Title: These Lives That Could've Been Are All the Same
Fandom: SPN
Author: Gina44144 relli86
Rating: PG-13. Swearing, child abuse and implied underage non-con (non-graphic), somewhat dark (for me) themes.
Words: 5,562
Spoilers: None
Characters/Pairings: Gen, preseries and AU. Dean, Sam, and John.
Summary: Five ways Dean never saved Sam, but would have, if he had to.
Disclaimer: Sadly, I do not own the Winchesters or Supernatural, no matter how much I may want to.
Author's Note: A huge thank you to gwendolyngrace for her helpful and insightful beta!
I. Transference
For as long as Dean can remember, he's had this thing. He doesn't know how to describe it; he can't even understand it.
When he's four years old, their next door neighbor runs over a baby rabbit with his lawnmower. Dean's playing in the yard, hitting a wiffle ball off of a plastic tee. The ball rolls into the neighbor's yard, and when Dean runs to get it, he sees the bunny get shredded by the lawnmower.
Dean screams and runs to the bunny, dropping to his knees beside it as their neighbor shuts off the lawnmower. Dean looks at the little brown and white bunny, its fur stained with blood, one of its ears missing, its stomach torn open. Dean puts his hands on the bunny, trying to put its insides back inside, and wishes that it would be okay.
"Hey kid," he hears the neighbor man say, "I wouldn't do that."
Dean ignores the man and keeps his hands on the baby rabbit. He feels his hands start to tingle and wishes harder for the bunny to live.
"Dean!" he hears Mommy yell, "Don't touch that!"
Dean feels the bunny twitch under his hands before Mommy's there pulling his hands away from the it. "Wait, Mommy," Dean tells her, "just a little bit longer."
Mommy stands up with Dean in her arms. "Baby, you can't touch dead animals. You could get sick."
Dean looks down at the bunny as Mommy carries him away. Its stomach is almost healed and its ear is half re-grown, but it's not enough. It's still dead.
Afterwards, Dean gets sick for a week: a severe ear infection, colitis, and a fever that peaked at 103. Mommy thinks he got some disease from the bunny; Dean knows it's not true.
At seven, Dean brings a bird back to life after it flies into their motel window. He can't move his neck for two weeks, and Dad's convinced he has meningitis.
At nine, Dean watches a snowplow hit a dog and send it flying ten feet into a pile of snow. Dean places his hand on the dog's broken leg and feels the pain ripple through him. When he comes limping home, leg broken in three places, he tells Dad he fell out of a tree.
After the dog, Dean's afraid of his thing for a few years. He's not sure what it means or how it works. And as much as he wants to heal animals, people, he can't help Dad or take care of Sam when he's got a broken leg or arm or is sick in bed for weeks.
He doesn't use it again until he's thirteen and he and Dad are exorcizing a five-year-old girl. Dean knows that the younger the possessed are the less likely that they'll survive the exorcism. The demon hasn't been gentle with its host either; the little girl's got cuts and a dislocated shoulder and probably some internal injuries.
Dean's never done this with a person before, but the little girl's going to die and Dean can't let it happen. Blocking out Dad's orders to Get the hell back here, Dean crosses the salt line and kneels next to the girl's prone, tied body, places his hands on her tiny chest. He wishes that the demon would leave her, that her injuries would heal, and sees the black streaming from the girl's mouth and right into his own. He feels his shoulder dislocate, a deep pain inside, and then the demon takes over.
When he wakes up, Dean's minus a spleen and a fully functional shoulder. Sammy's curled up next to him on the hospital bed and Dad's staring at him from the chair by the bed.
Dean opens his mouth to try and explain, even though he doesn't know how, but Dad puts his hand up.
"The demon told me," Dad says. "Is it true?"
Dean nods because he's not sure he can speak.
Dad gets up from the chair and pulls Dean against his chest. Dean listens to the beat-beat-beat of Dad's heart, breathes in the scent of gunpowder and salt. "Never again, Dean," Dad says. "I don't care who it is. I can't lose you."
