[A.N. Hey so I did a few fics a while back but I'm such a sucker for hurtDean and abusiveJohn so I thought I'd revamp/restart one of those...hoping to take the theme through the seasons (haha maybes not all 7 tho, we'll see!) Enjoy!]

Disclaimer: Wish I did, but I don't.

In The Beginning

The first time John Winchester hit his eldest son, Dean was five. It was the first anniversary of Mary's death. They were holed up in an out-of-the-way motel on the outskirts of Dayton, Ohio. John had just come home from a simple salt and burn, stopping at the liquor store on his way back. Dean had already put Sam to bed in the rickety cot set up in the room and had fallen asleep on one of the musty beds, late night TV flickering soundlessly in the corner.

The door banged open and Dean jumped, immediately awake. His first thought was his brother, but somehow little Sammy had managed to sleep through that one, thank God. His second thought was his father. John looked a little worse for wear, nothing out of the ordinary post-hunt, but in his hand was a half empty bottle of whiskey, and running down his face were tears.

"Dad?" Dean asked, trying to comprehend. "What's wrong?"

"Nothin'," his father replied gruffly. He sat down on the other bed opposite Dean and took a swig from the bottle. That worried Dean.

"What is it?" he asked quietly. "Did the hunt go alright?"

"The hunt was fine, now quit askin' questions," John snapped. He took another gulp from the bottle and wiped tears from his face.

"Then why are you crying?"

That was all it took. In one movement, John backhanded Dean sending the kid sprawling onto the bed with a gasp. Immediately John was at his side.

"God, Dean I'm so sorry," he muttered over and over again. Dean stayed silent not knowing what to do. "I'm so sorry, it'll never happen again. Goddamn whiskey."

John stood up, grabbed the bottle and walked over to the small waste paper basket near the front door of the room. He took one last swallow from the bottle and then dropped it in the bin. He looked back over to Dean. His son was sitting on the bed, back against the headboard watching his father, his expression unreadable.

"It's going to be okay, Dean, I promise. Soon, it'll be fine, I know so much more about what killed your mother now," John said, his words slurring slightly. "We're gonna get that son of a bitch. I promise."

Dean nodded and pulled the covers around him. His face was aching and he'd have a bruise over his cheekbone the next day which John would explain away with a typical 'fell down the stairs' excuse if anyone asked. But at least their dad was onto something. Maybe they could stop moving around soon. Maybe it would all be over.

The second time John laid a hand on Dean was five years later. Once again, six year old Sam was fast asleep in the bedroom he was sharing with Dean. It was November, it was freezing and they were staying in a log cabin in woods in west Colorado. After that night five years ago, Dean had made a silent promise to himself. He would never try and rile up his father and would do anything John told him to do without question. If that meant his father wouldn't hit him or, god forbid, hit Sammy, then Dean was doing a good job. The only problem was, sometimes Dean never knew what it was that set his father off.

He'd realized later on that when John had hit him that first time, it'd been the one year anniversary of Mary's death. Since then, every time November 2nd came around, he would walk on eggshells around his father. And tonight was the sixth anniversary.

Despite his young age, his father had inadvertently started to inform him on how he was going with the hunt for the demon that had killed Mary. At first it had been slow going and frustratingly hard to get any information on anything. Dean had chalked up John's violence towards him five years ago to that.

But unfortunately it was still hard going for the Winchesters. John was no closer to finding the demon or even knowing the name of the demon and money was always an issue. Anytime they stayed near a family-friendly bar, John would spend hours teaching Dean to play pool. And how to hustle other people out of their hard-earned cash on a Friday night.

But right now they'd hit a definite low point. Instead of staying in a motel, they were holed up in an abandoned cabin in the woods while John hunted a wendigo with another hunter. The cabin was icy at best but luckily it had three fireplaces. One in each of the two bedrooms and one in the small living room. Dean and Sam had trawled the area close to the cabin for hours collecting enough sticks and logs to keep them warm through the night.

Dean had made sure Sam was warm enough in the bedroom and that the fire was raging. But the fire in the living room was almost out. Dean sighed and pushed himself to his feet. He was wearing almost all of the clothes he owned, had been sitting two feet away from the fireplace and he was still cold. He picked up the shotgun his father had left him, checked that it was loaded and carefully unlocked the front door. He peeked out into black nothingness and listened. All quiet. He quickly ran to the pile of wood and grabbed as many logs and sticks that he could fit in his arms and ran back inside. He dumped them next to the fire and turned around to close and lock the front door and froze.

The doorway was dark with the outline of a figure. He scrambled for the shotgun and aimed. "Who's there?" he called, his voice shaking with the cold.

"Put the gun down Dean," came his father's brusque voice.

Dean hesitantly leaned the shotgun up against the wall and watched as his father shook the snow off his boots and closed the door.

"Why was the door open Dean?" John asked, his tone neutral. He dropped his duffel bag full of weapons on the table.

"Did you get the wendigo?" Dean asked, curious.

"Of course I did. Me and Bobby tracked it back to a cave and torched it good," John replied, then he turned to his son with a stern look on his face. "Now tell me, why was the door open?"

"I just went out to get some wood, the fire was dying, it's freezing in here," Dean explained, hoping that it would be good enough.

"You know what's outside Dean. A wendigo. And it'd just love to drag you and your brother back to its lair so it could eat you alive," John said menacingly, his voice low. He grabbed Dean's arm, tight enough to bruise. "And you opened the door, because you were cold?"

"Dad, I'm sorry, I took the shotgun, I made sure nothing was out there," Dean stammered. "And…and you killed the wendigo anyway"-

That was the wrong thing to say. As soon as Dean said it he knew. John's hand tightened on his arm and his other hand struck his face. Immediately Dean went silent. He didn't know what to do, didn't know what to say.

