Moving On (Destiel)

35: The problems this kid faced

"Anyway... you know, I never took drugs? Never, ever – and it'll stay like that. Same applies for you, by the way. If I ever see you even look at these murderous deviant things, I swear to god..."

"Don't worry," Sam assured him, "No interest whatsoever."

"That better be your central thought all the time, for fuck's sake. Ah, where was I? Dad was abusive. But he was bearable. I guess with the drug imperium he reigned it was given he acted... the way he did. But when Mom died..." 

Mom wasn't the only one. She and... Dean convinced himself not to end this thought. "He lost his position 'cause he got completely mad. I'll spare you the details, I bet you can imagine what it was like."

"For you, you mean," Sam quietly. "I don't think nine years old you – or whatever age you had to endure all this crap already – would let, what, four years old me getting beaten up, did you? You took all my beatings. As you always do when you're around the same time Dad gets... you know."

Dean looked at his brother, for the first time since this conversation had started. He didn't want Sam to see his tear-stained face from earlier, but he had to look at Sam.

His brother appeared to be completely calm. But his wet eyelashes revealed: he, too, had been silently crying before, whenever during their conversation.

"'The hell you mean, Sammy? I'm always around the time Dad gets his... dropouts."

"You think?", Sam scoffed. "You're barely home, Dean. And I mean, I get it; you gotta earn some money, keep us living, but Dad had these dropouts several times a day. You couldn't always save me."

Dean was shocked. He had been sure to do a good job at taking care of his brother. Including preventing him from John's brutal physical violence. 

Obviously, he had sucked at it. And he hadn't even known. 

"Sammy... why didn't you tell me? You could have just told me!"

"Hell, no! I was so glad for that, man! I felt so bad already for having you do that for me, having you as a shield. You took in all the blows. It wasn't right. So, yeah, whenever he'd get mad and you weren't home, I'd offer myself. So that later, when it was your turn – which it only was because actually, it'd be mine – you only got half the portion." 

Sam seemed proud. He had done something for his brother and not the other way around, this time.

But Dean was speechless. Fooled by a fourteen years old know-it-all. By his little brother.

He felt rage stir. He wanted to punch something. Yet, he knew, there was no room for his anger issues right now. 

He massaged his nostrils and counted down from ten. "I can't believe you did that. But I don't wanna go into details; I feel so bad now, this is so fucked up... you don't even understand..." He had to breathe in and out deeply a few times to continue. 

"Well, I guess now you know even better what I meant when I say Dad's bad phase began. An eight or nine years old child. Almost still infant. With a four to five years old brother to take care of. Practically orphan – only an abusive mean drunk to manage too. Broke – John knew how to spend all his money on drugs, how to get of all the wealth he used to have as a mafia boss. And, I needed money. Or life wouldn't have worked. It's all about money in the end."

"What did you do?" When Dean didn't answer, Sam's eyes widened in realization – and pure shock. "You joined the drug business, didn't you?"

Dean nodded grimly. "It was my only option, you know. And it really helped. We wouldn't be here today if it wasn't for the damn drugs. In all ways possible."