For a while there was silence in the air, a low buzzing in his head and the added crackle of fire. No matter how many inches of rain came pouring down in the months to follow, to drown out the heat and the pain, there was still the silence bearing down between the soothing storms. For a while, Dean was mute.
It wasn't that he had never talked before; Dean used to spend afternoons counting loudly on stubby fingers and toes, reciting the alphabet simply because he could, and humming lullabies his mother taught him about the sun and the moon. His mother used to tell him that he had a small heart of gold, and he believed her. She could say that angels were watching over him when he was asleep and that he would grow up to be the bravest man she would ever know, and he would nod because his mother never lied.
And then his heart of gold slowly melted into stone.
The passage of time never seemed to go quickly enough for the Winchester family, their infected mental wounds hampering time and space itself. For anyone else, time would be divided into work and play, school and sleep. The Winchesters only had time to think and time to count their losses. A gaping hole in their family unit seemed to tear a divide in between each member at first, until their broken pieces mended together like a bone not set properly, forever an ugly shade of damaged.
The transition into a hunter's life style was far from seamless but it satisfied John's unquenchable thirst for revenge, if only temporarily. It didn't matter how much he alienated his sons as they grew older, he needed them to be able to fend for themselves for the inevitable moment when the monsters came knocking at the door. For this reason, save for speaking when spoken to, for the first few years Dean didn't talk a whole lot. He'd talk to his little brother, his new purpose for staying alive when his body desired otherwise, but his brother didn't know many words, and they needed only looks to convey how they felt. Miserable.
In the month of May, a short while after Sam's sixth birthday, Dean began to wonder what was in store for them. They were awfully big thoughts for such a tiny but growing body, and he picked at his freckles while counting all the ways he thought that by now life would have been normal. For all the times he considered himself his dad's little soldier, he still had his doubts about what they were doing, if it was right. Like Batman, Dean wasn't all about the revenge, just that justice was served in due time, but John was consumed.
At that point, Dean never thought he would open himself up to anyone else ever again.
Sam laid on the floor, happily kicking his feet out behind him while colouring inside the lines of his favourite superhero colouring book. Within the pages it was clear to see who had done which pictures; Dean always thought Iron Man would be cooler if he was blue and lines were invisible boundaries; Sam was austere in his beliefs that colours could not be changed and lines were rules to abide by. Currently he was experimenting with the shading technique his teacher had demonstrated for him in class a few weeks ago, but had yet to make it look as pleasing as hers.
Turning away from the episode of Thundercats on the television, Dean looked down at Sam and hissed to get his attention. "We're leaving tonight," he whispered, as if someone was listening in on their conversation.
"But we just got here," Sam whined. School hadn't even gotten out yet, but already they'd been plucked from classes and forced to reside in the spacious abode of their motel room. And Sam loved school with a passion, loved hanging out with Dean on the playground during recess and sharing lunch with his favourite person in the whole world. Mundane was the motel but divine was the feeling of running down the blacktop with the wind ruffling your hair.
"He's almost finished with his job," Dean paused. His brother didn't know what their dad did for a living, didn't even know how their mother died. Best to keep it simple, and avoid answering questions outright at any cost. "And we have to go with him as soon as possible."
"I don't want to go," Sam continued, scribbling furiously into the picture with his crayons.
"He has another job lined up, we have to."
Sam resigned at the words "have to", though he hated when he had to do anything. Had to take baths, had to eat the same kind of cereal all the time, had to go to bed early just because Dean said so. It was fun having Dean be more of a father than John, until he started enforcing all the rules because he had to as well. "'Kay, well." Sam pushed himself off the floor, crayon shavings dotting his skin. "For you." He held up the picture he had worked so hard to shade and get just right, and Dean gingerly took it into his own hands.
It was Batman, naturally, looking out over Gotham City, with the bat signal blazing in the sky. "He watches Gotham," Sam smiled. "You watch me."
Dean realised he wouldn't give this up for the world.
...
Like thieves in the shadows of the night, the Winchesters slipped into the Impala with their belongings in hand, ready to escape under the guidance of the moon. It was mildly humid, a thin layer of wetness sticking to their palms and brows, and the car radiated heat as she rumbled awake. John muttered a curse when he threw her into gear, the knowledge that he hadn't quite finished the job anchoring him to a town he wanted to skip and forget was even on the map. They had his scent, they'd go after his children. He couldn't take chances.
"Boys, we're going to drive somewhere, somewhere that may not be safe. Under no circumstances are you to leave this car, even if I call for you. Do you understand?" John swung an arm over the seat while eyeing the road as he backed up. Briefly he met both of his sons' eyes, full of faith in their father's words as they said "Yes, dad" in unison.
"Good." The ride to the outskirts of town took them next to no time at all, the Impala coming to a halt as John parked it in the midst of a thicket. The guns he kept beside him on the front seat were useless and instead he took ahold of a long, thin machete slicked up in a foul crimson substance; he made sure his children were not able to see it, though it was hard to keep the blade out of sight. With no time to waste, John crept out of the car and made haste into the brush.
