TRIGGER WARNINGS:
Mentions of abuse and neglect.
Please read at own discretion.
Chapter One:
A Paper Heart Homecoming
Here he was. Finally. He'd dreamed about this moment for years, but now it had arrived, sixteen-year-old Dean Henry Winchester wished he was anywhere except here. In a way it was a bit strange, it was something he'd desperately wanted for so long, yet he'd never expected it to actually happen. In one hand he carried a dark green, army duffel-bag, the worn-down sack containing everything he owned, the other hand, badly bandaged―his own handiwork of course―he cradled to his chest, though he still wasn't entirely sure he'd managed to get out all the little pieces of glass from when the empty beer bottle had shattered upon impact. It had only been two days since they'd come to take him, his father raging the whole time and violently throwing things when the two well dressed social workers had explained why Dean was being removed from his care. His father's violence had been beyond what Dean had ever seen before, it had been something akin to one of his nightmares, but there was relief tied to the memory too, though he still half believed it all a dream.
Except that was all in the past. Now, he was here, standing upon a wide porch in front of an unfamiliar house in the summer heat, an entirely different nightmare of confusion awaiting him.
A serious social worker stood beside him, a different one from those who'd taken him away from his dad and dumped him in that boys home for two weeks. Living there had been heaven in comparison to living with his dad, but he'd been told right from the beginning that this was going to happen eventually. He was always going to be dragged to this house to await his verdict and they'd simply ignored him when he'd pleaded them not to. He hadn't wanted to go through that familiar rejection, not again, not needlessly. They'd always brushed him off, saying his mother wasn't going to reject him or push him away, she loved him, she had to, but Dean had known their words held uncertainty. They just didn't want another kid in the system, and that was all he really was to anyone at this point. Honestly, he wasn't sure why he hadn't run away from the boys home, it had been a dog eat dog world behind the backs of the carers, but Dean had stayed, some tiny lingering thread of hope telling him to wait it out. He'd been constantly torn between wanting to leave the home and wanting to wait out the two weeks so he could finally get a proper answer. The issue now was that he was simply here to await a 'yes' or 'no', and he wasn't ready to deal with either of those answers, especially not from her.
His social worker's perfectly manicured hand was poised to knock on the soft pastel-blue door. She was dressed in a matching grey skirt and blouse with feet clad in lacquered tan shoes, red hair tied into a high bun. She was far more appropriately dressed for the summer heat than he was; he'd thrown on practically every piece of clothing he could find and stuffed the rest in his duffel bag, it hadn't mattered if it was dirty, covered in blood or smelled like alcohol, he wasn't leaving any more clothes behind. He didn't have many as it was and he'd stolen most of his clothes from thrift shops and poorly secured stores anyway, his dad certainly hadn't bought him any and he still vividly recalled the time he'd gotten a good sock to the gut when he'd stolen one of his father's shirts.
The woman next to him―Naomi, he'd learned her name was―rapped on the door three times, waiting until she heard the soft pad of shoes from within before she turned to the sixteen-year-old beside her, a quaint smile on her face that Dean couldn't help but feel was insincere. This was just her job. To his dad he was a source of income, to this lady he was part of her job. Once upon a time he'd been someone's child, but that notion had been brutally bashed out of his head long ago, mostly by his dad and his own self-hatred and doubt.
"Dean," she handed him a business card with her number printed on it, resting a cool, reassuring hand on his forearm, which he instinctually flinched at. "It's time."
He nodded, a huff of nerves extending his breath as he glanced hesitantly at the front door, the padding of soft shoes from inside getting ever closer. Quickly, he looked down, his eyes coming to focus on the little black numbers printed on Naomi's business card, already knowing that he'd never call her, not even if his situation became dire. He was never going back to another home, but this was going to be the first time he'd seen his mother in three years and Dean just didn't know what to do with that information. Were he a computer, he surely would've short-circuited by now, probably would've exploded like a hot-pocket left in the microwave for too long. How was he supposed to behave? What was expected of him in this situation? His mind saw only a fuzzy haze, like the black, white and grey that TV's made when you hit the wrong button.
He wasn't about to admit it aloud, but he was scared. Not the kind of fear he'd felt when his dad got a hold on him during a particularly nasty rage, but the kind he'd felt every time he'd picked up the phone and tried to call his mother or Sam. That fear of rejection, that twist of pain inside his gut. It was irrational, he knew that, because his mother had basically rejected him already, so what was the purpose of harbouring such false hope? It would only fall through again and he'd wind up back at square one. Yet still, it sat in his chest like a cocoon in a nest of wispy gold and no matter how hard he tried to squash it, it came back just as strong as before.
Naomi smiled at him again, her perfectly white teeth proving how much pride she placed on her appearance as Dean was struck by how familiar the whole scenario felt. Every time he'd run from home, some pretty little police woman had brought him back and told him to make peace with his father, and his dad was always standing there, always looking like the perfect father with his hair combed back, his face freshly shaven and teeth clean so there was no trace of gin on his breath. Dean had never been fooled though, not even once. Not when his gaze had looked upon his dad's smiling face, knowing that as soon as the door shut behind him, his head would go flying into something. Except, he wasn't at his dad's anymore, this time he was being dumped on his mom and, somehow, he was going to have to repress the knowledge that she didn't want him here. He was going to have to pretend that he didn't know she hadn't given him up so she could go live a peaceful, happy life with her other son, the one who didn't remind her of the man she'd once married and her failed relationship with him.
"Try to move forward with your life, okay?" Naomi continued, her smile widening minutely. "It's not good to hold onto the past."
Dean bit back the brutish reply that formed in his head and smiled bitterly, avoiding her gaze. He didn't need a pep-talk, he just needed to get out of this town and start his own life somewhere new, because it had been three years since his parents split and he was tired of living unwanted. After the papers had all been signed, his mother, Mary, had taken his little brother Sam, and his dad, John, had taken him. At thirteen he'd been assured by the both of them that he'd be able to visit his mother on the odd occasion and Sam would come over for visits, but it had taken less than six months for him to realise that all those words had just been empty promises and lies. John had become nothing more than a violent, raging alcoholic since he and Mary had divorced. He hadn't been able to hold a steady job down or manage even the smallest kind of schedule in his life, which only served to fuel his irrational, violent fury. His mother had promised to call him, but she never had. She'd promised to be there for him, but she'd never answered his calls or replied to his voice mails, not even when he'd cried into the receiver and begged her to pick up. Where had she been when his dad was kicking the living shit out of him, when his dad was blaming him for his failed marriage, where had she been then? Dean knew the answer to that question now. His mom had been here, living her 'apple-pie' life. The perfect puzzle-piece kind of life where Dean was a piece from another set, not permitted to fit anywhere in his mother's new happiness.
At the sound of the door latch unlocking, Dean was yanked out of his thoughts and Naomi looked up, reapplying her professional smile as the front door creaked open, a blonde head of curls appearing with a smile of her own.
"Mrs. Winchester?"
Naomi, the first to speak, addressed his mother with ease as Dean's hammering heart beat audibly in his ears.
"Yes?"
At the sound of her oh-so-familiar voice, his heartbeat increased two-fold and he didn't miss the way her eyes widened as they landed on his thin frame and bruised face.
"It is my understanding that you are the mother to Dean Winchester―?"
Naomi didn't get to finish her sentence this time, Mary suddenly stepped out onto the porch and uttered his name with wide-eyed disbelief.
"Dean?" She murmured into the warm afternoon, taking a few stumbling steps in his direction.
Unsure of what to do and how to play his part, Dean simply stood there, arms hanging limply by his sides as he allowed her to put on this show of affection. He was highly aware of how he looked. His hair was dirty and scruffy, and his left eye black and still a little swollen from John's last tirade, so he squirmed a little under her gaze and kept his head down.
"Dean?" She tried again, her voice cracking with emotion as she tried to catch his eye. "Baby, is it really you?" Her hand, reaching out, landing on his arm before he violently jerked back, a habitual reaction to anyone touching him without prior notice.
