I found a prompt on LJ which read:

"Dean/John, non-con, child abuse, Sam PoV

Five times Sam witnessed John abusing Dean and the one time he finally did something about it."

Content Warnings: Every kind of child abuse, alcoholism, and you will want to punch me or John Winchester so hard our heads come off by the end of this.

Five: Age Four

Sammy got his own bed this town because Daddy said he had to teach Dean a lesson. He was really excited because that meant he was a big boy, but then he couldn't sleep. Dean usually hums real quiet to make him sleepy, but right now Dean's sleeping with Daddy.

Daddy climbed into Dean's bed, and Dean said, "Please, Daddy, don't wake Sammy," and Daddy clapped his hands once and Dean let out a noise like when he poured peroxide on the cut on his thigh last month and said, "Please," again, real quiet and shaky.

The bed started creaking, and the headboard thumping gently against the wall, and Sammy listened to the rhythm of it, letting it lull him. It sounded almost like a rocking chair, like when he sat in one and kicked the floor to make it rock.

"Gonna have to pay the motel, Dean. You scratched the floor with that goddamn chair, kicking like a dumbass. I'm gonna make you pay me back." Daddy was grunting, like when he punched pillows for training, and Sammy was confused, because how can you punch lying down?

Dean is really quiet, and then Daddy claps again, and Dean makes that noise, and Daddy growls, "You fucking answer when I talk to you."

Dean says sorry, but he sounds like he's crying, which is weird, because Dean's a big boy and Daddy said big boys don't cry, and why would he cry during training anyways?

The bed keeps creaking, but nobody says anything, and eventually, Sammy falls asleep.

Four: Age Six

Sammy's sitting in the kitchen with a bowl of Lucky Charms that aren't even a little stale or anything, and fresh milk, and orders from Daddy to stay sitting on his butt in the kitchen or else, so even though Sammy's not even sleepy and really wants to run around, he can't.

"A striga, Dean? You were so fucking lazy you couldn't stay in the room and watch your brother five more minutes?"

There's that clapping noise that Sammy now knows is a slap, but Dean doesn't make a sound.

He stopped making sounds a long time ago.

"He could have died! You got one job, Dean. What's your job?"

Dean doesn't say anything, and another slap lands.

"What's your job?"

"Looking after Sammy." Dean doesn't sound right, and Sammy wants to hug him now, because he's scared and Dean's never scared, so Dean can make him brave.

Another slap. "Take 'em off."

There's a raspy sound and a clink-clink, like pants sliding over legs and a belt coming out of its loops. For a while, there's just a cracking sound that Sammy will eventually realize is a belt against flesh, and then the bed starts thumping.

Dean always cries for this part, but he cries so quiet Sammy can't hear.

Years later, he'll say, "I learned to be quiet so he wouldn't find out. I had to protect him."

Nobody has the heart to tell him Sam knew.

Three: Age Seven

The bed is creaking again.

"You look jusht like your mother."

Dean lets out a quiet little noise, like breaking, and he breathes so fast and hard that the bed's creaking takes a backseat.

"Her eyesh, her lipsh... Jusht like her."

Dad came home with a bunch of glass bottles full of stuff the colour of maple syrup but that didn't smell like maple syrup and said none of them could touch them, and then drank one to the dregs.

He was really nice for a change, ruffling Sammy's hair and stroking Dean's cheek. Dean didn't look happy that Dad was nice, though. He just looked empty.

Dean's under Dad, and Sammy can see Dad's hips moving under the covers, but he doesn't know what that means, and he hates not knowing. He's always the smart kid, even when they're only in town for a few days, and in this town, he was in time for the local spelling bee. He won. He's smart, he knows things.

C-R-E-A-K. Creak.

H-O-L-L-O-W. Hollow.

A-N-X-I-O-U-S. Anxious.

T-E-R-R-O-R. Terror.

Sammy spells things until he falls asleep, listening to Dad list all the ways that Dean looks like Mom. Sammy doesn't remember Mom, but he does know that Moms are supposed to take care of you, sing you lullabies and read you stories, cook you dinner and pack your lunch and put together breakfast and badger you about getting all your vegetables.

Sammy's pretty sure Dean's his Mom, not the lady Dad thinks he looks like, even if Dean's his brother, too.

Two: Age Eleven

Dean brought a girl over. She was really pretty - long dark hair, wide eyes the colour of worn jeans, an even-white-toothed smile - and she sat really close to Dean and they kissed, which was gross, but Dean seemed happy, so Sammy figured it was okay.

