Preface Dean smiled widely, rubbing the flour off his nose. His mother chuckled, setting down the pie she was about to put in the oven and coming over, kneeling in front of him and using a towel to clean off the rest of his face and hands. "Be more careful, dear. You've got flour everywhere!" she exclaimed with a grin. Dean looked down at his powdered clothing and shrugged. "It's okay! Now everyone'll know I was helping you!" he replied. "That is very true," his mother said, her smile softening. It was a beautiful day- the sun was shining brightly through the window above the sink, casting a soft glow around the kitchen. Bees buzzed around, taking their time in the new spring air, hovering above bright orange flowers and deep green leaves. Dean turned as their dog, Marvin, came crashing in the kitchen, tongue lolling out of his mouth. The golden retriever slid to a stop, barking playfully, and he dropped to his knees, petting behind the puppy's floppy ears. He giggled as Marvin started licking his face, and he scrunched his eyes shut. "What other kind of pie was it that you wanted, dear? Your tenth birthday is a pretty big one. Double the amount of pie for the double digits," his mother said. "Really?!" Dean exclaimed, turning wide green eyes up to his mother. His mother smiled; big, warm. "Of course!" she replied before she got back to work kneading the dough. "Sweet! How 'bout...cherry!" he said, releasing Marvin and standing. The pup whined and pawed at Dean's leg, before letting out a bark. Dean looked back down at him, and Marvin tilted his head to the side, ears perking up, tail wagging furiously. "Cherry would be great, Fey," his mother said as she rolled out the pie crust and began fitting it into the pan. Dean smiled widely. "Awesome!" he exclaimed, standing on his toes next to the counter. "Can you turn the oven off?" "Why? Don't we still need it?" he asked, brow furrowing in confusion. "Yes, but we don't need it right now, dear, so we shouldn't have it on now- it wastes power," she replied distractedly. "Oh." He never turned the oven off. * They spent the rest of the day baking and playing out in the yard with Marvin. When it grew dark, they came inside. His mother had him take a shower, telling him he needed one because he spent all day cooking and playing outside, before she tucked him into bed. "Goodnight, Fey. I love you, darling," his mother said, leaning down to kiss his forehead. "G'night, ma," he said, snuggling into the blankets. "Love you too!" His mother smiled before turning towards the door, her smile widening as his father walked in, rubbing his eyes. "Late shift?" she asked, brow furrowing a bit. "Yeah, sorry, sweetheart; it was a tough day. We had to put out three fires today. Todd and I switched nights- he'll have his off tomorrow," his father replied before kissing his mother. Dean scrunched his nose and his father grinned over at him. "Hey, kiddo," he said, coming over and kneeling in front of Dean's bed, ruffling his hair. "You and mom have fun today?" "Yeah!" And Dean proceeded to tell him everything they'd done from the moment he woke up to the moment he got into bed. "Sounds fun, Dean." His father kissed his forehead. "Goodnight, son," he said, before standing and heading to the door. "Goodnight, daddy!" he called. His father smiled once more before closing the door, leaving it open a bit. Dean laid in bed, attempting sleep, the clock reading 12: 16 a.m., when he smelled it. It smelled an awful lot like when they'd accidently burnt the pizza. Curiously, he crawled out of bed and padded down the hall, heading towards the kitchen. Maybe dad was making pizza again. Maybe mom was cleaning- she did that a lot at night- and got hungry so decided to cook something. As he got down the stairs, he felt strangely warm. It was really hot. He saw a strange orange glow from the kitchen door. He pushed it open and let out a shriek, jumping back. Flames had consumed the entire kitchen and were working their way up the wall. Through the flames, on the floor, he was able to make out a single figure. "Mom!" he screamed. His father came rushing down a moment later, the sleep leaving his eyes instantly. "Dean!" his father cried, wrapping his arms around Dean and holding him to his chest, before he ran out the door. "Stay here, Dean," his dad said sternly before running back in. Dean's eyes were wide, full of tears. His hands trembled and he clutched them to his chest. He blinked rapidly and scooted away from his house. The flames were nearly to the windows upstairs now; Dean could see them reflected in his window as tears trailed down his cheeks, blurring the sight before him. His home was on fire. What about mom! What about Marvin! The puppy ran out the open front door then, appearing through the haze of smoke. Dean dropped to his knees, holding the pup close. Marvin nuzzled his head into Dean's neck. His dad come running back out then, a sad look in his eyes. Mom wasn't with him. "D-dad?" he asked through his tears. "W-where's mama?" "Gone, Dean," his father said softly. "Gone." Dean let out a cry, clutching Marvin closer. The pup whined, as if he knew that someone was missing. His father knelt beside him, tears in his brown eyes, and wrapped his arms around Dean. Dean sobbed into his shoulder, his fingers still clutched in Marvin's soft fur. "I-is she in Heaven now, daddy? Is she with God?" he asked, sniffling. His