Naomi didn't miss the exchange, nor the way Mary drew back in shock when Dean reacted so scared to her touch, the boy's eyes springing wide open with more than a remnant of fear. The middle-aged social worker pulled a crooked smile and gave a little cough, a feeling of sympathy washing over as Mary turned her wide-eyed attention back to the red-headed lady on her doorstep.
"Perhaps we could take this inside?" She suggested, cocking an eyebrow and gesturing towards the open door.
Mary nodded, her eyes suddenly refusing to return to Dean. He knew how this would pan out, but it didn't stop him from not wanting to feel that cruel sting of rejection. Maybe that was why he remained so quiet, hoping that if she didn't hear his voice, she wouldn't push him away like last time. It was a stupid thought, but he clung to it none the less. This was all just a sequence that had to play out before Dean was shipped back to a home where he'd finally do what he had been too cowardly to do before.
The blonde gestured towards the entrance and Dean followed quietly behind Naomi as they made their way inside the cool house, Mary bringing up the rear and closing the door behind them.
"We just had a new air-conditioner installed last week, so it should be nice and cold in here, and my husband won't be home from work until five-thirty. Sam has football practice on Tuesdays after school so he won't be home until then either, oh, and I baked some muffins, would either of you like one?" She babbled, leading them through to the kitchen where the smell of sweet scented treats tickled their noses.
"Thank you," Naomi smiled tightly, raising a hand, "but no."
"Dean?" Mary turned back to him again, a little more hesitantly than before.
He shook his head, pressing his lips together tightly. He really didn't want her charity and he hated the lingering pity that he saw in her gaze.
"Mrs. Winchester," Naomi started anew, popping her black briefcase on the table as she steeled herself for the nitty-gritty turmoil that she knew was coming.
"Ah, it's Campbell now." Dean's mother interjected, deliberately avoiding his eyes. "I reverted to my maiden name."
"Very well, Mrs. Campbell," she nodded. "I suspect you may know why I'm here, but to clarify, I'm here to talk with you about taking over custody of your son, Dean."
Dean watched silently from the corner of the room as the two women drew seats opposite each other and Naomi explained his current situation. Most of the talking he zoned out. He didn't need to hear what he'd been through in someone else's words. Explaining even a little of it to the authorities had been hard enough, and it was all made so much worse when he factored in how happy she'd been with Sam and her new husband. How could they live like this when he'd been suffering so? Oh, that's right, he was just an unnecessary cog that jammed up her perfect clock.
"Is… is John in custody?" He heard his mother interject, the sound sending a spike of heartbreak through Dean's chest. Her voice was just as he'd remembered it, and he suddenly found his mind casting back through a grey haze of memories because of it. He could faintly remember a time when his family had actually been happy, a time when he'd not known how much anger his father possessed or how cold his life would end up being.
"Ah, no," the Naomi replied, a tenseness in the sound. "At this stage there doesn't seem to be enough against him, but the investigation is under way so I'm sure he will be soon."
Dean had to force himself not to roll his eyes. Naomi was obviously putting her faith in false gods. There was simply no way his dad was going to let himself go to prison, John could be a professional con-artist if he so chose, he was very persuasive. If he were a worm, Dean was sure he would be able to wiggle his way right off a hook! Neither of them knew John like he did. Dean knew his dad would find away out of this and all he wanted was to be as far away from him as possible when the trial was over, because if he wasn't, he was more than sure that John would come after him, come and try to take him back all for the sake of revenge. It was Dean's fault after all. He was the one who'd been caught out in his lies, not John. Dean had tried so hard not to let the world see, but it got harder when spring turned to summer―the bruises became more difficult to hide, especially since his dad had decided he needed one on his face this year.
"The black eye on my son's face isn't enough?" Mary's voice cut through as though she were reading his mind, startling him as she voiced his thoughts.
Dean unconsciously reached for his face, touching his eye with his bandaged hand before he even realised what he was doing. The bruise on his face served as a reminder every time he caught a glimpse of his reflection. It reminded him that family couldn't be trusted and there were several other scars and wounds that spoke of a similar story.
"Yes, well," Naomi flushed a little in evident anger. "Apparently the department and I have different views on things, though they did agree that Dean needed to be removed from that environment and that man. So, I'm here to ask if you would take over your his care until he assumes legal age?"
Mary nodded almost instantly, her eyes glued to the papers Naomi had laid out for her. Honestly, Dean didn't get it. Had he not been bringing in monetary checks from the state each month with which John could use to feed his alcoholism, his dad would've thrown him out years ago, but his mother wasn't going to get those same payments because her situation was vastly different and Naomi had already explained that to her, so why would she even try to pretend she wanted him around?
"Of course," she replied. "He's my son."
He nearly scoffed vocally at that. He was not her son, not anymore at least. She'd made it perfectly clear over the last three years that she didn't want anything to do with him. He'd tried to find a way back into her life, tried to find a way for her to accept him, but in the end he'd never found a way to contact her. Worst of all, he could still distinctly recall the last time he'd ever tried to call her, the final moments before the gravity of it all had broken all reason in his mind.
It had been Christmas eve, one month until his fourteenth birthday. His house had been cold and he'd been rugged up in all the layers he owned simply trying to keep himself warm because the heater in his room was broken and his dad had forbade him from touching any of the others. John had passed out on the couch early that night after downing an entire bottle of some Russian spirit all on his own, so Dean hadn't worried about the man waking up and catching him using the phone in the hall, but he'd kept a vigilant watch on the living room anyway. Dean had memorised the number his mom had given him, he'd stared at those numbers so often and for so long that he wouldn't have been surprised if he'd started recanting them in his sleep. They'd never worked for him before, but it was Christmas, surely they'd work for him today. The numbers had only ever reached an automated answering machine before and Dean's high hopes had always fallen into despair, each and every time. Nevertheless, on Christmas Eve, that first Christmas he spent apart from Sam and his mom, he'd sat in the hall and dialled the number, hopes higher than they'd ever been.
It had rung three times before his heart had dropped into his stomach and he was met with that familiar, automated voice: "leave your name and number after the tone". He'd taken a deep breath to steel himself and then left the other half of his family a message, as he always had back then.
"Hey Mom," he'd begun on a croak, hand rubbing the nape of his neck. "Merry Christmas or whatever… I hope you and Sam are doing okay, it seems like forever since we all got together." He paused for half a second, lowering his gaze before shooting it over to his unconscious father. "I haven't gotten any of your phone calls and you haven't picked up any of mine, but I'm sure we're just missing each other, or something like that," he'd chuckled nervously, no hint of amusement in his tone, only the sad sound of someone trying not to let their voice break with emotion.
"Anyway, I haven't seen you guys in ages," he repeated, unsure of what to say. "Maybe we could organise a catch up soon? I'd love to come over and check out your new house– Dad told me you moved a couple months back which is… cool. So I… uh… yeah, if you could call me when you get this…" his eyes started to swell with tears and gently he'd brushed them away, too tired to fight with his surfacing emotions. "It… it would really make my Christmas… I just… I really miss you both… Um… yeah. I love you guys and uh, yeah, bye."
He'd managed to hit the little red button on the hallway phone and place it back in its cradle before the breakwater barricades had burst and the full force of his mother's rejection hit him squarely in the chest. Dean had lost it. He'd broken down in the middle of the hallway, sinking to the floor as he pulled his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms securely around himself. He'd allowed the quiet sobs and tears to rack through him like they never had before, unceasing as he'd cried endlessly. He'd worked out the most horrible realisation on the eve of what many considered the most joyful time of the year, but for him Christmas would never again be happy. His mother didn't want him and there was no consolation offered to him that night. How had he not seen it before? Well, of course he had wondered, but he hadn't been able to bring himself to think such an awful thought. The thought that his mother didn't want him at all…
Naomi twisting in her chair and scraping her heels underneath the table jolted Dean back into the present.
"This is stupid…" he suddenly decided out loud, accidentally speaking in his mother's presence for the first time since he'd arrived as both pairs of eyes immediately shot over to him.
