while I slept? Or notice that after you’d showered and got into bed, I went and had a shower, too? How many times have you ever known me to shower before bed, Sam?”
“None, I guess-”
“That’s right. None. I did that night, though,” Dean lifted a hand to fist it in his hair, the strands loose as he had left his hair to air dry after his shower. “To get the blood out of my hair.”
Sam stared but got to his feet this time, tired of sitting nonchalantly while his brother seemingly poured his heart out. He couldn’t even remember what brought the conversation on, but it pained him to know that so much hurt had befallen Dean, and it was all Sam’s fault.
“Dean..”
“He threw me against the TV stand and I caught the corner with the back of my head. Bled like a bitch and I was too dizzy to get up and shower before you guys got back..”
The elder hunter was crying now, his eyes screwed shut as he let his hand drop from his hair, a shaky gasp coming from him as Sam wound his arms around him, letting Dean rest his head against his shoulder. Sam could feel the hot wetness soaking into his t-shirt and he held Dean more tightly, as the smaller body began to sag. Sam had seen Dean cry before, but the muffled sobs shook his entire body.
If Sam hadn’t had any reason to hate John as much as he already did, he would have reason to now. They’d each taken the occasional backhand for being mouthy or a decent kick in the ass when they’d been younger and disobeyed—hell, Sam remembered how much they feared John’s open palmed spankings when they were really young—but what John had done to Dean that night was unforgivable.
“It’s all right, Dean. I’m not going anywhere. Dad’s…gone now, so you don’t have to worry about it.”
“Doesn’t matter. I’m ever g-gonna forget that shit, Sammy.”
“I know, but I can help you try, right?”
The soft nod Sam felt against his shoulder was enough of an answer for him. They were only two now. Two hunters who depended on each other for everything. Childhood infractions be damned, Sam was in it for the long-run now.
- 1
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What You Don't Know, Could Fill A Warehouse