Trigger warning: references to past child abuse and rape
Dean looked around the living room, liking it more than the Pyper living room already. There was a light smattering of dust and there were a couple of copies of National Geographic and Time lying around.
It looks like people actually live here, that's what it is.
It felt far more inviting than the pristine, showroom-like, immaculate room in his old home that had held the term living room despite not looking lived in at all.
While Dean deliberated for a while on whether he could risk sitting on the couch or not, he found his hands itching to straighten the cushions. At his last home, the sofa had been decorated with a set of green, velvet, cushions from Paris (Dean used to love running his fingers over them, the smooth velvet felt too good to sit on). Mrs Pyper used to get really pissed if the cushions weren't aligned. A shudder raced down his spine at the memory of a belt landing along the length of his vertebrae.
Definitely not worth risking sitting down.
A few minutes later, Mr Winchester came out.
"Dean, would you mind taking a seat and taking your trousers off so I can have a look at your leg?" he asked with a smile. "And while you're at it, do you think you could remove your shirt too? There's some blood on it and I think that needs to be checked."
No. No no no. No way was this happening again. He'd been a damn fool. There had been the perfect opportunity to make a run for it when they'd parked up and he'd left it. He really didn't know if he could go through with this again.
He felt himself back up slowly against the plasma screen TV. Feeling it against his fingers, he moved to the side where the door was, hoping there may still be a chance he could still escape. One hand snaked its way into his pocket, feeling the smooth metal underneath his thumb, pressing down to feel the blunt pain. He gripped the cool metal tight, willing himself to keep breathing.
"Dean? What's wrong?" Mr Winchester looked genuinely confused.
What's wrong? What's wrong with me? What's wrong with you, you sick fuck! You've got a wife and son! I bet you've never got him to take his trousers off and spread his legs!
"Stay the hell back." he said with as much courage as he could muster. That didn't really help the situation as Mrs Winchester came out to see what the commotion was.
Awesome. An audience. Just what the doctor fucking ordered.
It was no use. He could fight it but a lack of cooperation simply leading to rougher handling and less lube. And that was the last thing he needed after spending two years out of the ring.
He felt all resistance drain out of him as he reached for the waistband of his trousers. Nonetheless, even as he snaked his hands down, he could feel Sam's mum's gaze on him.
He stepped out of the jeans and willed his voice not to break. "Alright, where do you want me?" Sir gestured towards the couch. Dean went over and lay down before mumbling into the armrest, "Does your wife really have to watch as you fuck me?"
Jane stared numbly at the cut on the boy's calf and the monstrosity of a bruise covering a fair part of his right thigh, trying to think of anything but what the kid had just said.
"What?" said Michael, dumbly.
"Nothing," said Dean, as he buried his head in the armrest again.
The adults continued to stare in horrified silence. Dean popped his head up again. "Any chance I could have some lube?"
Michael broke his trance first. "Dean, I- we- wh-what do you mean? Do you seriously think I'd-"
Dean cringed and shuffled into himself on the sofa. "I'm sorry, I'll be fine without lube. Sorry to ask."
"Christ! I-I didn't mean it like that, really, I swear on Jane and Sam's lives! I'd just wanted to see what was making you limp to work out whether we'd need to go to the doctors about it or not."
The kid, her kid, sat up slowly and looked at them both, his eyes filled with suspicion. "Really? You didn't just bring me here to turn tricks?"
"No! God no! What made you think that?" asked Jane, doing her best to keep the horror out of her voice.
"Sir told me to take off my clothes so I thought-" he stopped, blushing.
"We don't want you to do anything like that and we're really sorry that you've ever had to," said Michael, his voice on the verge of breaking.
Lucas Pyper was going to burn in Hell once Jane was done with him.
Dean shrugged and hope seemed to flit momentarily across his face. "So you're like the Pypers then? You just want me to do the chores and make sure all the housework's done? I'm a bit stupid but I can do that. I'm good at that."
Okay, fair enough, she hadn't just been sat in the house of a child molester, but that didn't stop Jane's heart from breaking. It was never going to be a clogged artery or too much salt that would kill her, it would be that eager grin and that cheerful, slightly desperate, voice. She went over, suppressing the jolt of sadness in her stomach at the way the kid flinched at her approach, and sat down.
"We didn't bring you here for that." Michael came over and knelt by her side. "Dean, I've heard you're violent, lazy, unstable and stupid." The boy started to shake his head before stopping suddenly. "But I don't think that's true and I want to hear your side of it. Why don't you tell us about Dean?"
Dean glanced up and mumbled, "What do you want to know?"
"Anything you feel comfortable telling us."
An awkward silence settled on the trio, the adults watching the kid size them up. Finally, with the quickest eye roll Jane had ever seen, Dean coughed and said, "Uh, I like Led Zep and I'm kind of good at maths."
"Alright, that's great, I'm a maths teacher and I like Led Zeppelin too," said Jane, "Which song's your favourite?"
"I dunno, it's a tie between Ramble On and Travelling Riverside Blues I guess," Dean shrugged.
Jane was about to reply with her favourites but Michael, who had been staring at Dean's shirt for a while, got in there first. "Dean, do you think we could have a look at your back once, I'm just a little scared of the blood that's on your shirt."
With great reluctance, Dean lifted the old, grey shirt over his head. Jane held back a gasp while her eyes widened as she took in the battered body. The sixteen year old's chest was covered in patches of dark blue bruises, each with a clear centre where the hits had landed.
Dean smiled weakly at their gawking. "I hear pictures last longer."
Jane leaned over and gave him a hug, ignoring the way he pulled away weakly. As her arms wrapped round the skinny kid, her hands fell on his back on what were (oh god oh god oh god) clear welts.