For half a moment he saw shock and hurt register on his mother's face and he couldn't help but feel a smug satisfaction that he'd hurt her, even if he hadn't intended to voice his thoughts aloud. It was impossible for her to ever understand how he'd felt, how he still felt, but if he could give her even a whisper in the amount of pain that she'd given him then good, she god-damn deserved it. She'd never even bothered to call! It was all lit up like a neon sign for him now, unlike that Christmas he'd never forget.
"Dean," Naomi sighed, scraping her chair back and calmly progressing towards him, her shoes clacking very softly on the fake-wood linoleum floor. "Honey, I know this is hard. I get it, I do. The counsellor told me about what you said regarding your mother―" it was at this point that Dean noticed the highly intrigued and subtly concerned expression his mother was sporting, "―but I really think you need to give this a good shot, Dean. Try your hardest, you may even find you end up making some friends around here, and maybe you could even reconcile with her."
Returning to his silence, he merely nodded once, gluing his eyes to the holes in his trainers as he wiggled his sock-less toes. He could feel both women's concerned gazes still trained on him, cementing him to the ground, but he could hardly work up the effort required to care. What was another two years of neglect at this point anyway? Even if his mother didn't want him, she'd probably still shelter him until he was old enough to move out, and that was good enough for him, he supposed. He could finish school, get a part-time job, get his GED and hit the road, head around the country, find a cool place to settle himself down. All he wanted was to get as far away from his life as possible. Maybe he'd move to Canada or something…
Naomi gave him her trademark crooked smile and returned to her place at the table across from Mary, pulling out a few more papers from her brief case as Dean shuffled his feet awkwardly in the corner for a few minutes before exiting the room unnoticed, making his way back to the front porch where he'd collect himself and let his mind catch up to the new reality that his mother was actually going to take him in, shelter him like some unwanted pound puppy who had to go.
Plonking his sweaty self on the outside bench he'd noticed earlier and dumping his duffel beside him, Dean wiped his brow with one flannel covered arm. Even from here he could still hear the two women chattering, and occasionally he heard snippets of the conversation inside, though he mostly tuned out their monotonous kibitzing in favour of basking in the pleasant sounds of the quiet suburban neighbourhood. It was relaxing listening to mid-afternoon cicadas, the sprinklers spraying over manicured lawns and the sounds of young kids on their bikes riding up and down the empty street, so Dean closed his eyes, allowing himself to sink into the chair and melting as his tense muscles eased.
"Hey."
Dean's eyes snapped open and immediately pinning onto a boy around his age, advancing up the porch steps.
"Uh… hi?" He murmured in reply, pushing himself erect on the bench, all sense of ease gone as he analysed the guy approaching.
The teen, blue-eyed and dark-haired, marched up the stairs without a second thought or a moments hesitation, Dean finding this unashamed display slightly confronting. The boy sat down beside him on the old wooden bench, a soft smile on his face as Dean drew back in the smallest amount.
"You live here?" he asked, gesturing a thumb toward the house and getting comfortable on the seat.
"Seems like…" Dean replied ambiguously, bitterness in his voice, earning him a frown of confusion from the other teen before he chuckled and brushed it off.
"I'm Castiel," said the blue-eyed boy, thrusting a hand out for Dean to shake. "And you are…?"
"Dean." He gripped the proffered hand and gave it a sharp shake, like his dad had taught him to do. "Winchester."
"Oh," replied Castiel, his handshake suddenly slackening as though Dean's words had sent an electric current through his hands. "…Sam Winchester's brother, I assume?" he covered, though Dean could tell there was unbridled curiosity lurking behind those clear, sapphire eyes.
Dean simply nodded, sinking into silence at the awkward atmosphere he'd suddenly seemed to have created. Who was this guy? How did he know Sam? Why had Castiel reacted as though Dean was a live-wire when he declared his name? There were so many questions Dean suddenly wanted answers to, but none seemed appropriate to ask. Immediately, his mind began scrounging for less contentious conversation topics, but he came up short of anything useful so he blabbed out the first thing he could think of.
"You know Sammy?" He blurted, wincing at how inarticulate he sounded. He sounded like some country bumpkin, uneducated and unable to make conversation.
Castiel assented with a nod and a chuckle, Dean's inarticulate question apparently passing unnoticed.
"Yeah, this is a small town so everyone knows everyone. Also, Sam Winchester is basically everyone's friend, it'd be hard to find someone in this place that doesn't know The Boy King, or at least know of him."
"'The Boy King'?" Dean repeated, a question attached.
"Oh," Castiel laughed, a pure, genuine sound that echoed like angel song. "That's the nickname the team gave him last year when he scored them the finals of the junior game. I'm not big on sports, but your brother's basically the winning man around here, or so I'm told. It wouldn't surprise me if the high school gives him some kind of scholarship for sports and academia next year, I hear he's pretty bright for his age. Built like a moose too."
Dean looked down, fiddling with his fingers, unable to help the small smile spreading across his features from the praise this stranger was lavishing on his little brother, his guard slowly dropping.
"Yeah, Sammy was a bright kid. I always knew he'd do fine." Dean chuckled, briefly recalling the face of his brother at age ten, the last time he'd actually seen him. Sam would be close to thirteen now, if not thirteen already, and from what Castiel was saying Sam was doing great, much better than Dean had ever done in school. Not that he'd been a regular attender. He could swear he'd spent more time shoplifting at the local mall than in his classes, and Nick, the one friend he could actually claim to be his friend, was a drop-out just like him.
Castiel smiled and Dean caught it in the corner of his eye, making him look up.
"What?" He questioned throwing up his guard again, slightly defensive with it being caught down. "How do you know so much about my brother anyway? You friends with him or something?"
Castiel shook his head.
"No, I'm not well acquainted with your brother, but in regards to your first question, I make it my business to know about the people round here." He heaved himself off the bench, still smiling as he did so.
"That's why you're talking to me?" Dean tossed, giving a snort as he avoided those searching eyes that seemed far too pitying for a person whom he'd just met. Those eyes were usually reserved by the social workers and carers who knew just what he'd been through.
"No," Castiel leaned against the railing, his eyes lifting to the golden haze that was the afternoon sky. "You just looked like you wanted the company."
He didn't know what to say to that, so he stilled his tongue and folded his arms. This Castiel was a strange boy and Dean wasn't sure if he liked him or not. In a way, he already knew he did. He was friendly and approachable and he'd come up to Dean without hesitation, the black eye he sported not deterring him in the slightest. Except, the way Castiel almost seemed to read him threw Dean for a loop. He didn't want people reaching into his past, he just wanted to put it behind him, forget the last three years and move on.
"You wanna come get ice-cream with me at the parlour? It's pretty hot out today and you sure look like you could use one, especially since you insist on wearing so many layers." The darker-haired joked lightly, his voice light and playful as he teased about the colourful array of Dean's plaid flannel shirts.
Dean smirked boyishly in reply before he swallowed, the smile faltering and falling from his face.
"Thanks, but I think I'd better stay here," he glanced at the screen door before dropping his gaze to the decking. "I don't want them to think I've run off or something."
"Suit yourself." The other shrugged, after pulling away from the railing in a slightly effeminate way and jogging down the steps, giving him a final wave from the bottom. "I'll see you around, Dean Winchester." He saluted with a playful wink, catching Dean off guard again before spinning on his heel and shoving his hands into the pockets of his shorts, making his way down the empty street with an air of carelessness about him.
Yep. He was a weird kid, or so Dean decided as he stood and approached the same railing that Castiel had been leaning against only moments ago. He wished he could be so carefree, but life clearly hadn't treated him as well as it had Castiel. Not that he was bitter about that or anything. Wishing for what other people had was petty jealousy and he'd never stoop that low.
The screen door of the house unexpectedly creaked open as Dean's face was washed in a cool summer breeze. He didn't turn at the sound of the woman's voice calling his name, instead, he continued to stare resolutely ahead in silence, not really wanting to know what had transpired inside the house while he'd been ignoring reality, though the reluctantly heard news was delivered sooner than he would've liked.