But then Dad comes in and throws the girl out and throws Dean over the back of the couch and yanks his pants down and yells.

The couch thumps, doesn't creak like beds do, and Sammy watches from the kitchen. Dean squirms, like he's trying to get away, but he can't.

"What the fuck were you doing, huh? Bringing some bitch back here? Getting us found out, you little slut?"

"I didn't mean to!"

"Didn't mean to take her here? Huh? Just got lost and figured this would be a good place to fuck her?"

"I've never fucked anybody, and nobody's fucked me except for you," Dean sobs, squirming harder.

"Lying worthless little waste. Say you're sorry." Slap, slap, slap.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry, I'm suh-sorry, sorry, sorry, Daddy, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Daddy, please, please, I'm sorry!"

Dean keeps saying it, keeps begging and pleading and apologizing, and Sammy feels like he's gonna throw up.

When he goes to school the next day, he asks his teacher what fuck means and gets sent to the principal for his troubles. Dad shows up and takes him home and in the car he says, "Only big boys say that word, Sammy, and big boys keep their mouths shut. And they don't fucking eavesdrop." Dad smiles, like it's a joke, but Sammy just remembers the blood that spotted the sofa cushions that Dean flipped over last night and the way he limped and he feels like throwing up all over again.

One: Age Twelve

The next week, Sammy turns twelve, and he goes to school and gets cupcakes from the teacher. He got chocolate, which is his favourite, but he stored it in his lunch box so he could give it to Dean when he got home. Dean stayed at the motel that morning, Dad waving Sammy off before grabbing Dean and growling, "Your punishment isn't over yet, slut."

Instead of recess, they have an assembly. The principal and the nurse and some cops and a social worker stand on stage and talk about grownups and older people touching you in your pants and shirt and how that's really, really bad.

He submits something at the end, in the anonymous questions box: My dad does stuff to my brother, stuff that makes him cry.

When he gets back to the motel, he leaves the cupcake on top of Dean's copy of Slaughterhouse Five and waits for the bed to stop creaking.

Zero: Age Twelve

The bed stops, and that's good, and Dean limps to the shower. Sammy can hear his feet dragging funny. Dad comes into the living room and reaches for the cupcake, but Sammy shakes his head. "It's my birthday cupcake from school and I want Dean to have it."

"Brat." Dad reaches to ruffle Sammy's hair, but Sammy pulls back.

Sammy picks it up and runs to the bathroom, sits on the lip of the sink and waits for Dean to finish showering.

When he comes out, Sammy sees that he's covered in bruises shaped like strong, angry hands, and he has to swallow vomit.

"What are you doing in here?" Dean asks, throwing himself back into the shower, hiding behind the flimsy vinyl curtain.

"I got a cupcake. I want you to eat it." He holds it out, arms straight, elbows locked, waiting for Dean to smile.

He doesn't, but he does wrap himself in towels and step out of the shower.

"Thanks, Sammy." Dean kisses his temple, and Sammy smiles for him, snuggling into his bony side.

Sirens sound at the front of the motel, and Sammy grins. He'd left an address on the question he'd submitted, right down to the room number.

Dad comes barging into the bathroom and backhands Dean with his rings. Blood spatters Sammy's cheek.

"Little fucking slut. Called the cops, huh? Told 'em? Well, if you don't fucking pack your shit and get out in two minutes, they're gonna be finding two bodies, y'understand?"

Dean scrambles to his feet, swaying, and runs to the beds, throwing everything into their duffles. He flings clothes on, and Sammy can see faint reddish-brown streaks on his thighs as he dresses, bloodstains that didn't quite wash off.

They climb out the window and run to the car and drive for days. Sam doesn't eat or drink anything for fear that when he left the car to use the bathroom, he'd come back to see Dean in a ditch and Dad asking him to lend a hand in burying the slut.

By the time they finally stop driving, he's not even hungry anymore. Can't even feel his shrunken stomach snarling for food.

They make a quick dinner of greasy spoon burgers, Dean giving Sam his lettuce and tomato and a knowing look. Sam almost laughs, remembering how he used to think Dean was his mom, how accurate that mistake was.

When they get ready for bed, he stands at Dean's side the whole time, using the bathroom mirror to monitor Dad's movements.

Dean eventually falls asleep, curled up tight, but Sam doesn't, keeping the light on as he looks through his math workbook.

He doesn't sleep except when John is on jobs for months.

Someone needs to keep the wolf on the other side of the door.

So. Yeah. I want to punch me. Do you want to punch me? I know I do.

Why do I always write fic in which my favourite characters get hurt? It's a problem. I should just write fluff.