Another story about Dean. Sorry, I just can't help myself. Maybe it's Jensen Ackles fault. Either way, here you go.
Disclaimer: Disclaimed. Supernatural is not mine. The story is.
1285 days since Mary died.
"Did your father make those bruises?"
Dean's third grade teacher asks, leaning against her desk with arms crossed. Her expression is a mixture of affection and protectiveness, and all Dean can think is: she's nice, but he'll be gone in a week or two. Is it bad that he can't remember her name?
Dean almost says 'yes'. The words almost spill out, the stories hovering on his lips far to long to be anything but sad. But he remembers John. Sam. And he slams his mouth closed and shakes his head carefully.
His head still aches from the tossing he took from that angry spirit three nights ago, not that he would ever admit that to his father. Or his teacher, for that matter. Even walking hurts today, the bruises on his right arm and leg hurt more than a nine year old should ever hurt.
When Dean looks up, the teacher's still staring.
"No. I fell in the parking lot."
When Dean gets home, he tells John that people have started asking questions. He packs the Impala himself, and sits in the backseat with Sam on the way out of town, instead of calling shotgun.
13 days since Dean turned ten.
They're in Loveland, Colorado. A view of the mountains from their small motel room. John leaves with a duffel full of ammunition, and a sawed-off shotgun over his shoulder. He leaves with familiar words: a speech Dean has memorized. Lock the doors, take care of Sammy. Shoot first.
And then Dean's voice, still small with youth: Don't shoot back. Maybe life will always be like this, Dean isn't sure.
Dean shakes his thoughts away with a bob of his head, and makes dinner for Sam. The kid's getting sick of beans and the soup Dean buys in the cans, and he complains more than he deserves. Dean doesn't mind that much. He can't ever bother enough to get mad at his only company. Maybe one day Sam will understand the way he feels.
When Dean goes to the grocery store the next day to search for Lucky Charms, the pretty cashier with a blonde ponytail asks how old he is.
"Twelve." Dean answers with a straight face. The blonde nods like he's not lying.
47 days since John left to hunt the poltergeist.
When Sam is ten, he asks Dean if they can run away.
Eyes on the Iowa plains that surround the abandoned cabin, Dean wants to agree. Out here, its easy to forget who you are, and what you have to do. John's been gone for a month and a half, and as the older brother, Dean wonders if he should be planning a funeral.
"Did Dad leave forever?" Sam asks, small hands clutching his green cup filled with apple juice. Dean had stole the bottle last week without getting caught, and, when he thinks of it, it sends a jolt of pride through him that should be guilt. They're sitting on the back steps and there's a sunset that makes Dean forget about the supernatural that comes out at night.
Dean doesn't know the answer. "Probably not, Sammy."
"I'll pack up your stuff, for you. We can leave tonight." Sam pleads, as if this promise will change Dean's mind. The brother's clothes have become so shuffled, they wear each other's now. Dean knows John doesn't like that he is small for his age.
"We can't leave a man behind, remember Sam? Those are the rules." Dean remembers, even if Sammy doesn't, because John never plays by any rules but his own.
"Dad left us behind." Sam says with a sigh that makes him sound older than he really is. Dean knows the kid is to smart: much smarter than him anyway.
Dean's eyes travel past Sam, past the cabin and the sunset, out over to where the grass meets the orange sky. He closes his eyes. "He'll come back Sammy. He loves you too much."
389 days since John gave Dean the Impala.
"Happy birthday Sammy!" Dean yells, leaning over his younger brother's bed, before sitting down and bouncing on the edge just to piss him off.
"Don't call me Sammy." Sam grumbles, hazel eyes hidden by his floppy hair. Sam's just starting to realize that boys are not the only creatures that walk the Earth. In fact, he almost smiled at their pretty waitress yesterday without blushing.
"Grumpy." Dean mutters in return, still keeping the grin plastered to his face.
John almost smiles over his coffee. He's reading the newspaper, and while Dean flips to Sports, and Sam to the News, surely their father is reading the Obituaries.
"We've got a job in New Orleans, boys." John mutters before Sam can say anything to the present that rests on the edge of the bed. It's wrapped in a paper grocery bag, tied up with leather, but Dean can still see the gleam of anticipation in his younger brother's eyes.
Sam groans and rolls from under the blankets, and Dean tackles him before he makes it three feet from the bed. "I have to punch you fifteen times! It's good luck." Dean explains, when his little brother starts to struggle. Dean's always been the better fighter, but Sam is almost taller now, so Dean starts hitting before Sam can escape.
Sam starts straining against him, unable to hold in his rumbling laugh. "Dean, stop. Stop." But when Sam laughs like that, Dean can't stop laughing too.
58 days since Sam got accepted into Stanford.
Sam's been moody lately, trapped inside his head more than normal. Dean can't help but stare when anger creeps onto his normally calm features. John found the acceptance letter two weeks ago, and has been more strict than usual, something that doesn't help Sam's restlessness.
"It's good to see your remembering what your job is." John says, haughtily when Sam finds a potential job in Boston.
Sam's face closes off like the slamming of a door.
Dean doesn't know how Dad can be so blind, because Sam still has California in his eyes, and Dean just hopes its him that keeps him there.
Sam glares at John when he turns around to gather his jacket and guns from the corner table of the old motel room they've been staying at.
The only thing that keeps Dean here is Sam and John and maybe the red-head bartender at the joint up the street. The days are filled with the extractions and interviews of the victim's families in the area. And the nights are filled with tangled sheets. Carissa has a fondness for men and whiskey.
Dean takes a load out to the car: his duffel, Sam's leather suitcase. A bag of guns. A bag of food. When he turns away from the Impala, back through the motel's front doors, he hears the screaming.
The sound nearly blasts his ears out when he opens the door with the small gold key.
"I'm leaving Dad! You can't keep me here." Sam's voice is deeper than usual, filled with fury he learned from his father.
John's voice is low, dangerous, surprisingly empty. "If you walk out that door, don't come back-"
Sam's outside before John stops talking. He doesn't stop to say goodbye.
The world is filled with days, moments, memories. Sam's always been the one that's good with math, but Dean can count. Sam left for sweet California 21 days ago...and 14 hours. If Dean was sober enough, he might be able to tell you the minutes. Maybe even the seconds.
But he can always count the memories. Of the days he left behind.
In case you were wondering, the italizized words were for the paragraph below. The site kept changing my formatting, sorry. Thanks for reading.
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