"Dean?" Naomi approached him tentatively, coming to stand next to him and look out on the perfect, green lawn. "Your mother has signed the papers, you're under her duty of care now."
His social worker lapsed into silence beside him, waiting for some response which Dean never gave. The breeze tickled his hair and he rubbed a lock between his thumb and forefinger, deciding he would need to cut it tomorrow― having it too long was an inconvenience and short hair suited him better anyway.
"There's going to be a psychologist coming here every Friday," she continued, turning her head to try and read his expression, her own features showing only concern as his apparent lack of disinterest in her words had little affect. "They'll help you, Dean. If you're willing."
Dean faced her, swallowing loudly, still trying to cover his emotions with a mask of indifference as he nodded. Naomi gave him her crooked smile, looking as though she wanted to hug him.
"Every thing's going to be alright," she encouraged. "And if you ever need me, I'm just a phone call away, okay?"
He blinked at her before stiffly acknowledging.
"Well then," she pushed away from the railing and rested her arm on his shoulder, Dean surprisingly unflinching. "Goodbye Dean. For your sake, I hope our next encounter is a happier one."
He didn't want to admit it, but begrudgingly he did. Naomi had done a lot for him. That he couldn't deny. She may have simply done it because it was her job and she may have acted like this around all her clients, but hers was the first kindness he'd been shown in a long time, and he couldn't let that go unacknowledged.
"Ms. Naomi?" He croaked, pausing her halfway down the porch steps as she looked to him, her brow raised slightly. "Thank you."
She beamed, her eyes crinkling in the corners as she nodded once, understanding how hard it was for Dean to acknowledge what she'd done for him out loud.
"You're welcome, Dean." She replied, switching the hand that held her briefcase. "I hope you do well kiddo."
With that final statement of good luck, Dean's social worker was gone. His eyes followed her as she marched down the porch steps in her clacky heels, all the way down the path and out to her silver car. She gave him a final wave which he did not return and proceeded to pull away from the curb, her car disappearing around the corner only minutes later as his stomach growled audibly, demanding sustenance.
Deciding to return indoors, Dean immediately headed towards the dinning room, expecting to find his mother but pleasantly surprised to find she was not in the vicinity as he reached the gaudy wooden kitchen, the cupboard counters adorned with distasteful, ugly trinkets. Briefly glancing around, he spotted the fridge, an enormous silver monstrosity that snuggled in between one ugly wooden counter and the oven. After crossing over, he pulled it open by the huge handle to find it stuffed to the brim with all sorts of strange and wonderful items, some of which he recognised and some of which he didn't. He pulled out a few items, expecting to find one of the wrapped packages to say bacon, but he couldn't locate bacon, or even any eggs.
"Pastrami?" He muttered disdainfully under his breath as he shoved the food back into the fridge, deciding to try his luck with canned foods. He didn't even know what "pastrami" was, so he opted for a safe bet and after a bit of searching through the well-stocked pantry, found himself a can of baked beans. Yeah, this would do. It was even the same sort that he'd stocked away at his dad's, so he knew it wouldn't have some funky-weird flavouring. Pouring the contents into a saucepan, he stuck the beans over the hot stove, giving them a quick stir before jamming the lid over the pan and reclining against the bench with a sigh. His stomach still hadn't given up its rumbling, but Dean was used to ignoring those aches and pains.
"Dean?"
Looking up, he saw his mother striding into the kitchen, a bundle of fresh picked thyme in her hand which she set down on the bench at the sight of him, the smell of Dean's cooking wafting through the room. "What're you doing, sweetie?"
Her voice irritated him. How dare she stand there and use that sickly-sweet, motherly voice on him and call him sweetie!
"Making dinner." He mumbled, turning away and lifting the lid of the saucepan to check the progress of his meal as he was briefly assaulted by a memory of his dad asking the same question. Forcefully, he kept himself focused on present, knowing exactly where that memory would lead him.
"Dinner?" She repeated, her brow raising. "Honey, I'm making a stir fry for dinner."
Dean frowned, keeping his back to her. It had kind of just been automatic… He'd completely forgotten how meal times had used to go when his mother was around. She'd cook the meal for the four of them and then they'd all sit at the table, say their prayer and dig in, but he'd forgotten about that. At his father's they'd never eaten together, or sometimes at all; there was hardly any food in their house at the best of times. Dean had been cooking for himself by himself for the last three years.
"Well, that's one less mouth for you to feed, I guess." He retorted, biting back the harsher words that wanted to escape his lips.
He kind of wished Naomi hadn't left. If things had been uncomfortable before, they were ten times worse now and Dean wished more than anything that his mom would just leave him be. Looking at her perfect face surrounded by her bouncy blonde curls only enraged him. He wanted to yell and scream at her, get angry, hurt her in the same way she hurt him, but he couldn't, otherwise he was no better than his father and if there was one thing he knew, it was that he never wanted to be a carbon copy of his dad.
"Dean, pumpkin, I know you're quite capable of taking care of yourself, but I would like it if you ate with us."
He held onto his silence, refusing to justify a reply. That's right, he was perfectly capable of taking care of himself. After all, when was the next time the rug would be yanked out from under him?
"Sweetie?"
"STOP WITH THE PET NAMES ALREADY!" He exploded, whirling around to face his wide-eyed and shocked mother, eyes stinging with the threat of tears. "I'm not your 'Sweetie' or your 'Pumpkin' or 'Honey', I'm just Dean, and that's all you're allowed to call me because you're not my mother and I'm sure as hell you don't see me as your son. I'm sorry you have to put me up, I know it must be a huge inconvenience for you, but just stop trying so hard to pretend you care, it's shallow and stupid!"
Suddenly, he flinched back, realising what had just unconsciously tumbled from his mouth in his fit of anger.
Shit.
He hadn't meant to do that. He really couldn't escape it. He wasgoing to become his dad whether he liked it or not. That was why his mother had pushed him away. She could see the same darkness in him that had always lurked inside John, she'd seen it three years ago and kicked him to the curb when she'd seen it then. It was no wonder no one loved him. Immediately, he felt ashamed. He'd cracked… he hadn't been going to say anything to her, but accidentally, the other shoe had dropped.
"Sorry…" He choked apologetically, bringing a hand up to his face. "I'm sorry… I didn't mean to shout at you…"
She simply continued to stare at him, her balled fist clutched to her breast and her posture defensive. Neither of them did anything for a moment, but eventually, his mother's expression softened and she stepped forward tentatively, relaxing as she moved.
"Dean," she smiled, getting ever closer and eventually resting a gentle hand on his cheek. He didn't even try to pull away. The contact was so soft and nostalgic that Dean struggled to hold the tears back and they quickly started plopping off his face. "We never forgot about you, and I never stopped loving you. I know this is going to be hard for you and I don't expect you to adjust overnight or forget your dad either, but Dean, there was never a time when I wasn't proud to be your mother. I never stopping thinking of you. I love you. I've always loved you, Dean."
He wanted to believe those words. Honest to god he knew he did, but the knowledge that it was all a lie just to comfort him stood fast and firm. He hated himself for still wanting to seek that comfort, even knowing it was fake. Why couldn't he let her go? Why couldn't he deny himself that lie, move on with his life? He despised it. He still selfishly sought her love even though, in his heart of hearts, he knew she could never truly give it.
She brushed a stray lock of hair away from his face and he dipped his head, hiding his eyes from hers.
"Would you like some toast with your baked beans then?" She asked, a faint hint of a smile in her voice.
"S-sure." He answered shakily as she drew back. With her hand removed, Dean suddenly felt cold and alone again, but he shoved that feeling into the back of his mind and boarded up the instantaneous abandonment he felt. This was the way things had to be. He couldn't allow himself to fall for her fictional fabrication that lured with false promises of care and tenderness. He knew she wouldn't hurt him physically, not like John had, but in some ways he feared that living with his mother would be even worse. He was scared he might accidentally fall for her deception and things would hurt even more painfully when torn away from him. He was so scared he'd end up believing her, even though he knew he couldn't trust anybody but himself.
