(Warning for non-graphic child violence.)

1984

Dean was five years old the last time he saw his father.

He remembers the man with a shock of dark blue over the side of his face, like war paint: the blurry edge of a leg in jeans, the Great Wall of Miss Missouri, impenetrable and keeping him from rushing back to his daddy's side.

"You really think leavin' them now is best?" Miss Missouri had a gentle voice, but it came serious now, like Mommy's would when Dean tried to jump down the last five stairs. "I know, John. I can sense what you're feelin'. It's hard for you. But these boys need you here. It ain't been long enough since—" Her plush lips tightened, chin going strong. Dean wondered why grownups were so afraid to talk about the fire.

Daddy breathed out hard. "People are gettin' hurt. Someone should do somethin' about it."

"But there's other people, John. Other hunters. It don't have to be you."

Dean wasn't sure what they were talking about, but Miss Missouri's voice didn't sound quite so gentle anymore. Daddy opened his mouth, but Miss Missouri cut him a look that made his mouth close again. She continued, "This ain't a one-time deal. Now, this thing may be what killed your wife, and it may not be, but either way, you kill it, and this life will never let you go. Evil will always follow you."

Daddy's face went heavy beneath his rumpled brow, and Dean remembers thinking that the man got really old really fast. He was too young to know that if time eats a guy slowly, then grief does it like a fucking piranha.

"I can't just stand here, doin' nothin'."

Miss Missouri put a hand on her broad hip. "I'm not askin' you to just stand there. I'm askin' you to take care of these boys." She gave Dean a firm pat on the back of the head, as if for emphasis. He squeaked.

A sharp breath inward, then Daddy shook his head. "I don't see how you can tell me the truth about- about what's out there, what's under beds and in shadows, and expect me not to—"

"Someone else can take care of it." Miss Missouri's voice was a little higher, a little more insistent. Dean still had no idea what they were talking about, but he did know that Miss Missouri would have smacked him with a spoon by now if she kept having to tell him the same thing over and over like this.

Daddy jerked his head sharp from side to side and ran a big hand over his face. "No. It has to be me. Another fire in town, within just a few months… that can't be a coincidence. I gotta be there. If some kind of- if some thing is behind this, I wanna be the one who—"

"John Winchester, killin' the evil that did this will not put your family back together. You bein' here with these boys will." Though she had been looking fierce at Daddy for the last several minutes, Miss Missouri turned to Dean now, and her eyes were soft beneath the shade of her springy hair. Dean wanted to hide under there with her, just hide forever from everything, from his suddenly old-and-tired daddy, from the way Sammy cried more now, from the phantom smell of the fire eating their house.

"I can't rest 'till I know it's gone," Daddy said. He shifted on his feet and threw a glance at the nighttime behind Miss Missouri's old screen door.

Once she broke her eyes away from Dean, Miss Missouri turned back to Daddy and frowned when she follows his gaze. "Not tonight, John. Please, at least wait 'till the police are gone, let me walk through the house, see if I sense anything. If it's just a fire—"

"How can it be 'just a fire'?" Daddy cried, throwing his hands out to the sides. He looked bearish, bigger than Dean had ever seen him. "Right here in Lawrence, family of four, fire burnt it almost to the ground. Only difference is—" His eyes fell to Dean, big and, if Dean didn't know better, scared, "the kids didn't survive, but Missouri—"

"You gotta at least wait out the police. You get arrested snoopin' around in there, and these boys won't have a soul in the world!" (Daddy looked away from Dean like it was hurting him.) "Wait 'till it's clear, John, I'm beggin' you."

"But whatever did this might be gone by then, and—"

"Boy, you can't just—"

At that moment a wail cut the room, and the fighting broke off into two grownups sighing away their anger. Sammy continued to cry for a long moment before Miss Missouri huffed and made for the stairs. The moment she moved, Dean bolted across the room. He remembers, more clearly than anything, the burn of Daddy's jeans twisting under his chubby fingers.

