Okay, so this fic is heavily based on The Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller (Incidentally the best book in the world. Seriously. Go read it.) but I've reworked it to fit Dean and Cas. The story is set in the US rather than Greece and I am very sorry if there are any inconsistencies. Give me a shout if you find any!

The chapters are going to vary in length quite a lot, so updates will likely be a little sporadic.

I've also made a playlist to go with this fic. It's on 8tracks and you'll find me there under the same name if you want music to accompany this story.


My father was a hunter, a hunter of monsters and all the creatures you fear emerging from the dark. But he wasn't always that. He married my mother Mary not long after high school; they were the neighborhood's typical teen sweethearts. They hated each other during their first semester, but one day they bumped into each other in the hallway and poof; it was like they'd just surfaced from an ocean current they hadn't realized they were swept up in.

My grandpa didn't like him. My mother's family was very closely knit and secretive and my grandpa didn't trust easily; it wasn't until years later that I actually found out why. He didn't approve of their relationship, but my mother was stubborn and hell bent on escaping the life she'd been born into. In an accident my father never knew the truth about, my grandparents both died. My mother didn't want to waste anymore time or risk losing anyone else, so not long after that, my parents got married.

When I was born, my parents were thrilled. My mother stared down at me and pressed a kiss to my forehead. "Angels are watching over you, Dean." She whispered, her eyes sparkling as they met my father's. I was named after my grandmother, Deanna. I filled the hole that had been gaping in my mother's heart ever since her loss. I was a glimmer of hope.

Quickly, I grew into a troublemaker. I was cheeky and playful and boisterous and my parents found it difficult to keep up with me. We were a normal family and we were happy in our little idyll suburban life in Lawrence, Kansas. My parents fought sometimes and my dad had a habit of storming out in a rage, but I was always there to take care of my mom. I figured as long as I always loved her, she would always be okay.

I am four when my brother Samuel is born. My parents look slightly older, the creases in their foreheads and the crinkles of their eyes are slightly more prominent and deeply embedded in their skin. I sit beside my mother on the bed and look down in wonder at the small bundle she holds in her arms and when I look up at my father, his eyes are shiny with tears. "This is your little brother, Dean." He says softly. "You're a big boy now. You've gotta help us look after little Sammy." I felt it in my chest, that responsibility, that pride blooming because my dad was trusting me to help take care of this tiny human being.

I remember exactly six months later when I was shocked awake by the sound of my mother's scream. I remember sitting tangled in my favorite blanket, my body trembling as I listened to the loud thuds of my father's feet as he leapt up the stairs. I remember rubbing tiredly at my eyes as I got up and opened my bedroom door to see what was wrong. I remember my dad pushing Sammy into my arms and shouting, "Take your brother outside as fast as you can. Don't look back. Now Dean. Go!"

Besides that moment, most of the night is nothing but a ménage of smells, sirens, people and too much heat. But one thing always remained crystal clear in my mind. Blue, blue, cerulean eyes. It was dark, besides the hazy, burning light blaring angrily from the embers of my childhood home, but I could still see the eyes of the boy with the dark, tousled hair who wore a pair of green pyjamas covered in little yellow and black bumblebees. His face was cast in the glow of the flickering flames, an almost halo appearing around his messy head. He looked cold with his arms folded and his hands tucked in his armpits. He looked over at me for a second and I watched in an almost trance as his head slowly tilted to the side, his eyes squinting to the point where they were almost closed. And then the tall man beside him placed a hand on the boy's shoulder and turned him away, and that was all I ever saw of him. I didn't know what his presence there meant. None of us did. But it was the beginning of something far greater than my five year-old self could possibly comprehend. It was the beginning of the end.