Chapter 1: Kindergarten

It was odd.

Dean Winchester had looked like a troublemaker from the beginning- he'd been wearing a leather jacket and had a militaristic haircut, and had simply stepped out of a black muscle car without so much as a backwards glance, unlike the other kindergartners, who shrieked at the mere thought of being left behind by their equally teary-eyed parents. He hadn't said goodbye to the driver, and he hadn't been escorted in, only dropped off. Who drops their kid off without a goodbye on the first day of kindergarten?

Everything about the child had depicted Dean to be one of those kids- the ones who was constantly yanking girls' braids or making fun of the smaller kids or ripping up projects during arts and crafts.

And yet, the first thing that he had said to the teacher was, "Hi, are you Mrs. Rexton?" his big green eyes had studied her, and a toothy grin spread across his face as he reached a chubby toddler hand out.

At first, Mrs. Rexton had been surprised- what four year old offers a handshake?- but after a second, she had smiled and confirmed her name. "Yes, and what's your name, sweetie?"

"I'm Dean Winchester," he'd informed her somewhat proudly.

That was three days ago. Now, Mrs. Rexton has been watching him. He's unnervingly observant for a child. Whenever he enters a room, he scans it, as if trying to find some potential threat hidden in the confines of the kindergarten.

For another thing, he never screams and plays like the other children. He doesn't associate with his classmates much, usually preferring to color by himself in a corner.

Dean isn't unfriendly when the other kids approach him, but his sentences are quick, concise; the only word to describe him is tolerant. He doesn't like the other students, he tolerates them. He doesn't enjoy conversing, he tolerates it. He doesn't appreciate anything about school, it seems: he simply tolerates it. That bothers Mrs. Rexton, because four year olds don't tolerate- they cry, and scream, and complain, and fuss if they don't like something. They don't silently sit in a corner and deal with it.

Noticing his dedication to drawing, Mrs. Rexton decides to do an artistic activity, hoping she can use it as a way to better understand the quiet boy.

"Alright, class, how many of you are afraid of something?"

The children all raise their hands, shouting out their fears- except for Dean. He silently puts his arm up, a haunted look crossing his young face. It's an expression that has no right to be associated with a toddler, and she wonders briefly what could possibly have put it there.

Mrs. Rexton beams at her students. "Wonderful! Settle down, now," she instructs gently before continuing. "Now, most of you like to draw, right? Well, today we're going to draw what we're most afraid of! Maybe it will help you be less scared of it, and wouldn't that be exciting?"

The class cheers, except for Dean, who warily absorbs this information before making his way to the supply table, which holds paper and drawing materials. He gets to work without saying a word, while the other kids chatter excitedly about what they're going to draw.

Mrs. Rexton makes her way around the table, stopping a few times to give praise or ideas. When she reaches Dean's seat, she stops cold. He's drawing a blonde woman with red scribbles on her stomach, presumably blood or an injury. Her hair is billowing around her, and her limbs are splayed out, her mouth a black circle, gaping open in a silent scream. Dean is drawing blazes of red, orange, and yellow around her- it looks like fire.

"Now, what's this?" Mrs. Rexton gets out, forcing a smile on her face as she looks down at the young boy.

"It's the night my mommy died," he explains quietly, not looking up.

The teacher's heart stops- she's taught children with deceased parents, of course, but not without a notification beforehand telling her to be careful around the subject.

"I'm sorry, sweety. When did that happen?" She prods, even though she shouldn't ask.

"Four months ago," he responds innocently, and Mrs. Rexton's heart clenches in sympathy- she hadn't realized it was so recent.

"Well, you're very brave for handling it so well," she tells him, and she means it.

"S'not like I had a choice," he mutters.

Mrs. Rexton finally notices his newest addition to the drawing- a small figure holding a flaming bundle in his arms.

"What's that?" She asks.

"That's me, holding Sammy. But, see, he's on fire here 'cause that's my biggest fear- not getting him out in time," he explains.

"What do you mean?" the teacher questions.

"I carried him out of the fire, 'cause it happened in his nursery and he's little so he can't run like me. So Daddy gave him to me and told me to run and get him out, so I did and he tried to get Mommy but he couldn't 'cause she was burning."

Mrs. Rexton looks at her student in shock, hating the matter-of-fact way he says it. This sounds like the stuff of nightmares, not something a kid should have to deal with. "I'm so sorry, honey," she says sympathetically.

"You sound like Mommy," Dean tells her quietly. For the first time, he looks up at her, and she sees his eyes are glistening with unshed tears. "I miss her."

"I know, sweetheart," she tells him kindly. "But you know what I think?"

"What?"

"I think she'd be really proud of you."

"Daddy says he thinks she would be, too. But he says we can't know whether she'd be proud or not 'cause she's dead, and the only way to make her really proud would be to avenge her by killing what killed her," Dean responds.

This admission startles her, and she chokes out, "What do you mean, kill what killed her? Didn't she die in a fire?"
"Daddy says I'm not s'posed to talk about it, 'cause he might get in trouble, but you seem nice. I trust you," he starts with a smile that would have been heartwarming in any other context. "She died in a fire, but only 'cause someone cut her stomach open and lit the house on fire 'cause she owed them something from a long time ago. Daddy says that he's glad they didn't take Sammy, too, but he wants us to get revenge so we can make her happy and she can be at peace and she won't be sad that she's dead anymore."

Mrs. Rexton is starting to get a sick understanding of what Dean is talking about: his father is mentally i'll, possibly violently so. "Dean, honey, has your daddy ever hurt you?" She asks gently.

"Only when we're training, but it's not 'cause he's mean. It's only so I can be strong so I can fight the real bad guys and be a hero like him!" He beams up at Mrs. Rexton, pride for his dad shining in his gaze.

"How does he… train you?"

"It changes when we hunt different stuff. For demons, he helps me fight with punching and stuff. That hurts sometimes, but it helps me be a good fighter, so it's okay! If it's for stuff like werewolves, he helps me practice shooting. He teaches me different things for different monsters, so I know a lot of stuff!"

"Listen, sweetheart," she begins kindly, "I would love to meet your daddy. Do you think you could ask him to come in for a meeting?" In reality, Mrs. Rexton wants to call CPS, but she needs to meet the dad first and make sure it's not just a story spun from the mind of a four year old. Still, you can't really say that to a toddler, so she wants to give Dean the illusion of just wanting to talk to his dad.

"Yeah!" Dean agrees enthusiastically. "I'll ask him after school!" He sounds overwhelmingly excited, and Mrs. Rexton feels a wave of guilt for her lies. However, if he is being hurt by his dad, it's her responsibility to do her best to keep him safe.

The next day at school, Mrs. Rexton waits expectantly for Dean to show up with his father's answer. However, the boy never appears. That's odd, she thinks. He's never missed school before, let alone without a note.

Dean doesn't show up for the next three days. Finally, on the fourth day, Mrs. Rexton receives a note that Dean Winchester has transferred schools. This only fuels her belief that he is being abused- why else would his father take him out at the request of a conference? Still, there's no longer anything Mrs. Rexton can do. She will never see the toddler again.

The teacher tries her hardest not to think about the boy with the sandy blonde hair, the brilliant green eyes, the dead-beat dad and the just-plain-dead mother. All the same, in all her years of teaching, she never quite forgets him.