"Hey, Tiger." Daddy knelt beside him, great hand on his tiny shoulder. "You shouldn't be hearin' this. You better get to bed."

"Daddy, I don't want you to go," Dean said, a plea more than a statement.

These days he'd become familiar with the way grownups hid what they were really feeling, and the bit of work Daddy pulled with the corner of his mouth and the tightening of his shoulders was shoddy at best. "I'll be back soon, Dean," he said. "Miss Missouri's gonna take good care of you, okay?"

"Okay," Dean peeped, not so much out of agreement as out of duty. He would be okay for Daddy. He had to be. Daddy nodded then pulled him into a hug.

It was then that Miss Missouri came clumping down the stairs with a mess of breathing blankets over her shoulder, Sammy somewhere inside. She stepped up close to Daddy with a frowning face. The sounds of a toddler breathing through a stopped-up nose fell frail and erratic over the room. Daddy stood up.

"John, please—"

"No. I have to." And that was it. Daddy turned and left, the screen smacking the frame behind him. By the time Miss Missouri got outside, Dean stumbling at her heels, the gleam of the Impala was slipping out of the porchlight, and Dean's daddy became nothing but the sound of an engine swallowed up by the symphony of cicadas.

Missouri dropped a sharp "Damn," and Sammy whimpered. Then they stood there, silent in the dirge of scrapes and chirps. The wind weaseled up Dean's too-big T-shirt and whipped his hair, stung his eyes. But he couldn't cry. Even then, he knew he couldn't. Not in front of Miss Missouri. Not in front of Sammy.

He did not cry until six days later.

Midnight hung chilly in the February air, and Dean had just woken, gasping, from a dream about Sammy crying and Daddy in front of the roaring fireplace, back turned, doing nothing about it. He wanted to run upstairs and join Miss Missouri in her bed, but the cold bullied him into staying. The heavy blanket she had lined the couch with rested soft and warm beneath his body; his hands fisted into it as he pretended it was the same as his racecar sheets at home. After asking Daddy about the racecar sheets and getting only a head-shake in reply, he guessed he was going to have to settle with boring stuff on his bed from now on. He wondered if Sammy missed his clown sheets.

A creak turned his head toward the front door. The screen and the solid door were shut, but after a series of quiet clicking and scraping sounds, the solid door opened and moonlight began to pop through the screen in little beams. Dean watched, blinking sleep out of his eyes. Slowly, slowly, a big shape sliced through the moonlight, a shape with a ruffled head and big shoulders.

Dean sat up. "Daddy?"

The shape stopped, then pushed the screen door open slowly. Dean shivered at the sound of the hinges.

"Dean?" Daddy asked, like he really wasn't sure. "That you?"

Frowning, Dean pushed his blankets down to his sock-feet, even though it was cold. "Yes sir," he said. "Daddy, are you back from your trip?"

The shape of Daddy stepped inside and guided the screen door slowly shut, so it wouldn't bang the frame. "Yeah, yeah. Hey, come give your old man a hug, huh?"

Dean couldn't have reached to his daddy's arms faster if there had been coals under his feet. He threw a hug around the man's middle, fingers twisting into the familiar half-chafed leather of his jacket. Big arms came around him in return, and Dean had just barely realized that they brought with them a not-quite-right smell when he was hefted from the ground and half-dragged, half-carried out onto the front porch.

"Daddy—" he squeaked, then was silenced by a callused hand on his mouth and nose. Sweat and body heat pushed stifling against his lungs, making him jerk in alarm, socked feet dampening in the sleet-speckled grass.

"Shut up," Daddy snarled, and Dean couldn't help but obey. Dean's whole body jerked as Daddy broke into a run across the lawn, strong arm pushing hard against Dean's soft middle with every step. A few more bounds and Dean slipped, prepared to tumble to the ground, but snatched by the hand at the last minute and forced to stumble along after. Just as Dean realized they were heading the Impala parked at the curb, a loud click sliced the midnight silence. Daddy swiveled.

"You stop right there, you bastard." Missouri stood with a shotgun trained on them, a too-long T-shirt rippling in the wind over her curvy top, fluttering around her bare thighs.

