Title: Had It Coming, Or Five Ways Sam Never Learned The Family Secret

Summary: And not the secret you're thinking of. Warning for implied abuse.

Rating: T

Warning: There is implied abuse in this story, as the summary says, so if that's not your thing, you can turn away now.

Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or the characters. They belong to Kripke. I just sneak into his backyard and build angsty castles in his sandbox.

Had It Coming

Or, Five Ways Sam Never Learned The Family Secret

o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Dean thought he was asleep when their father banged through the front door, stinking of whiskey so strong that they could smell it all the way in the room they shared.

Dean thought he was asleep when the older boy climbed out of bed, eager to help his father into the room like he didn't every night, no matter the cost to himself.

Dean thought he was asleep when the loud smack echoed through the otherwise quiet room and their father laughed in the way that only a man who's falling-down drunk could.

Dean thought he was asleep when the older man was tucked in five minutes later, too tired to fight anymore.

Dean thought he was asleep when the water began to run, washing what would always be thought of as tainted blood, blood that would never be good enough, away from a face that was too young to experience such horrors.

Dean thought he was asleep when the covers were pulled back and the older boy, his face still damp from blood and tears, climbed into bed.

Dean thought he was asleep when warm arms wrapped around the smaller boy, pulling him close for the comfort that their father refused to supply.

Dean thought he was asleep when tear-streaked words were whispered into a very awake little ear. "I'll never let him hurt you."

o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Dean still looked like Dean. He was all tall and imposing and very much an adult. Yeah, he still looked like Dean. It was the action that had Sam a little confused. Since when did Dean color?

Sam was pulled out of his wonderings by the sharp sensation of something tugging on his sleeve. He looked over to find Dean staring at him with wide, innocent eyes. "Hey, Sammy?"

"Yeah?"

"I made a pitcher."

Sam raised an eyebrow. It was still his brother's voice, his brother's deep, gruff voice, but it was different in a way that he couldn't quite place. "Ok?"

The older man held out the drawing for Sam to see. It was two stick figures standing in front of something that was probably supposed to be a car. "Can we put it on the fridgedator?"

"Uh…?"

"Please?"

Sam blinked. Dean didn't beg, not like that. No, something was definitely wrong, and it probably had to do with the blonde chick his brother had been hitting on the night before, the one he'd gone home with. Great. "Sure."

He took the picture from his brother's hands and stood up, crossing the room to tack the thing up on the fridge with one of the grimy magnets that had been left there by some other motel patron.

Sam took a step back, cocking his head to the side to look at Dean's artwork. He was going to have to fix things, find a way to get his big brother back to normal, and he wasn't looking forward to doing it with a particularly large child in tow.

"Is it good?" Dean asked, his voice begging for praise.

"Yeah," Sam said. "It's good." He smiled, turning and raising his hand in anticipation of a high-five. 'Cause kids liked those, right? Right. That's why he was so shocked when Dean flinched.

o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Sam was exhausted, more so than he'd ever imagined he could be. He was exhausted, but he couldn't sleep. If he fell asleep, Dean might disappear. If he fell asleep, the hellhounds might come back for him. If he fell asleep…

But Dean was back. Sam had gotten him back, all on his own, by searching and wishing and praying and searching some more. He'd found a way to start over, to repair his brother's broken body, to make things new. To make Dean new.

He hadn't exactly been expecting this, but, whatever. At least his brother wasn't in Hell any more. And he was sure it was Dean. The look of pure hatred he'd gotten when the older- now younger- man had gotten his bearings had told him that much.

They had settled into an order after that, after he'd calmed Dean down enough to tell him that it was temporary, that it would only take a month to get things back to normal. Thirty years in thirty days. That was the plan.

He looked at the bedside clock. They were on day six now, and he was glad. Dean was still Dean, but different somehow. A little addled. Comforted by new things, by the beating of Sam's heart, the light touch of his hand, the sound of his voice.

It had been nice, watching this. Sam was getting to see the little triumphs. His brother's first steps, first word ("Sammy"), and now, apparently, first nightmare.