The two boys perched on the seat beside each other, hoping that the higher they sat, the more they could see. It was unheard of for John to take them out on a hunt, though Dean suspected that the day he would bring him wasn't so far off into the future, and it baffled them enough to keep their mouths unmoving. A tree rustled, then a group of twigs clattered around on the ground, the two boys began grasping at each other's shirts.
When a large bush suddenly deflated off in the distance, Dean was sick with worry that his father had been taken by the monsters, the hunter now the hunted. Grubby fingers pawed at the window, not that it helped in doing anything other than dirtying the car, and his body shuddered as he thought of the consequences that tonight would have on the rest of his life. I'll be all alone with Sam. The monsters will get us. The monsters will get Sam.
A yelp echoed out in the direction of the disturbed bush, a wail that sounded nothing like their father, but had Dean wrenching the door open and turning to face Sam. "Don't follow me, Sammy," he ordered, then bounded down the obscured dirt trail that lead into the thicket. His body ducked under low hanging tree branches and his feet narrowly avoided stray roots, all while the crying began to die out into a sickly moan. Dean genuinely wondered if the sound was even human; a cough and a gurgle held no conclusive evidence.
Sam watched as his brother disappeared, clearly disobeying the orders that were given to them, and knew that Dean would never forgive him if he too disobeyed. A flash of dark blonde hair would whip itself into his vision, then vanish back into the dark of the undergrowth in the not-quite-forest, and Sam noiselessly prayed that his only family would make it back alive.
The bush wiggled when Dean had caught up to it, and with anxious hands he pushed away a tangle of leaves and broken sticks to peer inside. It didn't matter how hard he tried to look, though, for the moon did not cast its light in the direction of his sight. It could be the monster, it could be a wild animal, but Dean trusted his instincts that whatever it was, it was hurt and it needed him. "It'll be okay," he cooed as he reached inside to assuage the fears of the fallen creature hidden in the umbra.
It did not bite him or thrash when he reached what he discovered to be its hair. Human hair, fleecy wisps of it, and Dean groped around to find an ear, a neck, and then a shoulder. In his mind he repeated his mantra, What would Batman do, and tried to hoist the creature- no, person -out of the bush. The person was small, very light, and he had no trouble forcing it to budge and fall into his chest. It did not whimper, but the noises it made were strained and caught in its throat, an even bigger sound being forced to stay shy.
"You're okay now," Dean mumbled, though he was terrible at comforting. His only experience was with Sam, and other people were different than Sam. Everyone was different. "Can you talk?"
The little person, who was around Dean's height when prompted to stand up a bit straighter, shook its head until it realised it could not be seen. In its hand it took Dean's chin and shook their heads back and forth together in hopes of mutual understanding. But it could talk, Dean knew there was a voice in there somewhere. For the months Dean was mute, he'd overheard and learned why people stopped talking, yet he knew that voices couldn't be lost forever.
"Let's go back to the Impala," Dean said. The child (it had to be a kid) hadn't the faintest idea what an Impala was or where an Impala would be found, but when Dean started to lead the way out of the bushes, it followed like it knew of nothing better. Outlined in blue and grey, with the curling hand of moonlight etched on their cheeks, Dean and whom he rescued trundled through the thicket like newborn deer. In the open spaces between sparse trees Dean could see bewildered eyes and wrecked hair, along with frayed clothes and smudged skin. The moment they were yards away from the Impala and out in the open with light overhead, Dean stopped the kid.
He was just a young boy, this thing that he rescued, and his face told Dean that inside he was battling between fight or flight. Though he had no trembling limbs, he was visibly shaken, and his presence seemed so much bigger than his body would permit, lanky arms and all. Blue irises and wide pupils skipped from one edge of the eye to the other, wary of all sights, and his clenched jaw was almost grinding at every sound. Dean reached his hands out and gripped his shoulders firmly, then made a clicking noise to grab his attention.
"Sammy's here, my dad's here, and I'm here. You don't hav'ta be afraid, my dad'll protect you when he comes back." It never crossed Dean's mind that this might be the monster his dad was hunting, but this boy, with his fluttering eyelids and all, seemed so terribly innocuous that there was no way, no how that he could be the monster. "Just tell me your name and we can help you."
The boy bit his lower lip, struggling to find the words. None would come.
"You can tell me. M'name's Dean."
The boy backed out of Dean's grip on his shoulders and stared straight into Dean's eyes, determined. "Ahh-" he opened his mouth and flinched when the sound was smaller than he expected. There was more rustling from where they'd come from, back in the thicket, but Dean was focused on getting his answer. Just as the boy said his name, a figure leaped out and flanked them, looming over the two as it licked its lips. The boy collected Dean's hands into his own and said his name again, the first time obviously too quiet.
"My name is Castiel."