Pressure cut hard into Dean's throat, sudden and making him gasp as Daddy lifted him from the ground by the neck and held him against his body with an elbow. "Put that gun down," he snarled, "or I'll break his neck."

"I'll shoot you," Miss Missouri said, and her voice was calm. She was not just trying to look scary, Dean thought. She was making a promise.

Dean wanted to throw up. The hold tightened around his neck, and he gagged.

When Daddy spoke, spittle scattered through Dean's hair. "How good is your aim, bitch?"

Missouri closed one eye and leveled the rifle, then there was a bang that rattled the insides of Dean's head and a spray of something warm over his socks.

Daddy shouted, "Fuck!" Then they were moving again, Daddy stumbling and Dean struggling to get away but unable with the arm around his neck. He thrashed and wheezed and even tried to bite, but couldn't gain any leverage, especially as Daddy's stumbling run jerked against his throat.

"No, no, no—" Miss Missouri was shouting as she chased them.

Dean's eyes blurred, but he could just make out the sharp shadows of a fence and a brick wall in front of them. Cornered. They stopped moving, and a low string of swear words simmered into the air above his head. Then Miss Missouri's footsteps crunched behind them and Daddy spun, making Dean dizzy.

"I got you!" Miss Missouri shouted, but she sounded far off. "You're not getting away, now, so you give me that boy!"

Daddy snarled, "Take him," and then the world rushed around Dean, gasping and cold and—

Crack.

Dean had never been hurt beyond a boo-boo here or there, but he knew the moment the brick wall met him that bones were broken. Still gasping for air from being choked, he found himself hitching with sobs, then beginning to wail, unable to handle the fear and the pain and...

Miss Missouri's gentle touch chased him into unconsciousness.

The light hurt his eyes, even though his lids were still shut. It also hurt his arm, and his back, and his side.

No. Wait. Those just hurt by themselves.

"Ngh," Dean said and twisted in his sheets. A frown pulled his (dry, yucky-tasting) mouth. Scratchy sheets. Not the racecar ones.

"Hey, Buddy. Buddy? You with me?"

Wincing at the hurt in his body, Dean turned his head toward the unfamiliar voice. He wanted to see who it was, but… "Too bright," he moaned.

Shuffling, then: "Would you mind turning off these overheads? And give me a moment alone with him, please."

"Sure," said a second voice, then a click and the bright light was gone. At the sound of a door opening and closing, Dean guessed the owner of the second voice had left.

The first voice asked, "Better?"

Dean nodded, though that made his head thunder. Finally, he opened his eyes. The room around him was big and clean and, as he requested, dark. A light shone by the door, but all the others were off, except for machines with dots of flashing red and green. In the sparse illumination he could just identify the place he lay as a bed with rails on the sides, and could see tiles covering the floor and ceiling.

Though his only reference was when he had visited Mommy right after Sammy had been born, he was pretty sure this was a hospital. "Di' I gu hurt?" He didn't know why his tongue wouldn't work, but the owner of the voice seemed to understand him.

"You did, Buddy. How are you feeling?"

It was a battle against the dim room, but Dean fought and finally got a look at the owner of the voice. They were a grownup, tallish and sitting in a plastic chair beside his bed. He could hardly see their face, but their posture was straight and their clothes tidy.

"M'okay. Who're ya?" Dean croaked.

"You can call me Terry." There was a clipboard in their— Terry's— hands. Dean stared at it, instead of at Terry's darkened face. "I'm here to ask you a few questions, okay? Can you help me by answering them?"

Dean shrugged, and realized for the first time that he could only move one arm. He jerked and looked to see what was the matter, finding a fat splint weighing him down. Terry watched him, then said in a kind voice, "Don't worry. You're going to be just fine. When I'm done asking questions, the doctor is going to come talk to you. Alright?"

Moistness gathered at the corners of Dean's eyes, but he didn't want to cry. He sniffled loudly. "'Kay."