Mary disappeared into the enormous pantry and reappeared with a loaf of bread in hand, Dean watching as she took out two slices and dropped them into the toaster one at a time before pushing down the lever and returning the bread to its place. After closing the wooden pantry door behind her, Mary too reclined against the bench, facing Dean as she waited for the toast to pop.
"Sam will be home soon," she observed, glancing at the clock on the oven. "He'll be so happy to see you. He's missed you a whole lot."
Dean had missed him too. Though the prospect of actually seeing Sam again frightened him. What would he think? What would he say?What was there to say? Honestly, thinking about it didn't help, it only worried him more. All he could do was draw up blanks, empty conversation starters with no real substance or meaning, because how did he even begin to fill in three years worth of nothing? It wasn't Sam's fault, he knew that. His little brother had had about as much say as he had when their parents split, but a tiny, tiny dark part of him wanted to put a stroke against Sam's name, shift a microscopic amount of blame onto Sam for neglecting him like his mother had. Obviously, the weight of inculpation was incomparable to the extensive portion of culpability that Dean himself felt, and even admitting to himself that he wanted to blame Sam, even in the smallest amounts, made him feel selfish, dirty and disgusting. Sam wasn't really at fault and he didn't deserve the responsibility Dean wanted to throw at him. Really, it was all just him. He'd been too afraid to do anything about his situation. He was too cowardly and stupid to stay out of plain sight for too long and his dad had always been waiting for him when he returned. He wasn't smart or intelligent, brave or strong, not like Naomi had claimed he was, not like the psychologist had commended him for being. He was useless, and in reality he knew he could blame no one but himself.
"Dean, honey, are you alright?"
His mother's voice sent a spike of shock through him, jolting him out of his desolate thoughts as he nodded and turned his attention back to the food on the stove top.
Taking the beans off the heat, Dean gave them a good stir and checked they were cooked, avoiding his mother's studious gaze as he poured them from the pot into a plastic bowl she handed him.
"What's wrong?" Mary pressed, hardly distracted by his futile attempts to ignore her staring. "Are you worried about Sam?"
He flinched, cringing internally as she hit the nail right on the head. This was all new for him, he'd never had to hide his feelings from his dad, his dad hadn't really cared. His mom though, she was watching him. She was going to play this game, slip casually back into the role she'd previously played in the poor, pitiable play that was his life.
"Oh honey, you don't have to worry," She reassured with a soft smile. Apparently she'd taken his neither denying nor confirming as affirmation of her words. "Sam's going to adorehaving you back."
"A-are you sure?" He found himself asking, hating himself for doing so and sounding so obviously pleading about it. He shouldn't be asking such questions, all they did was raise his already far too high hopes and simultaneously remind him of how weak he was. He shouldn't need this fake reassurance, he should know her words were just lies! Why in the hell did he continue to seek comfort from the person he hated most, the person who'd betrayed him most grievously? His lack of willpower against her words astounded even him. It was something he'd have to work on, of that he was sure.
"Dean, pumpkin…" He found himself being pulled into a warm hug, a hand smoothing down the back of his hair. The pet names were still kind of annoying, but he relaxed into her embrace anyway, because he found that the more he pushed against himself, the quicker he didn't want her to let go. "Of course he will, he's your brother. He loves you, sweetie, just like I do."
More than anything, he wanted to cry right then and there. He wanted sob into her shirt, let her hold him as he broke down in her arms, because it had been him against the world for so long that he'd forgotten what it was like to have someone wrap their arms around him and make promises that sounded real and hopeful. Except he couldn't do that. He couldn't just stride across a gap that had taken three years to form. A void had settled in between that crevasse and Dean didn't know what he might find if he decided to take that leap of faith, take that hand, outstretched over the blackness between them. What if he took that hand and she let go? What if she rejected him again like she had before? He would tumble into that horrible, murky darkness and he might never find his way out again. That link of trust was simply too thin and too brittle for him to even seriously contemplate putting his faith in her a second time.
The sudden sound of the front door opening and closing made Dean draw sharply away from his mom, curling his arms into his chest as his heartbeat increased wildly. No, it was too soon. He wasn't ready yet, he couldn't face anyone, he was barely comfortable facing his mother. He registered loud footfalls, their nearness encroaching further towards the kitchen as Dean's heart redoubled it's efforts to pump copious amounts of adrenaline through his system, flooding him with a tsunami of anxiety. Expecting the little brother whom he hadn't seen in years, he pushed himself against the cupboard and froze, eyes locked in the direction of the entranceway as his peripheral spied his mother, hesitating in how to react. Her arms were still half outstretched, as though she were ready to reach for him at any given moment, but Dean wasn't going to accept that comfort. If he couldn't stand on his own two feet when facing Sam, he certainly wouldn't be able to stand on his own when he left this home made of cardboard walls and broken promises.
However, it wasn't Sam they were both greeted with, instead it was a tall, broad shouldered man that Dean had never seen before, the scent of the strong and unfamiliar cologne filling his nostrils and immediately setting him on edge.
"Michael!" Mary exclaimed, happiness and a hint of surprise in her voice as she strolled out of the kitchen and dutifully pecked the man's lips, a swift and sudden motion that left Dean bewildered and confused.
Dean had flinched at her high pitched shrill when she'd warbled out this man's name, and he'd locked his jaw, trying to prevent it from nervously chattering.
"Mary?" Muttered the man, Michael, his own surprise tainting his tone as his eyes immediately fell on Dean and then the bruise that occupied half his face. "Who's this?"
Dean gulped harshly, the dryness in his throat making it hard to swallow as he looked down at the floor like he'd habitually learned to do. He could feel both pairs of eyes on him and he wanted nothing more than to curl up into a tiny ball and hide himself away in one of the cupboards. He felt terribly self-conscious and his knees were starting to feel like jelly.
"Michael, this is Dean." She introduced, the undertone in her words heavy with unspoken allusions to previously had conversations as she returned to Dean's side in a show of comfort and solidarity which Michael immediately seemed to understand.
"Dean?" He sounded surprised. Well, of course he would be. Who could possibly predict a broken child from their wife's first marriage randomly showing up on their doorstep, it wasn't exactly something that belonged under the heading of 'everyday norm'.
Even from his peripheral vision, Dean didn't miss the look the two adults exchanged, but it was hardly any of his business. He didn't want to get friendly with Michael. It was enough that his mother was already trying to tear down his barriers and poke her motherly tenderness where he no longer wanted it, there was no way he was going to accept this strange man in his life too.
"Well," Michael gave him a smile and thrust out a masculine hand. It wasn't like he couldn't see what he was doing, but Dean wasn't about to get chummy or play make-believe happy family's, so he ignored the gesture altogether. "It's nice to meet you, Dean."
He didn't utter a single sound. All he did was pull his arms tighter to his chest and stare harder at the ground, the awkward silence starting to linger. He could see things very clearly from where Michael stood in the whole debacle of a situation. If he pretended to get along with Dean, then perhaps things would settle down fine, the only issue here was going to be Dean himself. Not that Michael had to worry, Dean would play the part he'd been assigned, in due time… or perhaps he might not even need to worry about it, Dean might decide to up and leave this place in a week. Who would give a shit then?
"Maybe, while we're waiting for Sam, we can all sit down in the living room so Dean can eat his tea?" Mary suggested, her tone underlining her discomfort at the tension between the two males. Michael coughed in embarrassment while Dean nodded, crossing the kitchen to retrieve his cold toast and returning to pick up his lukewarm bowl of baked beans.
The three of them departed from the kitchen, but they didn't make very far, only to the dinning room before the very distinctive sound of the front door was heard again.
Dean's heart suddenly gave a rather large and painful thump before it skipped a beat and jumped into his throat, leaving him winded and out of breath for a second time. He glanced at the entranceway, instantly spotting the profile of a young teen as his world seemed to stutter and stall, time grinding to a halt as hazel eyes met green.
