Title: Five Boys Dean Never Was(And One Man We're Glad He Never Became)
Disclaimer: Not my characters except for the ones who are. Just for fun.
Warnings: AU in every regard; implied child abuse; character death
Pairings: John/Mary
Rating: PG13
Wordcount: 1265
Point of view: third
5
"Mommy!"
Mary looked up from the cookie dough she was making towards the den where her children played. "Dean?" she called.
"Mommy!" he shouted again. "C'mere and see what Sammy's doin'!"
She smiled and lowered the cup of flour, wiped her hands on a towel. Dean watched Sammy like a hawk and every time her baby did anything—walked, moved his head, laughed, pooped, said his nonsense words—he would tell her or his daddy to come see. It was adorable how enamored, how protective Dean was.
Mary walked into the living room and saw Dean crouched near Sammy, who was on his back, kicking his legs and waving his arms, laughing softly.
Dean smiled up at her. "He's a sillyhead, Mommy," he told her, unable to contain his own smile.
She grinned and leaned down to pick him up. "You're a good big brother, Dean," she said and spun around, making him laugh, too.
Mary lowered him back to the floor and asked, "You wanna finish the dough, baby?" He nodded empathically and she gestured towards the kitchen. "Go on, then, love. I'll get Sammy and be right there." Dean rushed off and she picked up her youngest, the knowledge that she had the best sons in the world filling her with joy.
8
Cassandra watched the boys. This batch probably wouldn't be any better than the others, but she always hoped. The previous supervisor for this house had told her that hope would run her down quicker than anything else, but Cassandra kept on at it anyway.
Daddy always said she was a fool.
Four new boys were ushered into the house, ages six to ten, followed by Mr. Johnson. Johnson always creeped her out, but she had no proof of anything so she never told anyone. There was one six-year-old, one eight-year-old, and two ten-year-olds. The six-year-old was small, clutching a ragged bear close. The ten-year-olds were big, both tall for their age, and wide—brothers, Cassandra expected, fraternal twins. At least they had each other. And the last boy, silent and still. Most children, no matter their gender, circumstances, or age, always moved, some part of their body in constant motion. But this one…
Mr. Johnson handed her four files and smiled at the boys before hurrying out.
She set the files on the coffee table and sank onto the couch, observing them as she picked one of the folders up. The six-year-old curled up on the floor in the corner, pulling the bear up to his chin. The brothers settled onto the love-seat and started a conversation; from what she could understand, it'd been going on for a while. The eight-year-old continued standing just inside the door, staring at nothing she could see.
By chance, the folder she started reading was his. She sucked in a breath as she skimmed his past: his entire family, mother and father and brother, was killed in a car crash on the way home from the hospital after his brother was born. He was then shuffled from one aunt or uncle to the next till he was found wandering the street. Poor boy. She looked up as she murmured his name and met his hazel eyes. He was solemn, resigned. She tried to smile but found that she couldn't.
Hope will kill you, Monica had told her. Cassandra could see this child was already dead inside.
12
John threw the glass bottle against the wall and smiled when it shattered. He sank back into his chair and yelled, "Boy! Bring me another beer!"
He heard the fridge open and shut softly, then a bottle was pressed into his hand. The boy tried to slink away, but John grabbed his shoulder.
The boy had grown again. John tried to recall his name or anything about him. Hs mind remained blank, though—but beautiful hazel eyes and blond hair flashed at him for a moment before the drunken haze chased them away.
John tightened his grip on the boy's shoulder and asked, "Who are you?"
Hazel eyes wide with something he no longer had the capability of recognizing shone at him. "Dean, sir," the boy whispered and slowly pulled away.
John let him go, opened the bottle, and drained half in one gulp.
15
The house was quiet. Sam softly shuffled down the stairs, hoping Mom would stay asleep. Once he hit the first floor, he moved quickly; if he could reach the door, he was home free.
Behind him, something scuffed against the wall. "Going somewhere, little brother?"
Sam turned, though he knew he shouldn't, knew he should keep on, ignore the voice, the vision—
Dean was dead. Mom told him so, it was all in his head, and the shrinks said the same thing.
But Sam looked anyway. He was taller than Dean now. Taller and broader.
Older.
Sam had just turned sixteen, but Dean grinned at him, forever fifteen.
17
Daniel couldn't wait for the day to be over. Last day before Winter Break always took forever to pass. The students grumbled and couldn't sit still, and the teachers weren't much better.
But finally, the final period rolled up. One more hour and no students until January.
He watched the kids trudge in, all seniors. Seventh hour study hall—almost no work was ever done and half of them weren't even there the majority of the time.
But Daniel could always count on one student to do all his assignments. Then the boy would pull out a book and read the remainder of the time, or he'd offer to help grade papers. Sometimes, he'd open a notebook and start writing. Daniel knew a bright future awaited him; he was the best baseball player the school'd ever had.
Studious and sporty—if one let him down, the other'd save him. Daniel knew it.
But sometimes, he watched Dean and wondered why the boy didn't seem happier. He was the only child, with two devoted parents.
The day was almost over; Christmas hovered just out of reach. Maybe Dean would return after the new year with a smile.
Daniel doubted it.
23
Melanie knows someone's following her. Dad warned her, but she didn't listen. A mafia princess trying to escape her past—no one here knows who she is, what she's running from.
Dad kept his promise—no one's guarding her. How could she have been so stupid?
She picks up the pace; once she reaches her apartment, she'll be fine. She's only nineteen—she can't die.
Bullshit.
Melanie starts running and laughter fills the night around her. There's a soft pop, almost unnoticeable, but then pain blooms in her right leg. It's the worst thing she's ever felt, and fire shoots up from her calf to her head and back down. She falls hard, unable to even scream, the hurt is so much.
Somehow, she notices the man kneeling next to her. Over the roaring in her ears, she hears him say, "'lo, Melanie."
She's nineteen and she's not immortal. She doesn't listen as he explains why he has to kill her and make it hurt. He elaborates with something about a message and money, but she's never been interested in Dad's business. Death doesn't change that.
She's nineteen and she's not invincible. The world around her is dark and cold, and he doesn't apologize, that much she knows. She looks up at him, numb to everything, and what she pulls with her into the abyss is how unfeeling his hazel eyes are.
In another person, she might have called them beautiful.