
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/3604719.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Character:
      Sam_Winchester, Dean_Winchester, John_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      Child_Abuse, Angst_and_Hurt/Comfort, Abusive_John_Winchester
  Series:
      Part 1 of One_Generation_Passeth_Away_and_Another_Cometh
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-03-24 Words: 4442
****** You are all the Lost Generation ******
by SebaDA
Summary
     Sam gets in a fight. He should have fought back.
     John Winchester is an alcoholic, abusive asshole.
Notes
     Thank goodness for Spring Break, I finally had time to get this
     written. Warning for physical and sexual abuse. If that isn't your
     thing, do not proceed, my friend.
See the end of the work for more notes
“Are we inherently selfish?” he murmured as he heard the tread of the thick
soled boots on the aged wooden floors. His brother wanted to give him his
privacy he knew, but Dean was uncomfortable not being within shouting distance.
Sam didn’t have to turn around to know that his brother hovered at the back of
the cathedral uncertain on whether to sit in one of the pews or remain
standing. Sam also knew how the stained glass would shine prettily down on his
brother; the warm, hazy mosaic haloing Dean.
Sam didn’t expect an answer but when Dean offered, “Not you Sammy, you’re not
selfish,” he snorted mirthlessly.
“You shouldn’t lie in church,” Sam wanted to protect his mashed insides from
Dean’s love. Yet, he also wanted comfort, the comfort bred from feeling Dean’s
callouses rasp through the fine hairs on the back of his neck. It was a
shivery, unbearable pleasure.
“Why’re you in a church Sam? Been looking for you forever, why didn’t you wait
for me after school?”
Dean wasn’t angry. His tone only conveyed exhaustion and relief. Still, he
couldn’t turn and face him yet. There were bruises staining his mouth and
cheek, if one looked close enough he could have found a faint knuckle
impression on Sam’s face. His neck also pulsed with red finger size indentions.
He was certain Dean was going to murder someone, and God only knows why but Sam
didn’t wish that upon his tormentors. In fact, he agreed with the bullies. He
is a geek, a nerd, and most of all he is a freak.
He really didn’t mind being beaten up. He liked the hitting. Didn’t mind how
after the evidence of the bullies’ violence marred his skin. Sam made them work
for their triumph, always fled when they caught his scent. There was a release
of anxiety by being captured that made his blood sing.
He knew what came after. The blunt fuzzy ache of punches and the suffocating
pain of kicks to the ribs, the stomach, and his kidneys.
Despite Sam’s acceptance of being a target, Dean would never understand. How it
felt good to Sam to be punished, sometimes, for being wrong, for growing up the
way that he did.
“I’m sorry you were looking for me. I just didn’t want to bother you cuz you
were talking to that girl, and I needed to run to the library before it closed.
I just came in here on the way back and I lost track of time,” Sam supplied
quietly still lost in his head.
Truthfully, he never went or even intended to go to the library today, but Dean
would swallow the falsehood easy enough, “Alright, Sam,” he exhales heavily,
prepared to drop the subject and all anger.
It was better than telling him that he knew those beef-heads were waiting for
him. That he purposefully gave them a tantalizing sight of his unwatched,
vulnerable back and then allowed them to beat him bloody. Technically, he could
have fought them off but what was the freaking point. Someone his size taking
on all those guys, they would never leave him alone after that. But, that was
all information that Dean would not be pleased to hear. Dean just wouldn’t get
it.
“Are you about done having your Jesus time? I’m starving and Dad expects me to
have dinner home by the time he gets back.”
That one sentence sucker punches Sam; hazel eyes stretched comically wide in
surprise. He might have laughed at his reaction if any of this was funny. He
sucks in a breath, and curses his own selfishness. He hadn’t realized that John
returned home that day. If he had, he would have taken better care of himself.
At least for Dean’s sake.