The older froze, unconsciously waiting for the shock to clear from Sam's face, but it didn't and he was left standing awkwardly in the middle of the room before the youngers' agape mouth formed a single word.
"D-Dean…?" He stammered out, the sound no more than a whisper, holding disbelief and incredulity as his bag dropped unnoticed from his hand onto the floor.
Dean inhaled sharply, not registering his own bowl of baked beans slipping through his fingers until it was too late.
For a moment, there was only silence. Dean didn't hear the bowl clattering to the floor and by the looks of things, neither did Sam. All Sam did was stare, eyes wide, but the longer Sam did so, his hazel eyes burning a hole in the other, the harder Dean found it to breathe. His feet felt heavy like lead, holding him fast to the spot and his chest felt like it was about implode, he just couldn't seem to drag in enough air and each ragged breath seemed more exhaustive than its predecessor. It was only when Sam took a single step forward that Dean's feet rapidly seemed to unstick themselves from the floor and he stumbled back, his spine making painful contact with the bench behind him when he crashed into it.
This was it, the whole happy family was together now…
If he had known how horrible facing this was going to be, he would have begged harder to stay in the boys home. Dealing with the cut-throat system was way easier than facing the problems of his past or even coming face to face with a brother whom he feared would push him away, just like everyone else in his family had. He loved Sam, dearly. More than anyone he'd ever loved, but his fear of being rejected held strong, gripped him by his heartstrings and threatened to yank them out and leave him bleeding all over the floor. He wasn't sure he'd be able to take it from Sammy, he wasn't sure he'd survive such a blow. Not from Sam. Seeing him in the flesh like this only made things more real, only made him more apprehensive.
"Dean…" He heard again, feeling somewhat disassociated from everything around him as Sam crossed the room in only a few strides, his lanky legs crossing through the dinning room at swifter speeds than he'd ever seen anyone move before. The only thought that crossed through Dean's mind as the younger yanked him into a rib-cracking embrace was, oddly, just how tall his little brother had become since he'd seen him last, but time―and everything else―caught up to him eventually.
It was unexpected, hearing the gut-wrenching sounds of ugly, broken sobs over his shoulder. It pulled him from his reverie and he suddenly felt Sam's hands grabbing tightly at his shirt, adjusting every now and then, though only to fist the material tighter. In a way, it felt like Sam was clinging to him for dear life, and it confused and startled Dean when he made no attempt to pull away and instead, his own arms flew up around Sam's back in a knee-jerk reaction.
"Y-you're here…" Sam whispered tearfully in his ear, each word driving like a stake through his chest and each sob like a hammer hitting a nail.
There were so many things unsaid between them, so much time to make up for and explanations Dean had to give, but none of that felt important in this moment. Seeing Sam for real like this was like rain diluting stagnant pools of water; he suddenly didn't feel the need to place the blame, all he could feel was his own guilt at ever thinking Sam had had a part to play in the last three years of his hellish life and it went from a drip to a trickle to a stream, as though his guilt were venom, travelling to his heart through a well-aimed funnel. Sam was not to blame, not for any of it. He could see that clearly now.
"Did you ever doubt it?" Dean murmured with a soft chuckle, covering his own self-hatred and guilt with a warm voice as he ran his fingers through Sam's shaggy, hickory-brunette hair.
A minute passed before the younger slowly pulled back, wiping at his dripping nose and wet eyes with a hint of embarrassment. Coughing out a little laugh, he rubbed at the tears that refused to cease, leaving the question unanswered as his eyes fixed on the massive bruise surrounding Dean's eye.
"What happened to your face, Dean?" He asked innocently, concern knitting his brows together as he frowned at the green, black and yellow bruise healing around his eye socket.
It was an obvious injury and while he'd hoped Sam would ignore it, it was apparent he'd get no such luck. Instead he gave a little laugh, brushing of Sam's question with a careless lie about how he'd tripped and fallen a while back, but he didn't miss the look of worry his mother shot his way. She knew the truth and Dean couldn't hide that from her, but Sam didn't need to hear the horrible story. He didn't want to be the one responsible for spoiling Sam's innocence. After all, Sam didn't know what his father had become, what he'd turned out to be. It was better he kept the happy memories from life before the divorce, better Dean kept the hard reality at bay. He couldn't bear to be the one to snatch Sam's happy memories away and replace them with the ugliness and darkness that had consumed his past three years. He didn't want to talk about it anyway. A lot of it was too hard to talk about, it pulled out memories he'd tried to force back, swallow down. He didn't want those coming out now, not after all the hard work he'd put in to make sure they stayed sealed in the shadowy corners of his mind.
"Hey boys," Mary interrupted, keenly sensing her eldest son's discomfort as Michael bent down to clean up the spilled food, Dean feeling a spike of thanks toward the guy. "Why don't we have pizza tonight instead of stir-fry? Dean's first meal home should be something a bit more exciting, right?"
Sam beamed, eyes flicking from mother to brother as he nodded gleefully, Dean briefly wondering if one could go blind from looking at something so bright. He was nearly thirteen now, but he still had that perfectly guiltless look of innocence, and Dean was painfully reminded of how that had been him once too.
"Sam, go take your bag upstairs while I find the pizza menu, okay?" She continued as Michael disappeared into the kitchen.
"Sure, Mom." Sam nodded, swinging by the doorway to collect his bag as he practically bounced upstairs.
"You don't mind pizza, do you?" His mom smiled as she asked her almost rhetorical question, turning her attention back to him as he pressed his lips together tightly and shook his head.
"That's good." She continued. "What kind of pizza would you like? Meat-lovers or…?"
"Uh…" Dean cleared his throat, uncomfortable with the happy smile settling upon his mother's face. He didn't like the way she looked at him. It was too kindly, too loving. No one cared that much about another person, of that, Dean was positive. He wished she'd stop pretending, it was getting old real fast.
"Sure. Sounds fine, thanks." He twitched the corner of his lip, hoping it would come off as enough of a smile and not a forced expression. She could remember his favourite kind of pizza, but she couldn't remember to call him? What a joke… Everything felt so un-addressed. Like, how was he supposed to slot in here? Were they just going to sweep the hard questions under the rug and pretend like nothing had happened?
She beamed at him, the expression almost as bright as the one his little brother had given him only moments ago. He wondered if he had ever smiled that brightly; he wasn't sure his muscles had ever stretched that far.
"Well, honey, why don't you go sit down in the living room? I'll take your bag upstairs and you go get settled in while we wait for pizza, maybe flick through the channels and see if you can find something for us to watch."
His mother grabbed the duffel he'd dumped on the floor and left, heading upstairs and following the same path Sam took as Dean wandered through the other archway in the dinning room, coming out in a cosy living area where the whole room looked as though it'd stepped out of some nineteen-ninety's sitcom.
He plonked himself on the carpeted floor and gazed off out the window, noticing the diminishing light from outside as he ignored the remote on the coffee table in front of him. He was reluctant to touch the TV at all, not because he thought his mom would come in and start yelling at him for turning it on, he knew she wouldn't because she'd been the one to tell him to turn it on in the first place, but because that's what his dad had done whenever he'd reached for the TV remote. It was somewhat ingrained, he supposed.
Curling into a ball, Dean rested his back against the couch and pulled his knees in close to his chest, pressing his head down on top and allowing his hair to flop over.
He wanted to cry. He wouldn't though, not when his face wasn't pressed into a pillow and he wasn't guaranteed to be left alone for a good twenty minutes afterwards so the puffy swelling around his eyes could die away, but he wanted to. Everything here was so… happy. There was no yelling, no screaming, no hitting or punching or kicking. There was no trace of alcohol drifting through the air or the musty, dusty smell of a house that had never been cleaned. It was cool, because there was air-conditioning, there were no noisy neighbours and Dean knew there was food in the cupboard, which he could go to whenever he was hungry. It was almost ridiculously peaceful and he wasn't was scared, but it wasn't the same thing. He was scared his mom would kick him out, that she would tire of him quickly, scared Sam would reject him if he snapped like he had before. There were no hands of help, no words of comfort that had reached him in years and now that he was in a place where love freely floated around as though it were oxygen, he discovered that he couldn't breathe. For so long he'd wanted a comforting touch or a kind word, but now he could get just that, he was afraid to accept. Not that he didn't have a good reason not to. It was hard to trust someone who'd rejected you before. Almost impossible, in fact, but they all wanted him to try. Naomi, his mother, Sam… they all seemed to want what was best for him, but he was so confused by the hundreds of conflicting emotions that tumbled about in his head. His heart told him to trust, but his brain told him not to. His brain told him he didn't deserve this.
