Summary: Third new school this year and Dean knows nothing's going to change. That is, until he meets a first grader on the playground named Sam. There's just something about the kid that makes Dean want to tell him the truth.

A/N: This is a (sort of) rewrite of my earlier story, Dean Lies. It follows Dean through the events leading up to that story, so it's also sort of a prequel? Either way, this fic is a stand-alone. A 'companion piece' is probably a better word for it. It's compliments my other story, but you don't have to read it to understand. Now that I'm done confusing you... This was written in response to the song "Alyssa Lies" by Jason Michael Carroll. Thanks to pryde23 for asking that I continue.

WARNING: Contains depictions of child abuse. May contain triggering material.

Read on...


Why Dean Lies


1. Monday


Dean picked at the tear in his pant leg while he waited for the bus.

McKinley Elementary was his third new school this year. He was halfway done with the fifth grade, but in those six years of elementary, he'd been transferred around over a dozen times through five different districts. He stood on the sidewalk, watching the bus turn the corner to pick him up, and knew that there wouldn't be anything different about this school.

Dean stepped onto the bus, blatantly ignoring the bus driver's attempt at a greeting. He chose a seat near the front and sat with his knees up on the seat in front of him, just watching the houses blur past the window until they reached the school.

Like the bus, the school was loud. Rowdy children ran in circles, yelling and screaming and yelping and calling while they played with each other. Dean rolled his eyes and scanned the playground for a quiet spot to sit. His leg didn't hurt so much that he couldn't walk on it, but he didn't want anyone asking about his limp.

No one seemed to want to play around the swing set, preferring to run in the field and chase each other around, so Dean sunk down onto the ground, looking at a set of tires to his left that he could only guess the use for. Why would anyone want to play with tires?

"Hi, I'm Sam."

Dean startled at the voice, high and trilling even though there was no mistaking the kid for anything but a boy. About a thousand years younger and only half as cute as Dean, the kid watched him with curiosity. "Go away," Dean said.

"There's bees over here," Sam informed him.

Dean looked at him curiously.

"That's why no one's playing. It's 'cause of the bees. They're s'posed to take them out tomorrow." Sam smiled, obviously proud of himself for helping, but Dean didn't care.

"I said, go away. Leave me alone, kid."

"Are you scared?" Sam asked, and Dean had enough experience to know that he wasn't teasing.

"What?"

"Mr. Bowen says that when people don't wanna be your friend it's 'cause they're scared. What are you scared of?"

Dean grimaced. "I ain't scare of nothing," he growled.

Sam's smile was so wide that Dean thought his cheeks would crack. "Then you wanna play with me on the swings?" he asked.

Dean scoffed. "Thought you said there were bees."

"Yep. Lots of 'em."

Dean sighed. "Then go over there and play with the other kids," Dean said, waving him off toward the other side of the field.

"No. I wanna play here."

Sam wasn't making any sense, not that Dean expected a kindergartener to make any sense. They were still practically babies after all. There was only so much they could think before their brains turned to mush. "Idiot," he mumbled.

Sam pursed his lips and set his hands on his hips. "That's not a nice word. Mr. Bowen says that you're not s'posed to call people names that they don't like, 'specially if they're not nice words."

"Yeah?" Dean challenged. "Well Mr. Bowen sounds like an idiot."

Dean expected him to cry or get mad, maybe even both. He didn't expect the kid to laugh.

"That's what Joey said once," Sam explained through his grin. "He got in lots of trouble, but everyone laughed 'cause it was funny. You're funny," he said, surprising Dean once again. "I like you."

Something warmed in Dean's chest, something he'd already decided that he wanted to keep cold as ice, but he couldn't help it. The kid—who was still pretty much a baby, by the way—was hard not to like.

"Wanna play on the swings with me?" Sam asked.

"I can't play with a kindergartener. That's stupid."

"I'm in first grade. Not kindergarten. So it's okay, right?"