Because for as long as both Sam and Dean could remember, Dean’s life had
consisted of the instructions to protect Sam and not fuck up. He had to toe the
straight and narrow when it came to Dad’s rules. Any failure meant that Dean
felt the slicing sting of a leather belt. Beaten until not a single ounce of
his beauty sparkled through.
When Sam turns to exhibit his face, Dean pales, his freckles startlingly
exquisite in the sun’s sleepy afternoon glow.
“I’m sorry, Dean,” he mumbles , desperately falling into self-loathing and
guilt. He would be the reason Dean wouldn’t be able to sleep properly or sit
down tomorrow. Needlessly, Dean plasters on a smile, but his arms tremble ever
so slightly. He sucks on the corner of his bottom lip in an unconscious show of
nerves.
Sam wants to collapse on the floor and beg for wrath. Dean’s complacency and
his docile acceptance of abuse rolls nonsensically in Sam’s head until he word
vomits.
“Dean, I’m sorry. It’s not your fault. It’s never your fault. I’m so selfish.
Please don’t let him hit you. Please De, please. Don’t be mad. I’m so sorry.
Please…” Dean just shakes his head.
Deflated, Sam picks himself off the pew and walks toward Dean chock full of
shame. Spying the ring around his neck, Dean closes his eyes for several
moments. Then his brother turns, the expanse of his back riddled with tension
and motions for Sam to follow.
Sam wishes Dean would throttle him in this moment, in this abandoned church,
with angels as their witnesses. But Dean doesn’t do anything but wrap a tan arm
around his shoulder and steer them outside. Death would have been preferable.
When John gets into the motel that evening, his breath reeked of alcohol and
Sam felt tears threatening to spill down his cheeks. His father wouldn’t have
the decency of self-restraint or rationality which fared ill for his brother.
It doesn’t take long for John to take in the tense silence and downcast glances
before he began scrutinizing his two boys with a drunken meanness.
“What the hell’s the matter with you two?” he slurs, then he registers all the
damage done to Sam’s face, “Whaddya run into, a brick wall?”
Sam’s proud that his face remains steady when he replies, “Nah, just had a hard
time with some guys at school.”
“Really? Where the hell was Dean?” and that, well Sam just didn’t have a good
answer to that. “Did you leave him alone, Dean? Leave your brother to fend for
himself, what did I tell you before I left?”
“To watch out for him, sir,” Dean stared at the grimy carpet with his shoulders
slumped in shame.
“And you let him get beat up, so where the fuck where you?” John barks in
Dean’s face and Dean flinches minutely from the assault. The tiny little sign
of weakness has John gripping the worn fabric of Dean’s multiple t-shirts and
then pushing him hard in the chest.
Sam steps in the way before John touches his brother again. “Stop, damn it,
stop! It’s not his fault, don’t touch him.”
His father stared at him as if he had grown another head. Fury began to draw a
ruddy color to his face and he slapped Sam full in the face, hard, “Don’t you
ever tell me how to discipline my son. I will do what I damn well please and
what I see fit.” But Sam still rammed against his father determined not to let
Dean take an unwarranted punishment.
It was his brother that pulls him off and pushes him behind the shelter of his
body.
“Gonna play the hero now, huh. Even though you couldn’t be bothered with him
earlier. You let a group of sniveling little shits attack your brother and
where were you? Don’t tell me you were off with some girl. I might bash your
fucking teeth in if you left your brother to chase a damn skirt.” Dean quaked
under the onslaught, but he shook his head.
“No sir, wasn’t with a girl.” Nurture or nature—whichever had a larger
influence—dictated that as John became more enraged, second naturedly, Dean
reverted into this submissive, complacent creature.
“Strip, now.” John commanded and Sam shoved against Dean. Everything in him
ringing, screaming at a fever pitch because no. Just, no. Stripping would wrest
even more power from Dean leaving him bare, vulnerable. But ever the good
soldier, Dean just moved with efficient motions stripping quickly out of his
jeans and tee-shirts while simultaneously heaving Sam backwards out of the
confrontation.