"―so I thought we could watch a movie tonight while we eat dinner. Have you seen Attack of the Killer Tomatoes?"
Dean lifted his head as Sam waltzed into the room, already changed from his old clothes to comfortable track pants and a tank-top, a DVD in his hand. Spying Dean curled into himself, the younger immediately jolted and scooted onto the carpet, sitting down next to his brother and leaning his back against the couch as he pressed a cool hand to Dean's forehead.
"Hey, hey, you alright?" He squawked, feeling Dean's face all over, looking for signs of a fever or other illness. "You don't look well. Are you sick, Dean?"
Grabbing Sam's gangly arms at the wrists, he pulled them off his face and threw his little brother a passing smile, small as it was.
"I'm fine, Sammy." He chuckled, letting go. "I guess I'm just a bit hungry… I haven't eaten for a while."
"Oh. Okay." Sam pulled back, perking up as Dean further reassured by giving a little nod. "I guess you've had a long day as well, huh… the trip from dad's must be pretty far…"
For a brief moment, he'd forgotten that Sammy knew nothing about the boys home or the social workers. Sam could almost be called unimpeachable, but it also meant that Sam would believe anything he said, which was unlikely to be a good thing in the long run. His little brother was too trusting.
Dean paused for a moment, inadvertently hesitating in his lie. "Yeah, it's been a big day…"
"When are you going back?" Sam continued, his expression downcast as he thought on his words. "It's not soon, is it?" He glanced up, pressing Dean with look of worry.
It was little cute Sam worried so earnestly about him.
"It's not soon, no. I'll be staying here for a while." He managed, knocking Sam's shoulder with his own in a brotherly display of tenderness, wondering how he could change the topic of conversation without being obvious about it. "Guess that means you'll have an annoying big brother crashing all your house parties when Mom's not here."
"I'm not that cool, Dean." He laughed in response. "Even if I had a house party, I'm not sure too many people would actually show up."
"Well," Dean cocked an eyebrow and pasted on a mock look of disbelief. "That's not what I heard from this Castiel kid today. He said you even had a nickname, 'Boy Wonder' or 'The Wonder King' or something like that. You sounded pretty cool to me."
Sam blushed with embarrassment, ducking his head as Dean nudged him again.
"I can't believe that stupid nickname is still going round…" He muttered, barely loud enough for Dean to hear.
"Also," the older added interjectionally, smiling at the adorably embarrassed blush heating Sam's cheeks when teased. "He said you were everyone's friend, so what you said can't be true!" He emphasised, noting with hilarity that Sam had flushed all the way up to his ears.
"Okay, now that's a lie!" Sam retaliated indignantly, defending himself from what were now blatant attempts at boosting his self-esteem.
"Only in your mind, bucko!" Dean guffawed, ruffling his little brother's hair as he mussed it with the palm of his hand. "I'm betting you're actually everyone's favourite, right? I bet your girlfriend is jealously batting away all those other gals that keep throwing themselves on you."
"I don't even have a girlfriend, Dean!"
"Bet you have a crush though."
Quickly, Sam lapsed into silence, knowing if he said anything he'd only incriminate himself further, but the sudden heat that ran up to the back of his neck as he turned away gave Dean all the evidence he needed.
"HA! I'm right aren't I? What's her name?"
Sam looked back at his brother, horrified Dean could read him so easily.
"Jess…" he finally mumbled, crossing his arms over his chest. "Her name's Jess."
Dean laughed, deciding to tone down his teasing a little.
"I bet if you asked her out, she'd say yes."
Sam pulled a wry smile, turning back to Dean who wore a gleeful smirk of his own.
"You're just saying crap now."
"No, no! She'd be lucky to have you little brother! If she said no, I reckon she'd regret it later."
Sam smacked his lips, eyes narrowing at Dean, trying to tell if he was still teasing or not before he picked up the DVD off the carpet.
"So… Attack of the Killer Tomatoes… Have you seen it?" Sam asked, changing the topic away from his own love life.
"No," Dean answered. "Is it good?"
Sam suddenly launched into total fan-boy mode, rattling off what could have been a five-thousand word essay about the film as Dean sat there in silence, smiling at the enthusiasm that was rolling off the younger in waves. He was sure he'd find out that the movie wasn't as good as Sam made it out to be later―it sounded like a cult film, and he was more of a blockbuster kind of guy―but Dean enjoyed listening to the enthusiastic retelling of it anyway. Actually, he found the movie to be a blessing in disguise when their pizza came, because it gave him a convienent excuse not to speak with his mother about uncomfortable topics neither of them could fix or currently wanted to address.
He managed to sit through the whole thing, Sam narrating every line and everything, before his mother switched off the television as she announced it to be bed time for both her boys, Sam protesting her words with a groan and whimsy excuses.
"But I haven't seen Dean in ages! Can't we stay up a bit longer?" He whined, Dean quietly amused by the puppy-dog-eye expression his mother so obviously wanted to melt at.
"No, Sam." She shook her head, deliberately tearing her eyes away from him. "Dean's had a long day today and so have you. You two can catch up tomorrow."
"Fine…" Sam rolled his eyes with a huff, but conceded to her words after watching Dean's droopy eyes cast to the blackness beyond the window pane, the older noticing for the first time how dark it had gotten as he stood.
His noisy joints creaked as he lifted himself off the carpet and dusted his greasy pizza-fingers off onto one of his many shirts, suddenly feeling a small, forgotten item in an inner shirt pocket. He knew what it was, even without pulling it out. It was his lighter. A gift from Nick on his fifteenth birthday, though Dean knew it had been stolen, mostly because neither of them had any money of their own and it was the gross yellow kind that one could find for two bucks out the front of a convenience store.
"Hey, uhh…" he glanced at Sam and then at his mom, before dropping his gaze to the ugly, patchy carpet. "I'm just going to step outside for a bit, get some fresh air and all that, you know." Sam nodded unsuspectingly, though his mother watched him with a furrowed look of concern as he left the room and made his way out onto the porch.
Dean found that the heat of the summer day still hadn't dissipated despite the velvet darkness that engulfed every side of the veranda, but that didn't bother him. The little silver stars that dotted the clear night sky were relaxing to look out at as he pulled a single cigarette from his jeans pocket and a cheap lighter from his shirt. He lit the end of his stick and took a quick drag as he restored the daffodil-coloured lighter to his pants. This was the last cig from that carton. Nick had given it to him before he'd left, but it was weird to know he'd never see that guy again. He had a new life now.
Inhaling again, Dean closed his eyes. Nick had truly been a friend, he could say that retrospectively, but Nick had been dealing with issues of his own so a lot of the time he'd been a hard guy to deal with. Perhaps that was why they'd gotten on so well. The two of them had shared their stories to each other and they'd bandaged each other up on the odd occasion, Nick literally bandaging and Dean emotionally acting as a plaster. He'd told Nick so many times that he thought his dad was going to kill him, maybe Nick finally believed he had been. Dean had been gone for over two weeks now, longer than he'd ever disappeared without explanation, and he kind of felt guilty that Nick didn't know. He would send word if he knew where Nick lived, or even phone him if he knew his number, but neither of them had enquired about these things. They'd never thought they would need to. They'd always assumed they be driving down the highway to hell together, but somehow, he'd been raised from perdition all by his lonesome and Nick was still stuck in hell. Though, for all Dean knew, he might have been thrown from the frying pan and into the fire, pulled from hell only to be pushed into purgatory.
"I thought I might find you out here."
