Hey y'all! So this is my first fanfiction attempt in a while; I was thinking about what happened right after Mary died and how it affected Dean. The story will feature Bobby, Caleb, John, Sam, and maybe Pastor Jim. Please, read and review!

Dean's six, Sam is two.

"Why don't you talk?"

Dean stood at the water table in his first grade classroom, floating a toy ship on top of the water. It was recess; Dean had decided to avoid the playground. Whenever he went outside and tried to play alone, other kids would approach him. At first they wanted to play; but when they tried to talk to him and he didn't reply, they said mean things.

"I bet he's too stupid to talk. Probably never learned."

"Only babies don't talk."

"Maybe the reason you don't have a mommy is because she left when she saw you were stupid."

Dean ignored these comments; these kids were the stupid ones. They hadn't seen what he had seen; they didn't know what he knew. If they did, they wouldn't talk either. They wouldn't sleep at night either. They would be just as scared as he was.

The girl who asked the question today wasn't one of the bullies; she was a new girl in the school. She sat in the seat next to him; they had shared crayons earlier during art.

"My name is McKenzie," she'd announced as she reached for the orange crayon. "What's your name?"

Dean hadn't answered, of course-he never did. Instead, he grabbed the yellow crayon and colored in the sun on his picture. He refused to look up; he didn't want to see any more sneering faces, any people who believed that they were smarter than him just because he didn't want to speak.

Dean reached for the peach crayon and started to draw his mother. His mom had known that he was smart-she had read with him every night and helped him learn how to write and add, even though he was only four. She had told him every night that he was her little man, her smart little professor, and he had loved it.

He used to talk. Back when his mom was alive, he loved to talk. He would ask questions and tell jokes and even read books to Sammy, his baby brother. Sammy had been really little back then-he couldn't even walk. Now, his brother was getting bigger, and he was learning how to do the talking for the both of them.

"Your name is Dean, right?" McKenzie asked him, snapping him out of his reverie. Dean looked up at her and raised an eyebrow. "The other kids say that you're stupid. I don't believe them. I saw your addition test and you got all them right. That's not stupid."

Dean knew he wasn't stupid. He could read chapter books and add two-digit numbers and do everything any other first grader could, and more. How many other first graders could shoot a rifle? How many other first graders knew how to keep vengeful spirits away? How many first graders could protect themselves from demons and everything else that walked through the night?

Dean kept playing at the water table, all but ignoring McKenzie. The little girl picked up a pail and began to collect the water and dump it back into the table. Dean watched his toy boat bob up and down in the waves for a moment, before turning and walking away.

SPN~SPN~SPN

Later that night, Dean sat in the kitchen of the home the Winchesters were renting, watching Sammy finger paint. Sammy was two now, and Dean's favorite person in the entire world-mostly because Sam didn't ask him for anything. He didn't care if Dean talked-he just wanted his brother to be by his side, always ready to play.

John watched his boys from the doorway, his arms folded over his chest. A half-smile played on his lips; he loved how well his boys got along. Dean was always there for Sam, ready to protect him, and Sam was beginning to speak up for Dean when he needed it. At two years old, Sam Winchester was just beginning to speak in full sentences-and it was exciting for all of them.

John remembered the days when Dean had begun to speak. As a toddler, the boy had been lively-his first word had been "no", quickly followed by "nap". John used to look forward to hearing his son's voice as soon as he walked into the house after work; Dean would run to him and ask how his day had been, just before begging him to take him to the park. Most often, Dean got his way-he, John, Mary, and later Sam would amble over to the playground every night in the spring. Mary would hold Sam and watch while John push Dean on the swings or taught Dean how to throw a football.

Dean's voice had been so vibrant in those days; he had been an animated little man, talking a mile a minute. John would kill to hear that voice just one more time.

Dean hadn't said a word since the night of the fire. The last time John had heard his son speak was when he had handed six-month-old Sammy to him and told Dean to run and not look back. At first, the doctors had believed Dean's sudden mutism had a physiological basis-ash in the airway. But as days had turned into weeks, they had revised their hypothesis-selective mutism as a result of trauma. They had recommended therapy. John had sent Dean for a couple weeks, but then he had quit his job to find the thing that had murdered his wife, stolen Dean's mother away from him, and caused his son's condition. Hunting didn't come with health insurance; Dean seemed relieved when John had pulled him out of therapy anyway. John had been confident that Dean would soon begin talking.

It had been a year and a half of silence.

"Hey boys, you hungry?" John asked his children, ruffling Dean's hair as he walked into the room. Dean's eyes lit up, and he looked up at his father with a smile. His father made him feel safe and loved.

"Ya, Daddy!" Sam exclaimed, waving a paint-covered hand in the air. John grabbed a hand towel and wiped the toddler's hand off, but not before Sam managed to leave a handprint on John's shirt. John sighed, but then smiled-he loved these kinds of moments with his boys.

"What do you want for dinner, Dean?" John asked. He didn't expect a verbal answer, but he liked to keep Dean included; eventually, the boy would speak again, and John would keep giving him the opportunity until he did.