“shhhh, it’s okay, Sammy,” Dean breaths in a placating undertone, despite the
inherent none okayness of this situation. They both recognized the perverse
leer in their father’s eyes as he surveyed the miles of Dean’s teenage skin.
John pulled out the desk chair and sank heavily into it. When Dean stepped near
him, John drove his fist squarely into the soft flesh of his gut and Dean
doubled over struggling to draw oxygen back into his abused body. It is in this
period of defenselessness that John seizes Dean roughly onto his lap and with
vigor began slapping his ass.
“Stupid, do you know how stupid it is to tell me a lie. That’s all you fucking
do is go around fucking girls. You expect me to believe you weren’t out there
balls deep in some blonde instead of following my orders.”
Dean gritted out, face assuredly overwarm from all the blood rushing to it,
“No, sir. I was just with a buddy. We were talking and messing around, but
there wasn’t a girl, I swear.”
“Sam, get me my belt.” John ordered. His hand never once ceasing in their
ministrations on Dean’s backside. But Sam couldn’t prod his body into action
after watching this vicious exchange with hazel eyes thrown wide in horror.
“No, he didn’t abandon me. He came looking for me after school. He wasn’t with
a girl, I swear. Just stop, please. I’m begging you,” but John just barked,
“Now, Samuel”.
Sam complied just praying it would force his dad to stop sooner. Dean though
couldn’t take both a spanking and a belting on his sore ass, no matter how
valiantly he attempted; he sprang up after the first smacks of the leather
against his abused skin, pleading, “I’m sorry. So sorry. Sorry, I will do
better, I swear. I’m sorry, sir”.
Their father shoved Dean face first against the cotton thin motel walls and
grips him around the neck pulling his head back at an unnatural angle, “You
will be fucking sorry. Bend over the bed. Don’t move, or so help me God.”
Dean trembles but he stands over the bed with his boxer-clan ass out. John
storms over and yanks Dean’s briefs over his abused ass. “Will you take a look
at that Sammy-boy? Your brother’s cherry red ass, what a beauty.” Sam’s stomach
clenches at his father’s ogling and he felt bile rise as he watch John grip
Dean’s ass in one hand, roughly groping what should have been untouchable. He
didn’t understand what was going through his father’s head or the sudden switch
from infuriation to this dirty, perverse infatuation.
His older brother made a slight movement to jerk away from their father’s
wandering hands, but at the harsh growl from John, he stayed motionless with
tears running freely down his face. John unceremoniously pried his asscheeks
open, exposing his pink hole, and whistled.
“How many cock have you had up here, you little slut. Bet all your “buddies”
shove their cocks in this tiny little hole, don’t they,” he hisses, leaning
over Dean to speak into his ear. Dean shakes his head, unable to respond, but
at this point John wasn’t even looking for an answer. Dean does yelp a pitiful,
helpless sound nonetheless as John roughly shoves two fingers dry into his
asshole and whimpers as John brutishly fingers him for what seems like an
eternity.
 
John doesn’t stop shouting until 3 a.m. when he finally passed out into a
drunken stupor. He didn’t stop hitting Dean until Dean passed out unconscious
curled in the fetal position alone in a corner cut in a dozen places by
diamonded green beer bottle glass.
Sam screamed once, when John had his fingers buried inside his brother, but
halted in liquefied terror as John insisted that if there was a complaint from
the front desk he would shoot Dean. John forbid Sam from going anywhere near
Dean, and Sam laid for hours, throat aching from repressed sobs, in the smoke-
filled motel bed praying for divine intervention. His father must be Lucifer,
and surely wherever God was He would save his brother.
Almost instantaneously after John dropped into a light hunter’s sleep, Sam
creeped near his brother with a clean pair of boxer and shirt. He checked
Dean’s vitals to assure that no permanent damage had been sustained and then he
maneuvered the prone form into the clothes as gently as he could. A desire to
shield Dean and himself from the world surged through him and he tugged a
blanket to cover them as he wrapped an arm over his brother’s side.