Dean jumped, the cigarette dropping from between his fingers and onto the porch where he immediately stamped it out with the heel of his foot, knowing already that he'd been caught. Two weeks and he'd already lost the ability to hear someone approaching, good god, he was letting himself down. The him from a year ago would be ashamed. His reflexes had been lightning quick back then, now they were piss poor!
"Michael!" He jerked back in shock, the name escaping his lips without any of its usual venom. He'd been lacing every word with poison when he'd spoken to Michael or his mother, and he scowled at the rookie mistake. If he started speaking kindly, they might try and put an effort in, and that wasn't what he wanted. They could stay in their world, he'd stay in his, everything would work out great and then he'd graduate and they'd never need to see his ugly mug again.
"Don't worry," the older winked reassuringly, "I won't tell your mom about your smokes."
"I-I'm not worried about that." He spat defensively, shooting his gaze away from his mom's new husband as the aforementioned rested his folded forearms on the porch railing and stared out at the same manicured lawn that Dean and Castiel had earlier that day.
Michael gave a single huff of unconvinced amusement and looked up at the stars too, a silence settling between them and surprising Dean when he found it a rather comfortable one.
"I know this is hard for you, kid." The older said, breaking the quiet once more.
Dean simply rolled his eyes and shook his head, taking a seat on the bench behind him.
"You know, you're not the first person to tell me that today." He replied expressionlessly, crossing his left leg over his right.
"I know," Michael nodded understandingly. "But I mean it, Dean. I may not know what life was like at your dad's, but from that healing bruise on your face, I can only assume it wasn't a party."
"Yeah, well what would any of you know." He sagged, memories of the past swimming to the front of his mind. "It was a freakin' huge party every day, I mean, there was alcohol and whack the pinata was a daily game for my dad, of course, heh, I was the fucking pinata."
Michael sighed as he turned around to give Dean a sympathetic gaze. Not that Dean wanted this guy's sympathies. Honestly, having people stare at him like he was either a kicked dog or an explosive waiting to go off was getting tiring and he knew it would only get worse from here. He'd have to go to school eventually; what would the kids say when he showed up looking like he'd been in a prize fight with a bull? This was a small town as it was. People were going to talk, no matter what he did. He'd just have to keep his head down, try not to start any fights or make any friends. It was going to be a long and lonely haul, but he was confident he could make it through two and a half years of school without ticking any of those boxes.
"You don't like me." Michael half sighed, running a hand through his brown locks as he pulled a wry smile at the ground.
"Can you blame me?" Dean snorted. Geez, he'd just met the man, of course he wasn't going to take to him right away. Not that Dean would ever like the man, but still, the point remained.
"It's not just me though, is it?" Michael continued, as though he hadn't heard Dean at all. "Your mom… you don't like her either… why is that, Dean?"
Dean growled, a rumbling rising in his throat as he realised what Michael was doing.
"Okay," he declared harshly, standing loudly by stamping his foot on the planks of the deck, fed up with the invasive questions Michael asked in his infuriatingly calm voice. "I'm done with this therapy session Dr. Phil. Go find someone else to psychoanalyse! I'm not here for your kicks, alright?! I just want to hurry up and get out of this hell-hole so people will stop looking at me like I'm some freak show or a fucking wounded animal!"
"Dean," Michael protested, annoying Dean with how calm he remained. "You've got me all wrong, I'm not trying to―"
"Please!" He scoffed, cutting him off. "Spare me your well-intentioned words, we both know they're not true."
"I mean it." Michael protested further. "Dean, this is your home now. Your Mom and I just want you to be happy here, but you need to tell us if you're not. Tell us if you're unhappy. You're family."
All the younger could do was frown and refrain from continuing this pointless conversation. There was no way Michael meant those words. How stupid did he think Dean was? Hell, he hadn't been born yesterday!
"Whatever," he huffed, turning back to the front door and away from Michael. "You're the only one that thinks that anyway."
Dean grabbed hold of the door knob and returned inside, leaving a worried and conflicted Michael alone on the porch. He wasn't going to play games, not here, not with these people. Family? Please! They weren't family. Family didn't end in blood, but didn't start there either. Family, Dean had learned, was who was there when it counted. Family had your back. So Michael could take his stripper-glitter coated words and stick 'em where the sun didn't shine, because he sure as hell wasn't about to ride off into the sunset and daisy filled meadow and pretend this was his happy ending. Happy endings didn't exist, they were figments of the imagination and Dean didn't need anymore fantasies, he'd clung to those for too long already. In reality, it was more like he needed to wake up, see what was in front of him rather than allow his daydreams about a glorious, blessed, untroubled life that, in essence, didn't exist, take over the empty space in his mind.
Walking back through the front door, his mother instantly spotted him, informing him she'd show him to his room with a smile on her face that seemed a little broad for it to be genuine. Dean didn't object her offer, even though he was itching for a confrontation with her also and still feeling pleased about the state of shock he'd left Michael in. But, he let it go, too exhausted to have an argument now. Instead, he simply trudged after her, following up the staircase and through the first plain white door on the right. He already suspected she'd been listening to Michael and his conversation, and though he wasn't sure how―maybe she'd opened a window or something―the look in her eye told him she knew. She'd heard every word he'd said, but she was trying very hard to pretend it didn't upset her, at least a little, though God only knew why it would. Dean constantly needed to remind himself that this was the woman who'd abandoned him with the devil incarnate and left him to fend for himself in a world made up of demons. He needed to remember that every time she smiled softly at him or offered him a kind word, because she'd crushed and shredded his heart before, and it was so bloody and painful every time he had to stitch and sew himself back up. He wasn't a ragdoll, though the world was trying its damnedest to turn him into one.
The room Mary showed him to was, for the most part, bare, but it was still more than he'd had in a long time. Spacious, clean, no trace of the funky smell that he knew from experience to be rotting rat. After spotting his out-of-place looking duffel in the corner of the room, Dean admitted to himself that it was… nice, though he immediately understood that this had been the spare room up until he'd arrived unannounced this afternoon anyway.
It took him less than three seconds to make it from the doorway to the bed and he flopped down onto it with an audible huff, his bangs rudely falling into his eyes. Yeah, he'd definitely need to cut his hair tomorrow, he remembered why he hated it long now, but he'd kept it this way in hopes that it might cover a least a little of his bruised eye. Fat lot of good that was doing though…
"Hey, Dean?"
Jerkily, he pushed himself upright and was surprised to see his mother still standing in the entranceway. He'd thought she would run off as quickly as she could, so it surprised him when she approached his bed and nestled herself at the foot, gaze downcast toward the floor.
"Dean do you…?" She quickly trailed off, obviously steeling herself, pushing to say the words and not dash off like a coward, though with a shaky breath, she managed to finish the full sentence.
"Dean do you really hate me?"
She looked up at him with desperation in his eyes, but he couldn't bring himself to deny or confirm it. He hadn't wanted her to know, didn't want her to work it out. Somewhere deep inside, he hadn't wanted to hurt her like this, by out rightly verbalising the words. He chose instead to say nothing, but what was left unspoken in that silence was as good as an answer anyway; he couldn't forgive her for what she'd done.
Rising from the creaking bed, she whispered a soft 'goodnight', flicked out the lights and closed the door with a soft click, the atmosphere heavy and taut with something that could only be described as a feeling of wounded hurt. He snuggled under the covers, mind pouring over the conversation and sleep refusing its presence, regardless of how he wished he could just fall into that blissful oblivion of black where unconsciousness would provide temporary relief from reality. He hadn't thought his mother's expression would cut him as deep as it had. He'd thought he could take it, but he had been wrong. He'd probably said a little too much to Michael earlier too, admitted too much. Dean was playing the game, or, at least he was trying, but he didn't want to complicate things by pretending to see feelings that weren't really there. Michael had said he was family, that his mom wanted him to be happy here, but while they were all good intentions, Dean just couldn't see them lasting. They'd quickly see what he was, a bitter, broken child who had no intention of repairing what was damaged, because there was zero possibility of him ever trusting them, and that was the basis of any relationship.