dad let out something that sounded like a sob. "Yes, Dean, she's with God now," his father replied, hugging him even tighter. In the distance, sirens roared. Red and blue lights flashed as they arrived outside the Colt's house much too late. His father was whisked away to talk to the police officers and Dean stayed sitting in the grass of the neighbor's lawn, the light of the dying flames reflecting in Marvin's sad brown eyes. Dean held Marvin close to his chest, crying into his soft fur. For once, the pup was quiet. Chapter 1 I closed my eyes, taking a long, slow breath through my mouth. Everything hurt. My father had been extremely angry tonight, and I wasn't sure why. Maybe it was work. Maybe I didn't get home on time. It was probably my fault anyway. I probably deserved what it is I got. After all, pain is a close second to fear, and I know he wants me to be just as scared of him as I am hurt by him. I gingerly pulled myself up from the shattered remnants of the mirror, wincing at the pull of glass buried in my hands from where I'd tried to stop myself from hitting it so hard. I looked at myself in the cracked remains that were still attached to the wall; all I saw was a distorted image of who I used to be. And that hurt so much worse than broken glass and empty whiskey bottles ever could. God, if only mom could see me now. She'd be so god damn disappointed. She'd probably disown me. Kick me to the streets. Any normal mother would. I was a disgrace. I could barely maintain my B average. I couldn't play any instrument worth a damn. I couldn't finish my copy of The Odyssey before Christmas break, which was in three and a half weeks. I just couldn't do anything right. I was the kid who sat quietly in the back of the class hoping no one would notice me. I didn't raise my hand in class and I sure as hell didn't talk to anyone. What parent would want me as their kid? I started cleaning up the glass, worried dad would get mad if I didn't have it done by the time he woke up from his drinking binge. It stung my already tender hands but I couldn't really bring myself to care. Just more scars to add to the too long list. Not all of them were from dad, I'll admit that; some I'd given myself, but the cool burn of the steel blade against my wrist helped me focus on things other than school and dad and how big of a fuck up I am and how disappointed mom would be. I shook my head and threw all the glass in the trash can, making sure to pick up even the tiniest shards. I made my way slowly up to the bathroom, washing the blood off my face and hands, examining the boot shaped bruises over my ribs. Nothing was broken, I didn't think. Except maybe my heart. But that was okay. I deserved it. I left that oven on. I deserved whatever hell rained down on me. I felt the sting of tears behind my eyes and quickly blinked them away. I hadn't cried since I was ten. That wasn't going to change now. Crying was a weakness. It meant I was too weak to deal with the consequences I just so happened to bring onto myself. Maybe I was too weak. It wouldn't really be a surprise. Okay, enough of this. I needed to stop thinking. That was it. Sounded simple. I wish things could be as simple as they sounded. But then, Fate never really is fair, is she? Wow, that makes me sound religious. But then...I could believe in Fate and not be religious, couldn't I? Before that night, I had been a strong Christian. So had my dad. But then...faith just kind of fled. Now...I knew God wasn't real. I knew He couldn't be real, because after all, God is supposed to protect people. He's supposed to save the good people. He should've taken me instead of mom. Then, things would be right. I don't think it was Fate who made my mom die. I think we have some control over our own lives. And because I made the decision not to turn the oven off, she died. That was my fault. Not Fates. Not God's. Mine, and mine alone. God, thinking about this made my head hurt worse than it already did. I climbed slowly upstairs. It was only five p.m. I laid down in bed, fully clothed, not having the energy to change. I pulled the blankets up to my chin and curled up. I was out like I'd never been awake. * I woke up to the blaring of my alarm. I groaned, blindly reaching out and slapping it until it turned off. It took a solid half hour to get out of bed after that, which is why I had an alarm set to go off a half hour later than my first alarm. I always went back to sleep. I dragged my feet on my way to the bathroom, taking as much time as possible. I didn't want to be late, that would draw attention to me. I just didn't want to go. Hell, I didn't want to face the day in general. Then again...it was more or less like this every day. And I'll be damned if I didn't dread it just as much as I did each and every other day I went through it. The shower felt so friggin' good on my aching body. I stayed in there a bit too long, and didn't have time for breakfast. Dad wouldn't let me drive the car, so I had to walk the two miles to school every morning. It was freezing. I bundled up in my ratty black jacket and slung my bag over my shoulders, stopping at the gas station that was ten minutes from my house to grab a Styrofoam cup of coffee. It felt damn good on my frozen fingers. I made it to school just as the first bell rang. I hurried to my locker, my fingers trembling with cold as I fumbled to do my locker