Finally he whispered, "Dad I'm sorry."

"Stop sayin' sorry for god's sake and think next time," John growled under his breath. "Do you want to be cold and alive? Or dead?" Dean nodded and John shoved him away. "Go to bed, we're leaving in the morning."

"Yes sir," Dean replied and stumbled into the room he was sharing with Sam, rubbing his arm. He shivered as he got under the covers of the unoccupied bed. What he really wanted to do was hop in with Sam so their body heat would keep both of them warm as toast, but he didn't want his brother waking up. The sheets and duvet were ice cold and his teeth started chattering. He was worried he'd be sick in the morning. His dad wouldn't like that. But what he was more worried about was the fact that Dad had lashed out again. Which meant that time, five years ago on the anniversary of his mom's death, wasn't just a one-off.

The third time it happened was when Dean was fourteen. He'd almost forgotten the previous times his dad had hit him by that time. They were staying in La Grande, Oregon, in a run-down motel waiting for their father to get back from a solo poltergeist hunt. There'd been a couple gigs in the area, the poltergeist John was getting rid of tonight and two spirits as well as demonic omens.

Dean had helped John with the two spirits but this morning he'd woken up with a killer headache and with his joints on fire so he'd been left at home. Of course this meant that he still had to take care of ten year old Sam.

"What are we having for dinner?" Sam's voice seemed to pierce the very air and Dean winced. "Dean?"

"Yeah, Sammy I heard you," Dean whispered. He cracked his eyes open and sat up, leaning back against the headboard of the motel bed. He slowly stood up and dragged his feet over to the little kitchenette and dug his hand into the brown paper bag sitting next to the microwave.

"Mac and cheese?" he offered.

"Again?" Sam whined. "But I want something different. We had mac and cheese all week."

"Well, there's nothing I can do about it Sammy, that's all we've got," Dean snapped, a little too harshly. Sam's face fell and he immediately added, "I'm sorry kiddo, I'm just feeling real sick. I know it sucks but do you think you could have it again tonight?"

"Fine." Sam dragged the word out. He didn't want to bug his brother too much while he was sick, but he just would've really liked something different for dinner for once. Dean emptied the packet of mac and cheese into the small saucepan and turned on the camping stove. He followed the instructions to the letter. At least it would be reasonably good mac and cheese even if he didn't want it.

When it was done he spooned it into a bowl for Sam. He took a small bite himself then gave the bowl to his brother.

"You're not eating anything?" Sam asked.

Dean turned on the television softly and got back in bed. "Not hungry."

"You can have some if you want?"

"Nah, it's cool Sammy, don't think I could keep it down," he murmured.

"You want anything? Painkillers?" Sam asked.

"We're out," Dean replied, grimacing as a fresh headache took hold. "I'll be fine in a few days, don't worry."

"Okay," Sam replied but he kept an eye on his brother all the same. Sam finished his dinner and quietly washed up the bowl in the sink and left it to drain. The two beds in the room were queen-size so he hopped up next to Dean, trying not to make too many sudden movements, he didn't want to wake his brother. He was just about to drop off to sleep when he heard a key unlocking the door.

Sam looked up to see his father walk in and drop his duffel bag on the floor. The clang of guns, sawn-offs and knives woke Dean up with a start. "Sammy?" he croaked.

"It's alright," Sam said, "it's just Dad."

Dean pushed himself up into a sitting position just in time to see John take a mouthful from a bottle of beer. He suddenly felt sick in his stomach. "Dad? Everything okay?"

"Shut up Dean," John snarled, before draining the bottle.

"What's wrong?" Dean asked, his voice hoarse. He stood up and gingerly walked over to his father.

"What's wrong?" John repeated. "What's wrong is the fact that there's still a poltergeist out there killing people cause you couldn't get out of bed and help me tonight!" he shouted smashing the empty beer bottle at Dean's head. Sam jumped to his feet with a sharp inhale as Dean crumpled to the floor.

"Dad, please, I can help tomorrow night," Dean groaned. He touched his temple where the bottle had hit him. His fingers came away red. "I'm sorry"-

"You'll be sorry," John growled, anger had made him see red. He grabbed Dean by the collar and pulled him abruptly to his feet and slammed him into the wall. "Because you weren't there, someone died tonight, their blood is on your hands."

"Dad, please, I'm sorry, I couldn't help it," Dean pleaded. John buried his fist into Dean's stomach with a grunt. Dean gasped, winded from the punch.

"Like you couldn't help that?" John asked. Dean could smell the alcohol on his breath. "You're just lucky I'm only going after you now."

"Don't you dare touch Sam," Dean whispered. John tightened his hold on Dean's collar.

"What did you say to me boy?"

"Do whatever you want to me, but don't you lay a hand on Sam," Dean replied, his voice low and deadly.

"Well you got yourself a deal boy," John growled in return. He let go of Dean's shirt and it was all Dean could do to not buckle at the knees. "Go clean yourself up, you look terrible."

Dean walked away from his father and into the motel bathroom. He switched on the light and jumped when he saw his brother in the mirror standing behind him. "You okay?" Sam whispered.

Dean grabbed a towel, ran it under the tap and carefully mopped away the blood from his temple, where John had hit him with the bottle. After taking a close look in the mirror he decided he wouldn't need stitches. "Yeah I'll be fine," he finally replied. "Go back to bed, I'll be there soon alright?"

"No, I'll wait for you," Sam said. Dean sighed. Blurry memories came flooding back to him. This was the third time his father had hit him. The first two times had been on the anniversary of his mother's death but this time it was May, nowhere near November 2nd. A pattern was forming. That's what scared Dean the most.

[Hope you guys like it! Update coming real soon! Review!]