Dean nods, says, "Yes sir," into Dad's chest.
Dean keeps his promise for three years, until he's sixteen and a black dog mauls Sam in the middle of the Montana woods. Sam's only twelve, chubby and terrified, holding onto Dean's shirt and sobbing. "Please, Dean," he cries, as blood gushes out of his mouth, the claw marks in his chest, and the gaping bite in his throat. "I don't want to die."
Dean knows Sam doesn't have much time left. Dad's still hunting the black dog; there's no one around to stop him. He places his hands on Sam's chest and throat, watches as his little brother's blood stains them red. "I've got you, Sammy," Dean says. "You're gonna be fine."
Sam cries harder, tears mixing with his blood, and Dean wishes, Let him be okay. Take me instead.
Everything starts to tingle then hurt, things burst and break inside of him, his blood races out of his body through wounds that have become his own.
Before he dies, he hears Sammy ask, "Dean, what did you do?"
Before he dies, Dean sees Sam healed and whole and just lets go.
II. Responsibility
Dean's got blood on his hands and his clothes, but it's not his own. Technically, some of it is his own, if you consider biology and DNA and genetics and all that. But it didn't come from his veins and that's all that matters.
Dean stares at the blood crusted under his fingernails, the red staining his palms, and wants to wash it away, scrub his hands until they're raw, until it's his blood staining his hands.
"Dean," the voice in front of him says, but Dean can't stop looking down, can't make eye contact.
Hands come down hard on the metal table in front of him, demanding attention. Dean doesn't look up, but stares at the hands instead. They're big and clean and probably haven't done the things Dean's have, even at fourteen.
"Dean," the man repeats, voice stern, an order, but he's not Dad. The thought makes Dean nauseous again and his eyes snap back to his own hands.
"If you don't talk to me, Dean," the man says, "I'm going to have to go talk to Sam. Get some answers from him."
That gets Dean's attention. He lifts his head and glares at the man displaying his police badge on his white-collared shirt. "Sam didn't do anything," Dean bites out, "no matter what he says."
The cop smiles humorlessly and sits down on the chair directly across from Dean. "See, that's the funny thing. Sam says he did it. Shot that man in cold blood. But you and I? I think we both know he's lying."
Dean looks the man in the eye, looks back down. Remembers Sam holding the gun in his hand, fear and anger in his eyes. One shot, right in the heart, and that was it. Dean had been too shocked to move or think, the reality of the situation pressing down on him, making it impossible to breathe. He feels the panic coming back now, tries to fight it back and focus on what has to be done.
"I've seen your school records, Dean," the officer continues. "Fights and troublemaking and so much aggressive behavior it was only a question of when you'd snap, not if. And Sam? Perfect, sociable, smart little kid. If you were me, who would you think capable of murder?"
Dean wants to tell the officer the truth. That it wasn't a man Sam had killed, but a monster. That it wasn't murder, it was saving people, stopping it from killing anyone else. He wants to tell him that it was a silver bullet, that it was a werewolf, that it had killed Dad in front of them. That Dad had died with Dean's hands holding his organs inside.
But that would make Dean crazy and not just an alleged murderer so he gets as close to the truth as he can.
"He killed our dad," Dean whispers, the words foreign on his tongue. "He killed him."
"We found your dad's body. The coroner's saying it was some kind of bear or wild animal attack. How exactly did an unarmed man cause that kind of damage?"
Dean tries to wipe the images from his mind, push back the feeling of Dad's blood gushing like a river out of his body.
Dean doesn't have an answer that won't land him in a padded cell.
"So what happened, Dean? Did you find your dad like that and just lose it? Take out all that anger on a poor, innocent bystander?"
No, jackass, Dean wants to say. The werewolf killed Dad and was going to kill him next. Had leapt towards him while Dean knelt over Dad and then a shot had reported, echoing in the dark woods. The werewolf had fallen in a heap, becoming a man again. Dean had looked up and seen Sam, something empty in his eyes before they filled with fear. Before he started screaming, "Dad! Dad!" over and over again, pleading with Dean to make Dad better, to fix this.