combination. It took two tries, but I finally had it. I kept my coat on because god dammit I was pretty sure I was getting a cold. I shoved my bag in my locker and gathered my books, heading to calculus. I dreaded the class, mostly because Mr. Hendricks teaches and he's like one thousand years old and his voice is so monotone I don't even know how he shows emotion. I usually sleep in the back, because everyone knows he's blind as a bat and can't see past the first two rows and doesn't bother teaching anyone who isn't in the first two rows. I sink down in my chair and pillow my head on my arms, falling asleep in minutes. * I woke up to the bell. I slept through the entire class period. That's new. Usually I only sleep half, maybe less. At least I missed all of Mr. Hendricks lesson for the day. I didn't even know what we were doing in that class anymore. I gathered my stuff and walked as slowly as possible to Latin, my books hugged to my chest, hunching my shoulders so I wasn't any bigger of a nuisance than necessary. "Hello, Mr. Winchester," Mrs. Malloy said as I walked into class just as the last bell was ringing. "Hello, ma'am," I mumbled, walking quickly to my seat. Her gaze followed me; I could feel it boring into my back. "Would you like to translate this sentence into Latin?" she asked, pointing to the board. I squinted at it, cheeks heating. "No thank you, ma'am," I replied, sitting down. Everyone was staring at me. I put my head in my arms. Mrs. Malloy was quiet before continuing to talk, asking some other poor kid to translate the sentence on the board. "Hey, are you alright?" a voice asked next to me. I hesitated before pulling my head from my arms and looking over. A new boy I hadn't ever seen before was sitting next to me. Usually I was the only one who sat in the very back of the classroom. The last row usually consisted of me, myself and I. The first thing I noticed, among other things, was that this boy's eyes were shockingly blue. Electric. The kind of blue that you only read about in books. His eyes made me itch to write in my journal. Something about oceans of blue or galaxies among a bigger galaxy. The next thing I noticed were the scars on his pale wrists. I unconsciously pulled my sleeves lower over my fingers. "Yeah, I'm alright," I said quietly, setting my head back down on my arms, dully watching as Mrs. Malloy wrote something on the board as I did my best to appear as though I was actually learning something here. "You sure?" the boy asked. I sighed. "I said I was, didn't I?" I snapped. The boy held up his hands innocently and turned to face the front again, picking at a loose threat on his black long sleeve that didn't quite reach his wrists...or they didn't until he tugged them down, just as I had. I turned my attention back to pretending to be intrigued as Mrs. Malloy so interestingly taught us how to say "best friend" in Latin. Yeah, because that was something I honestly needed to know. I desperately wanted to sleep some more- last night had been full of tossing and turning and nightmares. That's how it was every night, of course, but last night was worse, and I wasn't entirely sure why. My eyes seemed to slide shut of their own accord, my head dipping until it was resting against my chest... "Mr. Winchester!" Mrs. Malloy snapped from the front of the class. I jerked my head up, blinking owlishly at her. She gave me a disapproving glance- not like I wasn't used to it- and continued teaching. I sighed, sinking lower in the chair but making sure to stay awake. The boy was looking at me again, eyes narrowed a bit as if I were his lab specimen. Blessedly, the bell rang, dismissing class for lunch. I stood slowly, but the boy stood slowly as well. Walking next to each other but not together, we made our way to the door, last to leave. Mrs. Malloy tapped my shoulder. "Can I talk to you for a moment?" she asked, and that made my stomach sink, but I nodded. The boy looked at me for a second too long before walking out of the class room. "Yes, ma'am?" I said as politely as possible once the door had swung shut. "I've noticed you can't seem to stay awake in my class, Mr. Winchester. And you never seem to talk to anyone. Castiel was only trying to make a friend. You could've been nicer," she said, studying me through her spectacles. Why was it that all the teachers here were old? "Can I give you some advice?" I'd rather you didn't. "Of course." "Don't push people away. It won't help in the long run. Try to make some friends. Don't seem like you're so depressed all the time," she said, smiling. I resisted the urge to say I was depressed all the time and instead nodded, smiled stiffly, and walked out. God, I hated how teachers played around with the word 'depression' like it was a fucking ping pong tournament. They threw it back and forth like they knew what they were talking about, like there were absolutely no depressed kids in the entire school. They didn't realize they were only touching the tournament's board- they hadn't actually touched the net. But then, that's the point, isn't it? Pretend depression isn't actually real; pretend it's nothing more than a fairy tale. Pretend the net isn't really there. The boy was leaning against the wall next to the door, watching me closely and then glancing away. He didn't say anything, but then, he didn't need to. He just started walking. And for some reason, I followed.