Dean shook his head. "You don't get it. I'm a fifth grader. You're too little to play with me."

"Mr. Bowen says that it doesn't matter if you're a boy or a girl or big or small or anything. We can all be friends at school." But Sam's eyes were filling with tears and his chin was trembling in a way that had Dean wanting to keep the look off of his face.

He hated that he'd made the kid sad. Just because he was miserable didn't mean that Sam should be too.

"Okay," Dean relented.

"What?"

"I said, okay. Let's play on the swings."

Sam's smile was as small as Dean's, but it was there, and that something in his chest warmed again at the sight of it. Even if he got stung by a bee while playing with the stupid first grader, it would probably even be worth it.

"You okay?" Sam asked, sitting on his own swing and kicking his legs back and forth while Dean walked to the swing beside him.

"Yeah," Dean said. "I'm awesome."

"You sure? 'Cause you're walking funny."

"I, uh… I fell," he lied.

"Oh."

That was all they said while they swung on the swing set, pushing themselves higher and higher until the bell rang to signal the beginning of school.


Dean stared at the floor in horror, watching the beer spread out in a large puddle toward the living room.

"Dean! Where's my beer?" came the call from the couch.

"C –coming!" he stuttered, grabbing another bottle from the fridge and skipping over the spill on the floor. "Here, sir," Dean said. He handed his father the cold beer and watched him take a sip, praying that it wasn't too warm or too cold or that it wasn't the right one.

"Thanks."

Dean was stunned. Thanks. A smile broke out at the word while he stared at his father, drinking on the couch, watching the boxing match with rapt attention. Then the eyes glanced toward him.

"Why do you keep staring? Something interesting?"

Dean looked away.

"I asked you a question." Dean knew the tone.

"No. Nothing, sir."

"Then wipe that smirk off your face and go play or something."

Dean took the dismissal and went back into the kitchen, staring down at the mess on the floor. He grabbed the roll of paper towels and laid them out over the still-spreading beer, hoping to soak it up. Five, ten, fifteen paper towels and there was still more. How much liquid could one stupid bottle hold?

"What the hell is this?!"

Dean grimaced at the words, his arms falling to his sides in defeat. He wasn't fast enough. And now his father would know that he messed up. Again. "I accidentally spilled something," he admitted.

"Of course you did," his father scoffed. "And now I'm gonna have to spend the next half hour cleaning up after you. Isn't that just great?" he wondered sarcastically.

"I'll clean it," he offered, trying to make it better. He was always doing this, making his father mad.

"Yeah, a lot of good you're doing so far," he motioned to the haphazard array of paper towels. "Don't even know how to clean up your own damn mess. What the hell did you spill anyway?"

Dean swallowed hard. "Well, I was going to give you the bottle, but I accidentally tripped over the chair and when I fell, it rolled and was spilling it—"

"You spilled one of my beers?"

Dean nodded, ashamed.

"And instead of grabbing the damn mop, you just thought you'd waste a whole fucking roll of paper towels," he finished.

He nodded again. He'd completely forgotten about the mop. Stupid. Wasteful.

"You're just trying to piss me off now, aren't you?"

Dean shook his head. "No," he said. "I swear, it was an accident. And I didn't mean—"

"There's no way you can be this worthless. I send you in here for one lousy drink and you have to go and fuck it all up," his father said, voice rising.

Dean let the words wash over him. His father was right. He couldn't do anything. He couldn't even walk a freaking beer to the living room. Worthless.

"You're ten years old, Dean!" His father rolled up his sleeves and wrenched the paper towels from his hands.

Dean flinched, but didn't make a move otherwise. He deserved whatever he got.

"Go to your room. I don't wanna have to deal with you right now. I'm done."

Dean turned and ran up the stairs, nearly crying as he caught the tail end of his father's next words.

"Goddam ungrateful prick…"


A/N: Not all child abuse is physical. Emotional abuse and neglect hurt a child just as much as a physical wound, some would argue more so.