But Dean couldn't.
They hadn't been very far into the woods so the gunshots and screaming had attracted attention. Before Dean could do more than take the gun from Sam and wrap his arms around his brother, the place was flooded with cops trying to understand a scene that was beyond anything they'd ever dealt with.
"Come on, Dean," the cop says again, "tell me the truth."
Sammy's only ten. If the cops find out he did this, they'll put him away for years. Dean knows Sam, knows he wouldn't come out of juvy without leaving most of himself behind. Sammy's smart, gentle, and meant for greater things than a murder wrap and a criminal record. They already believe Dean did it anyway. And he would have, if Sam hadn't gotten there first. Since the cops arrived on the scene, there hadn't been a doubt in Dean's mind about how this was going to go down.
"I did it," Dean lies. "I killed him."
The cop smiles and leans back in his chair, puts his hands behind his head, looking satisfied with himself. "That's what I thought."
When Dean's led away in handcuffs, a cop's holding Sammy back, keeping him from running to Dean.
"I did it!" Sammy screams, tears running down his face, "I did it!"
"Stop it, Sammy," Dean tells him, unable to look away from his baby brother.
"No!" Sammy cries. "Don't leave me too, Dean. Don't leave me!"
"I'm sorry," Dean says through his tears, as the cops drag him further away. "You'll be okay, Sammy, you'll be okay."
Even as the door of the precinct closes shut behind them, Dean can still hear Sammy's sobs. They're on a never-ending loop in his head. They're all he hears in juvy and therapy and the nights where he can't sleep. They don't stop until Dean's twenty five and Sammy's taller than him and they're finally together again to fix the broken things inside of them.
III. Rescue
When Mommy and Daddy put him to bed, Dean can't sleep. He holds onto Puff, his stuffed dragon, and closes his eyes real tight. He tries to find the sheep Daddy told him would be there but he doesn't see them anywhere. It's okay though, because he doesn't really feel like counting anyway. He shifts onto his left side and tucks Puff closer into his chest. He scratches his nose on his baseball pillowcase and cracks an eye open, staring at the door.
Dean wants Mommy, but he knows he has to be a big boy. Sammy cries a lot – all the time – and Daddy says that Mommy needs her sleep whenever she can get it.
But Dean can't help it. His stomach feels funny, all twisted like a pretzel, and no matter how long he keeps his eyes shut, he just can't sleep. He gives it one last try, shuts his open eye and curls himself around Puff, his knees brushing Puff's tail and his chin squishing Puff's soft ear.
After sleep still refuses to come, Dean opens his eyes and stares at the door. He chews on his bottom lip, asks Puff what to do. Puff stares back at him, black, plastic eyes telling him to find Mommy. Dean looks back at the door and sees the small slit of light coming in through the bottom. The light flickers once, twice, and Dean hears footsteps in the hallway. He wants to run out of bed and into the hallway, but he waits, doesn't want to be a baby.
But it doesn't feel right.
When he hears footsteps pounding on the stairs and down the hall, he can't wait any longer. He pushes off his comforter and slides off the bed, bare feet instantly cold on the hardwood floor. Dean rushes to the door, almost trips over his wood tool bench on the floor, and inches up on his tippy-toes to turn the doorknob. He shoves the door open with his other hand and sees the back of Mommy's white nightgown as she goes into Sammy's room.
"Mommy," Dean says, but his voice sounds quiet and small to his own ears.
"Mom . . ." he starts again, but Mommy's scream cuts him off and sends Dean running down the hall.
He skids into Sammy's room and sees Daddy standing by Sammy's bed. Dean hears Mommy say his name behind him and turns. Mommy's halfway up the wall, crying and afraid. Dean doesn't know what to do, doesn't know why Daddy's not doing anything. Mommy's not Spiderman. She can't climb walls so what is she doing up there? As Dean watches, Mommy slides up and onto the ceiling. Her belly turns red and Dean can't look away. But then some of the red starts dripping off Mommy and down towards Sammy. Dean looks towards Daddy to stop this, but Daddy's gone.