Dean walked slowly up to the bed. "Sammy?"

Sam rolled over and smiled. "Yeah?"

"I'm six now."

He nodded. "I can see that."

"I had a bad dream."

Sam sighed, reaching over and turning on the lamp beside his bed. He looked at his brother, brought back as an infant with a new start, a clean soul, a repaired body. He was taller than he'd been when Sam had put him to bed, his hair a little shorter than it had been the day before.

"What happened?"

"What?" Dean asked, innocent features scrunching up in confusion.

"Your eye." Sam pointed. The boy's eye was ringed with purples and blues, the hues of a fading bruise. A yellowish one, almost gone, barely stood out on his cheek in the harsh light thrown by the lamp.

"I fell."

It sounded like a lie, a blatant lie, and Sam was suddenly at a loss. "You… fell?"

Dean nodded. "Daddy said so." He paled visibly, as if he hadn't meant to say that. "I mean, yeah, I fell. I guess."

"Ok." Sam scooted aside in the bed, making room for Dean to climb in. He'd done the same thing a couple of nights before, providing the comfort that he could when Dean had admitted that he didn't want to be alone. The fourth year of his life had held enough nighttime tragedies.

Dean climbed into the bed and curled up next to him, wrapping small arms around his brother's body. "Don't worry," he whispered into Sam's chest. "I'll never let you fall."

o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Sam sighed. He hated witches. He hated them for spewing their bodily fluids everywhere, for killing innocent people, and, most of all, for turning his brother into a freakin' kid. Because apparently, when Dean had actually been five, he was still too traumatized by his mother's death to talk. And now that he was five again, he wouldn't utter a sound.

The silence was starting to get on Sam's nerves. He had told the kid who he really was, saw that Dean understood, but still couldn't get him to speak.

It was getting late, the kid was getting sleepy, and Sam was getting nowhere with his research.

He finished drawing a bath for his brother and turned to see the boy standing in the doorway, staring at him with large eyes. "Come on," Sam said, motioning him in. "Gotta get you cleaned up."

They hadn't left the room all day, but somehow the kid had still managed to get himself dirty. Or, maybe he'd just woken up like that. Kind of like how he'd woken up five.

Dean walked up to him, raising his arms over his head so that Sam could pull his shirt off. The now-older man did what was expected of him, and gasped. A myriad of blacks and blues played across his brother's chest and stomach, fading to a sickly yellow at the edges.

"Dean, what happened?" The little boy just stared at him, eyes wide. "Did you get hurt playing or something?" Dean replied with that creepy stare.

Sam sighed, accepting the fact that he wouldn't get an answer from the kid, and finished undressing him. He held out a hand, one which Dean took tentatively, and helped the boy into the tub, his stomach tying itself into knots as his eyes fell on the five circular bruises on the boy's upper arms- the bruises that looked suspiciously like fingerprints.

o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

He didn't want to go back, didn't want to face the man that had kicked him out of the house. He'd gotten halfway to the bus stop before realizing he'd left his wallet behind.

Sam cursed himself and his hasty packing as he marched up to the family's latest motel room. A crash sounded from inside, and the young man was instantly on alert, scanning the area for any signs of a supernatural threat.

There was nothing obvious, nothing subtle, nothing he could see. Ducking low, Sam snuck up to the window, peeking through the slightly parted curtains to look inside the room.

He could see his father, obviously drunk, screaming and throwing punches at something that he couldn't see. The older man was slurring his way through accusations, yelling at whatever he was hitting, blaming it for some sort of abandonment.

Sam straightened up as the door to the room opened and Dean stepped out into the still night air. His father's voice followed him, magnified through the open door. "And don't come back!"

Dean turned to his brother, managing to smile through the blood and bruises that marred his face. Sam just gaped at the older man. Dean shrugged. "I had it coming."

This is actually my first "Five Ways," so reviews are welcomed with open arms. I'd love to know what you think. Thanks for reading!