Dean walked over to the refrigerator, pulled out a package of hot dogs, and handed them to his father. He contorted his face into an expression that was supposed to look pleading; John laughed.

"Hot dogs it is, Ace," John replied to his son, walking over to the stove. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sam place a hand in the green paint before touching Dean's cheek. Dean smiled at his brother and kissed him on the forehead.

Despite all that the Winchester family had been through, John knew that he was lucky to have these boys; they were all that kept him from falling to pieces. He just wished Mary could be there to see how beautiful her sons truly were.

SPN~SPN~SPN

Dean could hear his mom screaming. At first, he was confused. He stayed in bed for a moment-but then he heard his Daddy, and his Daddy never yelled. Something was wrong.

His eyes opened, and he jumped out of bed. He ran down the hallway towards the sound of the screaming. Just before he walked into Sammy's room, he could feel heat; but then, he saw the fire.

And then he saw Mommy.

She was hanging on the ceiling, her face frozen in horror. Flames surrounded her; blood poured out of an open gash on her stomach. Her eyes were open, but they weren't moving-Dean wanted to scream, but he couldn't.

His daddy was in front of him, and Dean felt a rush of relief. His daddy was strong. He could fix anything. "Daddy!"

But when he turned around, he looked scared. "Take your brother and don't look back. Now, Dean!"

Dean took his brother in his arms and ran, away from the fire, away from Mommy on the ceiling, away from anything that could hurt him; he was so close to the door-

But then, a wall of flames shot up, and Dean was trapped in the fire, trapped with the monsters, unable to escape.

Dean Winchester awoke with a start; he sat up and screamed, horrified. He wasn't calmed when he realized it was a dream, because he knew it would happen again. It wasn't the first time that he had had this nightmare; he'd been having them since the fire. Sometimes he would get out, but his daddy would be trapped. Other times, he would be the one on the ceiling. They were always terrifying, and he never got any relief.

Dean's bedroom door was thrown open, and his Dad rushed into the room in his pajamas. Dean threw off his comforter and ran to his father. John crouched down and wrapped his frightened six-year-old in a hug.

"It's okay, Dean, Daddy's here," John reassured the child. John hated these nightmares with a passion; they happened at least once every couple of weeks, and they left Dean even more scared then he typically was.

Dean looked up at his father with tears in his eyes, hiccupping quietly; John held tight to Dean, hoping that it provided some measure of comfort. Dean was shaking in his arms, as if he wasn't convinced that it had just been a nightmare, as if he were waiting for the flames to erupt.

"Hey, Dean-do you want Sammy?" John asked, trying to sound cheerful. "We can go see Sammy."

Dean nodded and wiped the tears from his eyes. Only babies cry. He didn't want Sammy to start treating him like the kids at school treated him; Dean wasn't sure he would survive that.

John took Dean's hand and led him to Sam's bedroom, right across the hall. He opened the door gently and entered the room quietly, hoping to avoid waking the toddler up. Dean let go of John's hand and took a step forward, so he could see his little brother better.

Sam was fast asleep in the bed, clutching the teddy bear Dean had bought him for his birthday. His brown hair was sticking up in all directions, and he was sprawled out diagonally across the bed; he looked comfortable, as if he didn't have a care in the world. Dean smiled; Sammy was safe. That was all that mattered.

"You want to stay in here, Dean?" John whispered. "I can go get your blanket and your pillows.

Dean looked back at his father and nodded. John headed back to his son's room to grab bedding. As he looked around Dean's room, he was filled with grief. Grief over losing his wife, grief over losing his outgoing, cheerful son, grief over losing his sense of security and almost everything he had believed to be true.

After a moment, that grief turned to anger. Seething, white-hot anger. John was pissed. He was pissed at the thing that had done all of this to his family, the thing that had stolen his life from him. John wanted nothing more than to kill it.

John knew he was going to have to make some changes; it was time for him to really learn to hunt. He'd had some training with a pastor in Blue Earth, Minnesota, but nothing intensive. That pastor-Jim Murphy-had given him the number for a guy in South Dakota, a real expert. He'd avoided making the call for the past year, justifying the delay with Dean's condition. He couldn't go anywhere when his son was so vulnerable-Dean needed him. But John knew he couldn't wait any longer.

John marched to the kitchen, Dean's pillow and blanket in his arms. He reached for the tattered piece of paper that Jim had written the number on; he dialed it carefully on the phone. It rang three times before going to voicemail.

"Singer Salvage Yard. Leave your message, and I'll get back to ya."

"My name is John Winchester," John began, his voice quiet. "I'm a friend of Jim Murphy's. I'm looking for a hunting buddy; give me a call back at 498-276-1943."

A sense of relief washed over John when he hang over the phone; he had done it. He had made the first step to finding the thing that had taken his Mary away from him. He would capture and kill it, and finally be able to tell his oldest son that they were safe.

John walked back to the bedroom, ready to tuck Dean into bed. But when he entered the room, he saw that Dean was in Sam's bed, curled up next to his brother's slumbering form. All traces of anxiety had faded from his little face, and he was sleeping peacefully. John smiled, walked across the room, and kissed both of his boys on the forehead.

The Winchesters were going to be okay. John was going to make sure of it.