Dean doesn't know where Daddy went or how he disappeared but Mommy's on the ceiling and Sammy's afraid and Dean can only reach Sammy. He moves towards Sammy's crib and peeks through the bars, sees red on Sammy's duck blanket.
Dean looks up again, sees Mommy's gray face, her mouth open and eyes wide. "Mommy, why are you up there?" Dean asks, but Mommy's mouth doesn't move at all.
She stares down at Dean, and Dean can see her eyes, fixed and so scared that Dean almost doesn't recognize her. As Dean stares up at Mommy, flames burst out from her body, like rays from the sun, and then swallow Mommy whole. When the fire gets too bright, Dean has to look away and by the time he looks back up, Mommy's gone – where did she go? – and the flames are getting closer to Sammy.
Sammy's crying in his crib and Dean knows he has to get him out, find Mommy and Daddy. He puts a foot between the bars on the crib and onto the mattress and climbs up the side, landing beside Sammy.
He reaches down and picks up Sammy, his arms struggling to lift the baby's weight. But the flames are getting hotter and closer. Dean grunts and pulls until Sammy's flush against his chest, his tears wetting Dean's pajamas. As Dean struggles to lift himself and Sammy over the side of the crib, flames erupt around the crib and Dean screams as his leg catches on fire.
It hurts so bad that Dean can barely think. But he remembers the firemen coming to preschool and telling them to "Stop, drop, and roll." Dean knows he has to drop, but it seems like such a long way from the crib to the ground and Sammy's just a little baby; Dean doesn't want to crush him. The fire moves up to his side and Dean doesn't think anymore. He just heaves himself and Sammy over the side and does his best to cushion Sammy's fall. Dean lands on his back, only a little ways from the spreading flames and sees that Sammy's blanket has caught on fire too. He tightens his hold on Sammy and rolls on the floor, towards the wall and away from the flames.
He rolls and rolls and rolls, screams at the top of his lungs for Mommy and Daddy, cries along with Sammy at the pain he doesn't understand.
Then Daddy's there. Dean can see him through his tears, watches as Daddy rips off his robe and drops beside them, wrapping it around them, patting out the flames.
"Daddy," Dean whispers, his voice broken.
"I've got you, Dean-o. I'll get you out of here," Daddy says, and Dean knows he will.
Daddy lifts them and heads towards the door, but Daddy doesn't understand that Mommy's still in there. On the ceiling or hiding or something, but she's still in the room with the flames.
"Mommy," Dean calls.
They're on the stairs now, and Daddy's practically jumping down them. Dean stares at the door of Sammy's nursery and the flames spitting out from the room.
"Mom-my," Dean screams and Daddy finally hears.
"I'll get her," Daddy says, and Dean knows he won't.
IV. Substitution
Dean's almost nine, Dad's on a hunt, and the Mac'n'Cheese is all gone. Dad left a twenty behind for food so Dean wraps Sammy up in his too-small coat, hoping the scarf and mittens will hide his exposed skin from the cold January weather. He takes the thin, holey pair of gloves for himself and zips up his jacket as far as it can go.
The store's just a few blocks over, but in Michigan, it's already dark at 6:00. Dean takes Sam by the hand and heads out the door, locking it behind them. They make it to the corner store with no problems. It's a small town, but most people shop at the Kroger so the store's practically empty. Dean gets some Chef Boyardee and Mac'n'Cheese and a box of Lucky Charms to stop Sammy's whining. He doesn't notice the man at first; he only realizes someone's watching them when he's paying for the food, handing the twenty over to a teenaged girl with blue hair. He pockets the change, grabs the bag and then Sammy's hand. When he looks back over to where the guy was standing, he's gone and Dean breathes a little easier.
Dean's still more cautious on the way back, looking behind and around them repeatedly and holding Sam close to his side.
"Dean," Sammy whines, "you're squishing my hand."
"That's because you're wearing like five gloves," Dean lies. "I'm not even sure your hand's actually in there."