"Dean? Can we see your back?" said Jane, dreading what else the boy may be hiding.
Dean turned to reveal a crosshatch of thin white scars covering the expanse of his back with a handful of larger welts on top of them.
Jane swallowed down bile. "Could we ask how you got these?" She meant to gesture only towards the injuries but found that that was practically the same as waving her hand up and down his body.
Michael's eyes grew dark at the lack of a reply. "Did that Pyper son of a bitch do this to you?"
"Just the newer stuff, the white ones are from when I was with my dad." Then, in an attempt at a cheerier, reassuring, tone, he added, "The Pypers were never that mean to me, most of their stuff probably won't leave permanent scars."
Jane felt tears of frustration build up. She should be the one doing the comforting here.
"How long ago did you get that last set of marks?" asked Michael.
"Yesterday. It was sort of a continuation of my punishment from Thursday for breaking ma'am's mum's glass ornament." Dean shrugged. Jane found his acceptance of his fate quite maddening.
"And that?" He gestured towards the black bruise on his leg.
"It doesn't matter."
"It matters to us, Dean. If Sam was hurt, we'd want to know what happened, so it's the same with you."
The only reply was a stony glare and silence.
Jane knelt next to the boy on the couch, "All we want to do is help, Dean. I promise."
"I don't think you even know the kid you're trying to help," he muttered. "This one's from the day before yesterday, because I did something really bad."
"What did you do?" whispered Jane, eyes wide.
He looked at the empty fireplace and started to speak quietly. "Ma'am was crying because I'd knocked over the figurine and Kate hated to see her mum cry, which I get," he sighed and shifted his feet, "So she got a frying pan out and told me to stand still. I could see her arm swing back, aiming for my face, and- an' I chickened out and dodged it. She got really mad and went to try again but luckily Mr Pyper came in and told her the head was off limits. So she swung at my leg, over and over, until I couldn't stand anymore."
He turned back to Jane and Michael, that heartbreakingly earnest look on his face again. "I get I was bad and that's why the Pypers didn't want me anymore, and I get that you'll probably have to kick me out sooner or later after I screw up. But I can really work hard and do anything you want me to, really."
Jane hated to admit it, but it scared her a little how easily the kid flickered from defiance to obedience.
Michael leaned forward and took the kid's hands into his own, ignoring the slight recoil. "We just want you to try your best and work hard in school and have a chance at making the most of your life. We want nothing more than for a bright, lovely, kid like you to have a place they can call home. Somewhere they know they'll be cared for, no matter what." He let go as those green eyes started brimming and the tears threatened to spill. "I think we'll need a visit to the doctor's tomorrow."
"Don't bother, the ribs aren't broken. I checked to see if they were cracked and they're fine." he said gruffly, demonstrating how he checked by gliding his fingers over his ribs, pressing down lightly while clenching his teeth against the pain. "See sir, they're not broken."
"I believe you son, I really do. I just still think it'd be good if the doctor could give you some painkillers."
Looking down, Dean sniffled before replying quietly, "But I don't have any money to buy painkillers."
Jane wanted to get into the car and go hit every single person that had made Dean pay for necessities in his short life.
"We'd never dream of making either of our sons pay," she said, meeting Dean's puzzled gaze. "I mean it. We'll get the adoption papers sorted out tomorrow."
She didn't think her heart could hurt any more than it already did, but watching the suspicion, disbelief, fear and, ultimately, the slightest flicker of trust dance in his eyes as he wiped away tears and gave a weak nod proved her wrong.
"And Dean, we need you to tell us if you're hurt anywhere else or if you need anything," said Michael.
"I'm fine, sir." The trust was gone, replaced by the protective wall the kid could hide behind.
Michael knelt next to the arm of the couch. "Why are you scared of us, Dean?"
Dean let out a shaky breath. "I'm not stupid. I know you'll kick me out if you think I'm too weak to work," he whispered.
"I gave my word to you Dean, we'll treat you as family, we want you to be happy and fulfill your dreams. We didn't bring you here to work."
"Okay," said Dean, his answer too quick to be anything more than appeasement. He reached over for his shirt and started pulling it on. Jane watched the scarred, wounded, skin disappear underneath dull grey and wondered how many times Dean had been hurt badly and had just suffered through it when he really needed to see a doctor. She found she didn't really want to think about it. Dean had noticed her staring and said, "I know you don't believe me, but I promise you I don't have any infections. I won't spread anything to Sam."
"It's not like that, we'd not kick you out even if you did." said Jane.
Dean's all-too-quick nod did little to mask his doubt. Jane knew that doubt would take a long time in going.
Shit.
She remembered the soup tins she had opened and then abandoned. They'd left the Pyper household without eating dinner, it was a wonder Sam wasn't down already complaining about how he was starving and he might die any second without food.
"Well, I had better go make dinner, I'm guessing you're hungry by now?"
"I'm fine ma'am."
Looking at his skeletal figure, she decided to ask a more objective question. "When did you last eat, honey?"
Dean thought for a moment. "Uhh, I've been banned from food since I broke the figurine… so I guess that means since breakfast on Thursday."
Jane froze as she realised Dean would never admit he was anything but fine. It didn't matter that you hadn't eaten for over two days and had bruises the size of the Grand Canyon, you showed nothing and said you were fine. She felt a lump rise up in her throat.
"Is there anything you're allergic to?"
Dean shook his head. Jane wasn't sure if that was completely true of if he'd just said that to not anger her. She decided to leave it for the moment.
"Michael, come give me a hand in the kitchen, let's give Dean some peace."
With that, Jane strode into the kitchen, trying to think of anything but the criss-cross of white lines with the angry red welts on top.