 
John left sometime early in the morning, grunting at Sam’s sleepless form to
“Get him up. You both have training to do.” Sam didn’t bother responding.
There was such depravity in his father’s statement that Sam muttered, “Christo”
just under his breath but still in John’s earshot. His dad shot a bleary glare
at Sam but he didn’t flinch, nor did his eyes flick black.
After he vacated the trashed room and Sam heard the rumble and screech as the
Impala tore out of the parking lot, Sam glanced at Dean. The dried metallic
smell of Dean’s blood coated his clothes, his hair, and the carpet. As Sam
petted the mutilated flesh of Dean’s cheek, a now very awake Dean’s caught his
wrist and squeezed a warning. Deterred, Sam slides his fingers away from Dean’s
prickly jawline.
“Dean, please let me help you,” Sam whispers softly into the shell of his ear.
“If you really want to do something, you can grab that bottle stashed at the
bottom of my bag,” Dean grizzled out because his mouth was bloodied and ruined.
Sam leaped immediately to locate Dean’s stash and returns triumphantly with the
bottle. However, when he moves to twine his arm down around Dean’s waist to
support him properly so that he can get his liquor down, Dean shrugs him off
with a low, pained impatient sound.
Sam instinctively sensed more tears welling up and a grossly pathetic half-
bellow noise roils out of his mouth—definitely not a sound a mature thirteen
year old should make. Drawing his knees to his chest, he curled his arms around
his head in a morning-breath flavored cocoon.
Distantly in a logical space of his brain, he came up with the knowledge that
if he left in the next two minutes he might make it to third period if he ran
fast enough. He shook the thought off, and focused on his brother. His brother
that centered him and is a necessity. Dean who centers him as the axis balances
Earth.
Or, he amends, for forever Dean has been the Sun. Sam only orbited him. Now
with his sunshine out of commission, nothing, not one thing was operating as it
should. And whose fault is it? He couldn’t even find the most basic human
compassion within himself to keep out of trouble for Dean’s sake.
Beautiful Dean whose eyelashes belong on a girl and whose teeth sparkle as
ivory does when he tumbles back his head in merriment. God, Dean was the
closest thing he had of his mother. All of her buttery, inviting features he
had inherited. And those features had been smashed in, desecrated, all because
Sam didn’t fight back.
John had told Dean that he was a disgrace, whoring about and not taking care of
business. Said that Dean wasn’t a man, would never be if he didn’t accept
responsibility. But it was Sam who would never be a man, never be half as good
as Dean. Sam withdrew into himself as self-loathing and depression threw him
about until he heard Dean’s muffled grunt and curse.
“Sam,” Dean groaned, but Sam couldn’t face him again without falling on him
trying to touch his mottled skin and absorb his aches.
“Come on Sammy. Look at me,” Dean cajoles hoarsely as he brushes the top of
Sam’s head with studied brotherly motions. Sam lifts slightly and spying Dean’s
concerned frown wrinkling the skin between his eyebrows, he tucks his face back
feeling a saltiness dampness trail down his face and drip onto cheap denim.
“Sam, if you could pause your chick flick breakdown, I could use help getting
off this floor,” Dean griped after a few moments still trying to diffuse the
emotional tension from the situation. Sam didn’t bother wiping his tears away
when he stood up. Just hooked his hands underneath Dean’s pits, and did his
best to haul his brother to his feet.
Dean gritted his teeth as he tried to stretch the kinks out of joints which
resulted in ripping opening several partially scabbed over cuts.
“You should shower to assess the damage so we can patch you up properly,” Sam
stated plaintively. He didn’t try to touch Dean again though he longed to
survey, steady, and support his brother. Dean nods once, and limps snail-like
toward the motel bathroom.
Sam takes a few moments to pray simply, “Please, God, heal my brother.”
