On The Run Chapter 70: Crying Song, a supernatural fanfic

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Dean stared down at the phone in his hand.

The coordinates stared back.

"Sammy. We gotta go."

The hope in his chest frightened him.

"You're not going, Sam. End of story." John turned his attention back to the research in front of him. The skin walker's husband had turned up. Literally.

Sam turned a hopeless gaze on Dean, who nodded, a silent "I got you" his only answer.

Two weeks. I was supposed to have two more weeks. But Dean knew that, given John's reaction, if his brother didn't go now, he would never be able to leave.

Sam slung his backpack over his shoulder before picking up his duffel bag.

John looked up. "I said 'sit down', Sam. You are not going to Stanford."

"I have a full ride for the first four years. A dorm room, a roommate, and job in one of the libraries." He paused, stance unwavering. "I am going."

"No. You're. NOT !" John stood, gripping the edge of table as he rose, flipping it with a dramatic 'crash'.

Papers fluttered to the ground like overly large confetti.

Dean stepped between the two men. "Dad -"

John swung.

Dean was expecting it and threw a forearm up to block, pushing into the other man, getting close to take the force out of his father's blows.

John trapped the arm that Dean had raised. He dragged it over his back as he turned, bent sharply at the waist, and hurled his son with a shoulder-throw.

Dean landed on a wood and metal chair, demolishing it before his back made contact with the ground, driving the wind out of him.

John followed him down, automatically driving his knee in just below Dean's solar plexus and slamming his fist into his son's face once, then again.

Fist poised for a third blow, he took in the rolling eyes and gaping, airless mouth of the disoriented hunter and stood, satisfied.

He turned toward his younger son. "Put it down."

Sam stood in horrified paralysis, eyes on his brutalized older brother.

"Put. It. Down ." John took a step forward.

Time stopped with the familiar sound of a gun being cocked.

"Don't you fucking touch him." Dean's voice was ragged and nasal, but it brooked no argument.

John tensed, raising his arms slowly to shoulder height, fingers spread. "Son -"

"Shut up. Sam: Go."

The youngest Winchester looked to his brother, always and forever his hero, even now. Especially now. "Dean -"

"Just go!"

With a sob, he bolted.

Dean flinched as the door rattled the frame with the force of its closing, feeling his heart slide out to chase after his baby brother.

His reason for existing.

The two remaining Winchesters held their poses until the echo of the slamming door could no longer be heard.

"Dean -"

"No. You're not going after him."

They held their positions, evenly matched for stubborness, with Dean's desperation giving him a slight advantage.

John shifted, and the gun barrel moved with him. He looked into his older son's eyes and froze. "You won't kill me." For the first time that Dean could remember, his father sounded uncertain.

"Maybe, maybe not. But a bullet in your knee would sure complicate your life, wouldn't it?" Dean licked his lips, loss of consciousness threatening, focusing the remnants of his rapidly draining energy on keeping his gun hand steady.

"I can get him back."

"No," Dean countered, voice firm. "You can't. He left a long time ago."

They waited.

Tick.

Somewhere in the room, a clock ticked loudly, time's eternal heartbeat.

Tick.

John shifted his weight onto his heels, and Dean tensed.

The older hunter sagged where he stood, visibly relaxing.

The younger did not.

Tick.

Dean counted the seconds, needing to give Sam time to hitch a ride, to get away.

Tick.

Not that Dad couldn't just go to Stanford and haul him back.

Tick.

I won't let him.

Tick.

Adrenaline leached its way out of Dean's system.

His arms trembled.

The skin around John's eyes tightened.

Tick.

Tick.

A warm finger of blood trailed down Dean's back, its touch so familiar, it was almost comforting.

Tick.

Bruises throbbed, a quiet complaint.

Tick.

John sighed, and Dean's heart rate doubled.

Tick.

Dean felt the sharp bite of broken ribs with every breath.

Tick.

Someone's stomach rumbled.

"Was that yours, or mine?" John's dimpled smile accomplished what threatening glares and harsh words could not: Dean lowered his pistol, letting the hammer down gently.

He slid it along the floor.

It settled against his father's boot.

John looked down at it, then raised his eyes, bringing them to rest on his older son's face. "You let him go."

Dean swallowed. He's going to fucking kill me this time. "Yeah."

"You knew, didn't you?" The man's face was so suffused with rage, it was nearly purple.

"Everyone knew, Dad," Dean admitted tiredly. He's going to literally beat me to death, right here, right now. "All they had to do was meet us one time and they fucking knew."

Dean winced when his father reached for him, but did nothing to defend himself.

John grabbed his son by the front of his shirt, yanking him to his feet even as he shook him. "You betrayed me! Lied to me!"

"It's what we've been working for since Mom died, you asshole! Making the world safe for Sam! You know it! You're just too pig-headed to admit it!" And it's all I had. The only thing thing that ever mattered to me, that made me keep fighting.

And now he's gone.

John's punctuated his incoherent cry of fury with a backhand blow to Dean's face, and the ringing in the concussed man's skull intensified.

He shoved his son away, face twisted in disgusted rage, hands reaching for his belt buckle.

Dean stumbled backwards, too weak and disoriented to catch himself. He landed hard, bruising his tailbone.

Glazed eyes took in his father's motions.

Knowing what came next, Dean began unbuttoning his shirt.

He watched with dull eyes as John removed his belt, wrapping it around his fist.

With a grunt of effort, Dean sat up, dropping first his flannel, then his t-shirt to the floor.

He tried to toe his boots off, wincing at the sharp pain it caused in his ribcage and the base of his spine. He bent, working to loosen the laces, and hissed in a sharp breath between his teeth. He looked up at his father, face slack. "Can you help me get my boots off? Ribs are broken." Still? Again? Weren't fully healed from the bar fight. Didn't like taking on that chair.

John stared at him, dazed. "What?"

"Gotta get my boots off so I can finish stripping down."

John blinked. "That's...that's enough."

Dean breathed a quiet sigh of relief. Baring himself completely to his father to be whipped like a child was a humiliation he could do without.

He turned slowly, elbow tight to his side, ready to position himself face down on the bed. "Look, I know you gotta do this, know I deserve it, but…" he fought to keep the tremor from his voice, "could you not use the buckle this time? We gotta hunt tomorrow, and that shit takes forever to heal."

John didn't answer and Dean sighed, pulling a pillow over his head to muffle the sounds that he was fairly certain he would not be able to control. Not with the lacerations from the whip less than two weeks old. Not with the bruising he knew was on his back from getting thrown onto the chair. Not with the rib fractures that grated every time he tried to take a decent breath.

John stood over his son, hands shaking as he re-wrapped the belt, hiding the buckle in his palm.

His chest rose and fell, strap dangling loosely, his mind screaming at him to do it, to bring the smooth leather down repeatedly, transferring all of his pain and helplessness and all-consuming rage to his child's broad and willing shoulders -

He's letting me do this.

Again.

John dropped to his knees.

Empty palms rested on the soiled mattress that shuddered with his oldest son's fear and grief and pain. With the hopelessness and heartache of yet another loss.

What am I doing?

What have I done?

Mary, what have I done?

While his youngest hiked off into the night, afraid and very alone,

the broken father knelt,

matching his sons, tear for tear.