"Good," said Terry, and flipped to the next page on the clipboard. "What's your name?"

A rattling moment passed in which Dean could not remember. Then it came to him, and he let it out with a huff of air: "Dean Winchester."

"Good, good. What are your parents' names, Dean?"

Though most grown-ups seemed to like to know that Dean's mommy was in Heaven, he didn't want to talk about that. He didn't want to talk about her at all, right now. So he simply said, "John Winchester."

Terry stilled a moment, said, "Hm," and wrote something down. "Alright, Dean. You have some broken bones, and you hit your head. Can you tell me how that happened?"

For a moment, Dean couldn't remember. He tried, but all he recalled was going to sleep on Miss Missouri's couch after a glass of milk. His bottom lip quivered, and he sucked a breath into his nose, trying to be still. "I don'— I don' 'member," he whimpered.

Terry put a hand on Dean's cast. "That's okay. Don't worry. How about this: do you remember who was there when you got hurt?"

That was a little easier. Dean's chest hitched a few times, stoking pain in his side. He winced and made a high noise, but that wasn't important. He had to answer Terry's questions. "Um- I-I think Daddy w's there. An' Miss M'ss'ri." Pausing to think, he lay as still as possible lest the stabbing in his side come back. Briefly he wondered if he had a giant, gaping owie that would turn into a cool scar. "An' Sammy," he added, because he wasn't sure whether Sammy was there or not, but he didn't want to forget his baby brother.

"Hmm," Terry said and wrote something on the clipboard. "What was your daddy doing when you got hurt, Dean?"

"Um—" Dean began, and then he remembered. Creaking screen door, arm against his windpipe, spit in his hair. He shot straight up, then cried out at the mixture of pain in his side and dizziness in his head. He began to gasp, even though it hurt to do so, and felt tears wet against his lips. Terry put a gentle hand to his chest, and it helped him to stop wheezing, but all he could think of were Daddy's harsh hands, his mean words—

"Dean, it's okay. You're safe, now. Nothing bad is going to happen to you. I'm here to keep you safe. You can tell me what happened." Terry's voice soothed slow and steady and like one of Mommy's lullabies over Dean's ears.

He liked what Terry said, but he didn't think it was true. He felt like a lot of bad things could happen to him. Had happened to him. Werehappening to him. Maybe Terry would tell him he was confused, that it was all a mistake. An accident. "Daddy came 'n the middle 'f th' night," he whimpered finally, blinking big, hot tears away. "He wantedta hug me, but then he— he grabbed me, 'n then he was chokin' me, an' Miss M'ss'ri pointed a-a gun at us—"

"A gun?" Terry asked, and for the first time there was something not-calm in that voice. It made Dean's tummy twist up. "Did she shoot the gun at you?"

"No," Dean moaned, then was angry that his voice wouldn't go any stronger. "Daddy said- said he's gonna break m'neck, 'n Miss M'ss'ri— she shot 'im. Shot 'im in th'leg, I-I think. He walked funny."

Terry began to scribble violently on the clipboard. Dean didn't like how it sounded, sharp and urgent. "And then?"

"He—" Dean didn't want to say it. It didn't seem true, didn't feel right. Maybe he imagined it. "I-I dunno." Shaking his head, he clung to the scratchy sheet with his good hand.

The hand that Terry had put to his chest before moved to his shoulder this time. Dean couldn't see Terry's face in the darkness. He wondered if it was sad. "You can tell me, Dean," Terry said. "It's okay. Just tell me what happened."

Dean shuddered and let out a single sob, then shook his head. He felt like the rabbit from Bambi sat on his brain, thumping away. "I dunno! I dunno."

"That's okay. You don't have to know. You can tell me even if you're not sure."

The thing that made Dean scared was that he was sure. "Threw me atta wall," he whispered finally. "But he-he dinn't mean 'ta."

For the first time, Dean glimpsed movement against the darkness of Terry's face: a mouth going flat. "And who is Sammy?" Pen tip intensified against paper grain. "Did Sammy come there with your daddy?"