There was a thump and vicious swearing. Sam sprinted into the bathroom before
Dean even had a chance to call him, and saw his brother caught in his shirt
with his arms above his head. He whimpered in pain and he sounded like a
wounded puppy.
“It hurts Sam. Get me out,” and Sam didn’t have to be told twice. He pulled the
white tee-shirt off Dean, and unbidden he admired Dean's body, the lean muscles
that hinted at the man he would develop into in a few years.
Without thinking Sam pushed Dean briefs off gently, and when he heard a
protesting noise he winced, “I’m just helping, De. Not going to do anything you
don’t want. I promise,” he assures, giving pause for a few moments to broadcast
his intentions before he presses on the back of Dean’s thighs to get him to
lift his hips. He draws Dean’s underwear off as quickly as possible. He didn’t
take time to stare at the multiple swathes of skin painted with bruises, but
rather helped his brother back up and into the shower’s lukewarm stream.
Sam didn’t want the water stinging Dean’s cuts so stripping quickly he jumped
into the shower too.
“What are we five again?” Dean snapped quietly, but he didn’t push Sam out. Sam
grabbed the soap, and starting with Dean’s face cleaned away dried blood as
gently as he could. Resigned, Dean closed his eyes and gritted his teeth
against the hiss of soap in his cuts. He also bent down to allow Sam access to
squeeze the cheap motel shampoo onto his head. Massaging the lather into his
brother’s cropped hair, Sam hoped to soothe trauma from the previous twelve
hours. Dean did indeed seem a fraction more relaxed but his voice was husky as
he said, “Alright, I’m clean and we’ve been naked together for far too long.”
Sam nodded and shut off the tap. He settled a gentle palm on Dean’s chest to
hold him in place, and then he leaned out of the shower to grab the two biggest
towels off the rack. He wrapped one around Dean, avoiding as much as a person
could in this situation from staring too long at his brother’s private bits.
Sam though could feel his blood dusting his neck and face pink; he wrapped the
second towel around himself attempting to hide his own thickening cock. He did
not want to freak his brother out right now, especially after what happened to
Dean last night.
The warm water seemed to help loosen Dean’s muscles and he was able to climb
out of the shower without too much fuss and pain.
Soupy steam coated the mirror, filling the fissures with an opaque equalizer,
both wet steamy bodies were but vague shapes in the mirror. Sam pushed Dean
against the sink and he leans against the surface compliantly. His breath
hitches minutely as Sam spreads antibacterial cream into all of Dean’s cuts and
Sam hums in sympathy.
Sam gets lost in the manual task of bandaging all of Dean’s wounds and the warm
atmosphere of the bathroom. After a while, there is nothing left for Sam to
stitch up on his brother’s body but when he shifts about to move away Dean
makes a noise in protest. Something stirred low in Sam’s stomach making him
feel protective and horny at the same time. Sam takes in Dean’s lulled eyes,
the heavy eyelids, easy posture and he takes his brother’s hand.
 
He leads Dean into the motel room and lays him on the bed that their father did
not deface. It’s not difficult to get Dean settled onto the mattress and to
climb onto the bed with him.
“Thank you, Sammy, for patching me up,” Dean softly whispers and Sam doesn’t
even think… just leans over to press a light kiss on his mouth.
“It’s my fault. What he did, it’s all my fault and I just want to make it
better. Want to make you feel good,” Sam whispers in reply.
“s’not your fault. Not your fault that he…” Dean paused, couldn’t quite wrap
his head around what his so-called hero did to him, “beat me, not’s your fault.
It’s not my fault either.” He said that last sentence quietly like he was
attempting to convince himself and Sam couldn’t help it, couldn’t stop the
flood bursting inside him. He kissed Dean’s jaw, right where his Dad marked
him.
“’m gonna make it better. Can I kiss it better, please? I’ll make it good, make
you feel good. Promise.” Sam kissed the words along Dean’s skin, skimming his
lips down the column of his brother’s throat. He feels more than hears the
“yes” that slips from Dean’s mouth; encouraged, Sam slid down pressing
fluttering, light kisses down his chest.