Sam giggles. "Of course it is! Where else would it go?"
"Sometimes, you like to put it up your nose," Dean teases him absently, unable to quiet his unease. He just wants to get back to the motel, lock and salt the door, and stay up with the shotgun after he puts Sammy to bed. He considers that he's being paranoid, but settles on suspiciously aware.
Sammy's giggling again because yes, that is hilarious – if you're four.
As Sammy chatters on about how he doesn't put his hand in his nose – That's impossible, Dean – but rather his finger, Dean sees the nondescript black car headed down the street in their direction. Dean's heart rate picks up and he pulls Sammy along faster. They're still 4 blocks from the motel, too far for Sammy to run the whole way. Dean thinks maybe the driver's just being cautious on the icy road, but when Dean turns down a street with nothing on it but a few rundown apartments and the car follows, he knows they're in trouble.
"Sam, come on," Dean says, picking up the pace. It's just three blocks now; Sam could make it. When the car speeds up with them, Dean drops the bag and reaches down to his ankle for the knife in his boot.
Sammy watches him with wide eyes. "Dean?"
Dean doesn't want to scare him, but he can't lie about this. "We gotta run, Sammy. It's a race to the motel. Okay?"
Sammy looks like he wants to ask more questions, but he eyes the knife in Dean's hand and then nods. Dean and Sam run, Sam's hand firmly in Dean's grasp. The car following them speeds up and jumps the curb in front of them.
Dean skids to a stop, almost flinging Sam across the ice-covered sidewalk, and changes direction, now just focused on getting away and finding someone to help them.
But Sammy can't find his feet in the cheap K-mart sneakers and slips on the ice, falling down hard and taking Dean with him. Dean loses his grip on the knife and scrambles to find it and his feet at the same time.
"Shit," Dean says, as the man from the car starts running towards them. "Start screaming 'Help,' Sam, as loud as you can."
Sam does as he's told, screaming at the top of his lungs. Dean joins in and locates the knife, picking it up. He hauls himself and Sam to their feet and turns just in time to sink the knife into their attacker's shoulder. The man yells and clutches at his shoulder, pulling out the knife. Dean and Sam take off running again, both of them still screaming for help.
The knife doesn't slow the man down for long. Before they even reach the corner, the man's grabbing at the backs of their jackets, stopping them and lifting them both into his arms. Dean kicks and punches, aims for the bad shoulder. Sam's doing his best, squirming and kicking like a feral animal. They both keep screaming and that seems to drive the man crazy the most.
"Shut up, you little bastards," he growls at them, "or I'll cut your fucking tongues out."
"You can try, you fucking pervert," Dean snarls back, twisting in the man's grasp and digging his fingers into the knife wound in his shoulder. The man yells out again and briefly lets Dean go. Before Dean can free Sam, the man's got a solid grip on Dean's right forearm and starts twisting it painfully. Dean kicks out with his leg, aiming for the man's knee, but the creep moves sharply to avoid the hit, taking Dean's wrist with him. Dean hears the bone snap and it takes a minute to register the pain flooding his nerves.
"Dean!" Sammy cries out. "Leave him alone!"
The man's still holding onto Dean's broken arm, crushing the bones with his grip. He pulls Dean to him and Dean just barely holds back a whimper. "You don't cooperate," the man sneers, "and I'll break every bone in your body. Your brother's, too."
"Leave my brother alone," Dean says through the pain. The man smiles at that – and it's not a good thing – he lets Dean go and takes out Dean's knife from his pocket. "I see how this works," the man says, shifting his hold on Sam and bringing the knife to Sam's throat.
Sam goes quiet instantly and stares at Dean with big, round eyes. Dean stares back helplessly. "Don't hurt him."
The man smirks. "That's what I thought. Now listen up, you little shit, this is how it's gonna go. You're gonna get in that trunk and you're not gonna give me any trouble. You give me trouble and I'll slit this little guy's throat. You got it?"
Dean nods, his mouth suddenly dry, his tongue big and heavy. "Just don't hurt him," he repeats.