This time Dean remembered not to shake his head before he did it. Everything inside his brain still throbbed. "No. No. Sammy's m'brother."

The scribbling stopped. Terry looked up. "Your older brother?"

"Nu-uh. M'baby brother."

Stillness. Dean saw Terry's eyes, huge and round. Then, "Just a moment, Dean. I need to go talk to someone. The doctor will be in here in just a moment, okay?" And before Dean could respond, Terry stood and rushed out, leaving the door ajar.

Dean sat alone and tried not to cry, because it hurt his ribs. When the doctor came in, she commended him for being strong and brave (though he did not feel either). Then she spoke about his broken arm and ribs, and told him about something in his head called a "percussion," but he did not understand. All he knew was that Daddy hurt him, and now he was alone. He tried asking the doctor where Sammy was, but she just gave him a fake grown-up smile and said,

"They'll find him, honey."

Which only scared him more, because did that mean Sammy was lost?

After doing several pinchy things to the tubes that stuck into Dean's arms (he felt like a robot), the doctor left, and Dean was alone. Exhausted, sad and medicated, he was left with little choice but to drift to sleep. He woke fitfully and frequently, sometimes finding the room shared with a nurse in a bright shirt, or a doctor in a white coat, or other people like Terry in tidy clothes. Through the haze of slumber and Morphine, he heard snatches of grown-up speak, things like assault of a minor, possible attempted kidnap, white male, thirties, limping, wounded, and have the state police looking. Sometimes people tried to speak to him, ask him things, but he didn't want to listen, so instead he stared past them at the wall or closed his eyes tight.

The next time he awoke fully, the room was empty except for Daddy standing there.

He wore big sunglasses and a baseball hat like the one he used to put on when they'd play catch. When Dean's eyes opened all the way, Daddy shed the glasses.

"Dean, Dean, baby— hey, you okay?"

Dean had never felt like this. He wanted to jump out of the bed and grab his daddy by the neck, hug him tight. But he also wanted to turn away and never see him again. Instead, he gulped hard.

"Daddy, where'sSammy?"

A gleam hit Daddy's eyes, wetness that clung a moment to his lower eyelashes then slipped away to join his beard. He pressed his lips together. "He's- he's okay. I got him. He's safe."

Dean pulled a sharp breath, wincing when it disturbed his stinging side. Daddy noticed, and shuddered.

"Oh, Dean." His voice was all scrapey. "God, what did—?"

"M'okay, Daddy," Dean said, not because it was true but because he hated that look on Daddy's face, a look he had never seen before Mommy was gone, and had certainly never seen directed at him. "Can I g'home?"

"No," Daddy whispered and shook his head. It seemed like he was trying to smile, but instead his face twisted up and his tears fell thicker. He put one hand on Dean's shoulder and the other on his face, and Dean tried to pull away, but his father's touch was too warm, too insistent. Daddy made a scoffing sound, a failure to laugh. "I'm so sorry, Tiger. I wish you could. I wish— G-od." His voice did this odd quivering crack. Dean didn't know what it meant, only that it make his chest get tight.

"What? Why can't I g'home?" he asked. "Daddy, I wanna g'home. I wanna see Sammy'n get outta here—"

"No, Dean." Daddy's voice shattered again, and now his great shoulders heaved. He drew in a trembling breath. "Oh, God, I'm so sorry. I have to say goodbye, now, okay?"

Dean's entire world stuttered between the forgotten beats of his little heart. He couldn't breathe.

"I love you, Dean. Okay? I love you." Daddy ran a thumb over Dean's face. "I love you so much."

"Where are you going?" Dean asked, the only thought he could catch long enough to pin to his tongue.

But Daddy just shook his head. "I'm so sorry, baby. I love you. Don't forget that. Never forget that." He pressed a stubble-harsh kiss to Dean's forehead, then put the sunglasses back on and turned for the door.

"Wait!" Dean gasped and reached out despite the strain of his side. But it didn't matter. Daddy was gone, quick as blinking.

Dean was five years old the last time he saw his father.