When Sam neared Dean’s rapidly filling cock though, Dean tugged on his hair and
Sam could read his brother’s body language well enough to know that this wasn’t
happening anytime soon. Still, Sam had an idea. He laid apologetic kisses on
his thighs, before shoving lightly to get Dean onto his stomach.
“Do you trust me, De?” There was a muffled assent from below. Sam nuzzled the
back of Dean’s neck, peppering the skin with light nibbles and suckling on his
earlobe. This position gave Dean room to rut against the bed and he made a
lovely whimper when Sam pulled him onto knees by his hips. “I’m going to kiss
it better,” he warned before he kissed Dean’s lower back. However, his brother
didn’t put it together until Sam kissed one of the welts left on his ass from
the belt.
“No, Sam, not there,” but Sam partially disregarded the comment, because it was
compulsory for him to coat every single scratch with physical declarations of
his immense devotion. He also knew that Dean would put up more of a struggle if
he really didn’t want this and Sam would never force his brother into anything.
Only provide him with affection that he sorely deserved.
His thumbs rubbed repetitive patterns on Dean’s hips as he laved his tongue
over every crisscrossed stripe covering his backside. Sam didn’t have any idea
what he was doing, had absolutely no sexual experience. Just fumbled through
endeavoring to bring as much pleasure to Dean as he could. As pacifying as
possible, Sam spread Dean open with clumsy fingers and moved to lick the most
intimate space of his brother’s body.
“Sammy, god, don’t,” as Sam puffs wetly against his hole, “hurts, it hurts
there.”
He pulls his head away long away to answer, “Then let me make it stop hurting,
De.” And Dean acquiesces with a bitten off moan and presses his ass back
against Sam’s face. Sam laps at the sore hole with more patient attention than
skill. His jaw begins to ache as he tries to dive his tongue further into the
gripping heat of Dean’s insides but he preserves until his brother’s shudders
through an overwhelming orgasm.
Flopping belly-down onto the bedspread, Dean sleepily nestled into the pillows
still panting loudly through his nose. Sam looks down on him fondly and presses
a parting kiss onto the sloping planes of his bare back.
“Get some rest, I’ll bring you back a burger and some pie. I love you,” and he
grinned as he heard Dean’s happy, lovey murmur because he knew that was Dean
returning the sentiment.
Didn’t take him too long to fetch the lunch and bring it back to his brother,
but Sam still felt antsy leaving Dean alone for that long. He didn’t have a
clear idea of where his father left to this morning and he didn’t want John
stumbling into the room with a naked Dean spread out like a fucking Christmas
present. But when he got back, it was obvious that nothing had disturbed his
brother. Sleep cleaned away the premature lines on Dean’s face and he looked
purely angelic lost in the throes of unperturbed sleep.
Nevertheless, Sam coaxed Dean out of sleep by wagging the burger underneath his
nose. Dean broke a record: it only took minutes to scarf down the food, pat
Sam’s arm in thanks, and drop back off to sleep.
 
He decided in that moment, with the evening sunlight descending into this room
lighting the previous night’s destruction, that humans were infinitely selfish.
It was selfishness that drove him to strive for normalcy, even though he was
cognizant of the pain it caused Dean. Selfishness that drove him to kiss his
brother.
It was that selfishness that lead to him looming over his father in the wee
hours of the morning and pressing Dean’s favorite hunting knife to his father
throat. This selfish drive that made it mandatory to threaten the life of his
dad. To inform John with maniac eyes filled with potential violence that if he
ever laid a finger on Dean again: he would, or more accurately would not, wake
up with the knife buried in his gut and a bullet to the head.
Greediness compelled Sam to love his brother and be in love with him at the
same time.
But frankly, Sam didn’t give a damn.
End Notes
     Thanks for reading! I appreciate kudos and comments. :) Ideas for new
     fics are also much appreciated.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!