"That's up to you, kid. Now move it." The man grabs hold of Dean's arm again, dragging him along. This time, Dean can't stop the gasp of pain. The man laughs cruelly. "Glad it hurts. Stabbed me with a fucking knife, psycho kid," he mutters.
Dean moves as the man drags him, discreetly pulling off his gloves and dropping them on the ground. He kicks off a shoe and hopes that Dad will recognize it, hopes he's giving him some kind of sign to find them.
"You okay, Sammy?" Dean asks.
"Yeah," Sam whispers, "I'm 'kay."
"He's just peachy right here, Dean," the man says, emphasizing his name. "Isn't that right, kiddo?" he asks Sam.
"Eat shit and die," Sam responds and Dean can't help but think, That's my boy.
At Sam's reply, the man pulls harder on Dean's arm, sending a wave of fresh pain through Dean's body. By the time they're at the car, Dean's one tug away from passing out. But he knows this is their last chance to get away. If they get in that car, it's over.
But the man's still holding the knife to Sam's throat and Dean can't risk it, can't risk Sam. "Now, Dean," the man says, as if reading his mind, "no funny business. Why don't you climb into that nice trunk right there and we'll be on our way."
Dean feels helpless and trapped, keeps trying to figure out what Dad would do, what Dad would tell him to do. He can't let Sam out of his sight; he knows that for sure.
"What about my brother?" Dean asks.
"Sammy will be riding up front with me," the man says, a look in his eyes that chills Dean to the bone.
"No," Dean says.
"No?"
"No," Dean repeats. "Sam stays with me."
The man looks from Sam to Dean and then shrugs. Dean barely has time to react before a fist comes from the left, connecting with his temple and knocking him out for the count.
When Dean comes to, Sammy's curled up against him sniffling and shaking, his head buried in Dean's shoulder. They're in a small and dark, concrete room, probably in a basement, with one door and no windows.
"Sammy?" Dean asks groggily.
"Dean!" Sam exclaims, lifting his head and throwing his arms around Dean. "I was so scared. You wouldn't wake up and then I was all alone with the bad man and I didn't know what to do. I want to go home, Dean."
"Me too, Sammy," Dean says, wrapping his good arm around his brother's shoulders. "Did he hurt you while I was out?"
Sammy shakes his head, dropping it back to Dean's shoulder.
"Sammy," Dean repeats, his voice serious.
Sam lifts his head. "No, he didn't do anything, but I don't got a good feeling. He's scary."
"I know," Dean agrees as he rests his chin on the top of Sam's head. "It'll be okay. Dad'll find us."
"Promise?" Sam asks.
Dean swallows, closes his eyes and maybe even prays a little. "Promise."
Dean knows about human monsters, knows what they could what from a little kid like Sam. This pervert won't get that from Sam, Dean swears to himself. He pulls Sam tighter against him.
So when the man comes and tries to pry Sammy from Dean's arms, take him away and take what he wants, Dean protects Sam.
"Take me," he says. "Leave Sam alone and you can have me."
The man stops pulling on Sam and takes in Dean. "You're a little older than I like and far more belligerent," he comments.
Dean swallows the lump in his thought and makes himself say the word. "Please," he whispers, makes the "don't hurt my brother" unspoken.
The man pulls his face into a twisted and cruel smile, reaches down a hand for Dean's bad arm and grabs it harshly. Dean lets out a stifled cry and Sammy refuses to let go. "Don't go, Dean, don't go."
"I'll be back," Dean says around the pain and fear as the man lifts Dean up and disentangles Sam from him. Sam falls to the ground in a heap and tries to run after Dean, but the man closes the door of their little room right in his face.
The man's still got a grip on his broken arm and when Dean can't stop the panic and tries to stop him, the man backhands him across the face and leans down to whisper in Dean's ear. "You keep fighting me and I'll just go get little Sam," the man promises.
Dean stills in his grasp, fights back the sob that almost escapes.
