Because I received some complaints for this in my other story: Zeus = Dean, Elaine = Metis
Disclaimer: This story belongs to me. Mythology is a gift from our ancestors to us and was never meant to belong to a corporation or copyright, so I guess the original myth kind of belongs to me too. And you.
Enjoy.
"I killed me own dad with these hands," says his father, holding up his gigantic fists. They reek of sweat and blood and alcohol. "What makes ye think I can't kill ye as well, eh? Eh?"
He isn't slurring; he's never been that kind of drunk, his dad. Dean has to remind himself to be afraid. The fear is lost somewhere under the anger, hot and rising with every breath.
His little brothers and sisters, he knows, are watching from their shadowy hiding spots. Bruises fade fast for Dean, but his siblings are not so lucky. He lets the first blow hit him across the cheek. It'll be gone by morning, some removed part of Dean thinks cynically. Old man's going soft in his age.
Doesn't hit as hard as he used to.
Getting weak.
Dean woke with a shock, gulping air. Fearful of waking his wife, he checked his breathing immediately-but Elaine didn't stir. Relieved, he settled down again, touching her abdomen. He couldn't quite believe there was a month to go before birth, given her size. A big baby, probably, but he wouldn't know. All his siblings had been premature. It ran in the family.
Lots of things ran in the family, up to and including child abuse. His grandfather had beaten his father, and his father had beaten him-it was his fear, a fear he dared not give voice to, that Dean would be the same.
He didn't sleep: he knew how the dream ended, and there are some things that should only be seen once.
"You look like you haven't slept all night," said Elaine cheerfully the next morning. "Keep it up, it'll be good practice for when we're parents."
"Dear, don't remind me." Dean scraped some omelet onto her plate. "I slept fine."
"Liar."
"Nag."
Her gray eyes sparkled. "Something's troubling you, I can see it in your big Irish eyes," she teased. "If it's about the pregnancy, Doctor Samson said we could come in any time. I'm sure he could recommend someone."
"I don't think so. Have to go, see you at lunch." He stood hurriedly and grabbed his coat.
"Goodbye," said Elaine, sounding uncertain.
"We're eating with my parents tomorrow," said Elaine serenely when they met for lunch.
"What, again?"
"Every month, Dean. They'll be here at five, so get home early."
Dean made a noncommittal noise. "I might have a few things at work. It's the boss, you know. Hates me."
"Fibber. We've had dinner at his house thrice."
"Termagant."
"Shiftless."
"Er. Shrew?"
Elaine patted his cheek. "Don't strain yourself, hon." She made a sudden face of discomfort. "No, don't get up," she said to Dean. "It's just the baby kicking. Strong little boy," she added fondly. "Like his father."
Dean shivered, suddenly, for no reason at all.
The blows were getting softer, his father tiring. Already? says a little voice. Old man's past his prime.
Dean ducks under a slow fist and grins while he does it-he shouldn't, but it slips out anyway. It's better by far to stand and take it; to do anything else was to goad his father, and sure enough, rage beyond reason flares in his father's eyes. A killing rage. For some reason beyond Dean's ken, his father will kill him tonight.
Kill him first, whispers the voice, and sixteen years of compressed rage roars in answer. Kill him first-
And he did.
Screaming his father's death cry, Dean bolted awake. Elaine scrabbled to his side.
"Dean? What's wrong?"
"I was only sixteen," he gabbled, breathing fast. "What was I supposed to do? He'd been beating me every day of me life, and I…" he trailed off. "It's okay," he said to Elaine, although it wasn't. "I'm okay."
"Dean-"
"I'm sleeping on the couch tonight," he said, leaving. In truth, he did not sleep at all.
Two nights without sleep abruptly caught him up at work and once again Dean is sixteen, looking at his father's dead body while his brothers and sisters stare, shocked. "Be quiet," he says. "Tom, get the shovel. We should bury him."
It was his expression he couldn't forget; more than the feel of sweaty skin under his hands, more than the last, despairing cry he made, he remembered that look of resignation, as if he knew he would die as his own father had, at the hands of his son.
Dean looks at his father's dead face again. It is his own.
"I've pressed your suit for you," said Elaine. "Pick whichever tie, as long as it's not that hideous green one."
He didn't move.
"Well? My parents will be here soon."
"Do you think I'd be a good father?" he asked suddenly.
"What? Yes, of course!" Elaine looked at him. "Is this about your dream last night?" He said nothing, and she continued. "You're not like your father, Dean. You're not."
"But I am," he said calmly. "He killed his father, and I killed him. Sixteen years old, and I killed him. Buried him out back with my brothers. Never told you this part of my past, did I? Patricide and child abuse, Elaine, it runs in the family." He looked at her. "It won't happen again. My son won't live that life, and I won't die that way."
She licked her lips nervously. "Dean? Stop scaring me," she said, gray eyes wide, and then his hands were around her throat, squeezing the life out of her and their son.
He was still standing over her body when the police came. The paramedics rushed in a bare moment later.
"We can still save the baby," said one, and Dean started. They cut into his wife's stomach in a wide arc while police struggled to hold him back, and from her dead body was pulled a warm living infant, who drew her first breath and screamed her vitality to the world.
A daughter.
Laughter, or perhaps sobs, bubbled up from his throat, and he fell on his knees. Even in the dim light of the evening he could see his daughter had Elaine's dark gray eyes, wise and clear.
AN: I wrote this for a Latin project two years ago and just now thought to put it out here. Truthfully, this is sort of a bone I'm throwing to the people who are waiting for Descent to update (all two of you are very sweet). Just to make things clear: this story and Descent are in NO WAY connected save that they are both modern takes on ancient stories. For fans of Descent: first of all, you confuse me so much. Second of all, a recent review lit a fire under my ass to resume writing that beast, Chapter 5, and it's not like I have anything important to do anyway. You might actually see an update before you die.
The rest of you, my profound thanks for reading. Reviewing is a pain, but I would be grateful for a few kind words if you liked the story.