Once they're upstairs, the man starts whispering things and Dean just goes, goes away and blocks it out. Keeps chanting, Protect Sammy, Protect Sammy, over and over again in his head until it becomes Sammy, Sammy, Sammy then Daddy, Daddy, Daddy.
When he comes back to himself, it's two days later and Dad's finally found them. Dean's in a hospital bed, a cast on his arm and Sammy asleep beside him. He looks at Dad sitting by the bed and doesn't even have to ask if the man's dead.
Dad just pulls Dean into his lap and holds him. Dean cries into his shoulder and whispers, "I knew you'd come."
Dad pulls him closer, rests his chin on the top of Dean's head and strokes his back with his hand. "Always," Dad promises, and Dean believes.
V. Destiny
When Dean's three years old, a man with yellow eyes appears in his room late at night. He wants to scream because this is a stranger but the man puts his hand over his mouth and Dean has to struggle just to breathe.
Dean stares up at the yellow eyes and can't help the shiver that runs through his body.
"Hello, Dean," the man says, and Dean wants to ask, How do you know my name? You're a Stranger?
"Oh, Dean," the man whispers, "I'm not a stranger. I've known your Mommy for a long time."
Dean shakes his head and bites the palm covering his mouth. The man hisses but keeps his hand over Dean's mouth. He slaps Dean's face with the other hand, and Dean whimpers at the pain.
"Hush, little baby," the man coos, but it doesn't sound the same as when Mommy says it.
Dean starts kicking with his free legs. The man catches his legs easily with one hand and pins them to mattress. The hand over his mouth tightens, and the man brings his face closer to Dean's.
"Listen to me," the man orders. "You're going to have a baby brother. Your mommy and daddy are making him right now."
Dean doesn't understand. How do you make a baby? Do Mommy and Daddy not want him anymore?
The man smiles, and Dean shivers again. "That's right, Dean. Mommy and Daddy want to try again, have a newer, better baby. They won't need you anymore."
Dean wants to cry – Mommy and Daddy love him, they said it, say it all the time, he doesn't understand – so he does.
"Shh," the man says, frees Dean's legs and uses the hand to wipe away Dean's tears. "I'm here now."
Dean closes his eyes and shakes his head. I want Mommy and Daddy, he screams inside.
"Mommy and Daddy don't want you," the man whispers in his ear.
"I'm going to give you a choice, Dean-o," the man says as he pulls back and forces Dean's eyes open with his fingers.
"You come with me, right now, and Mommy and Daddy and your baby brother get to live." Through his tears, Dean can only make out the man's yellow eyes, but it's enough.
"Or," the man continues, running his hand down Dean's face, "I come back when your baby brother's six months old and kill you all."
Dean wants to wake up from his nightmare, wants the Boogeyman to go away, wants the monster to go back in the closet. But the monster has yellow eyes and his hand is tight against Dean's mouth.
Don't hurt my family, Dean thinks, and the man smiles again, his crooked, yellow teeth the same color as his eyes.
"Let's go, then, Dean-o," the man says, pulling Dean off the bed and into his arms, "I've got a lot to teach you."
Twenty four years later, Dean stands bloody and panting before a 6-4, shaggy-haired kid claiming to be his brother.
Dean snorts, tightens his grip on the blood-coated knife in his hand and presses it more firmly against the neck of the blond girl unconscious in his arms. "You think that means something to me?"
The boy giant – Sam – readjusts his hold on the gun in his hand, finger inching towards the trigger. "Just put the knife down, Dean," Sam says. "Let the girl go. We can fix you. Me and Dad and Mom. This isn't . . ." he pauses, "this isn't how it's supposed to be."
"This," Dean says, pulling the girl tighter against his chest, "this is how it is."
Sam cocks the gun, muscles in his neck tightening.
"Fix me?" Dean laughs and presses the knife against the girl's neck hard enough to draw blood. "This is me."
Sam nods, like he finally gets it. "Dad said," Sam begins and stops. "Dad said if I couldn't save you, I'd have to kill you."
Dean smirks, moves to slit the girl's throat. The last thing he hears is the gunshot.