Trigger Warning: Child abuse and a little bit of gore present in this chapter.
Also, there is a spoiler for Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire and a hint of a spoiler for Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. (Some people kindly pointed out that Harry Potter's eyes aren't green in the films so I've changed this chapter a little. A huge thank you to twin1 and mb64 for that.)
Dean turned off the shower but stayed in the cubicle, reluctant to let the heat dissipate by opening the door.
Heat.
Dean had a love-hate relationship with heat. The stuffy, claustrophobic heat of summer nights in the hall closet. The burning heat of twenty lashes, all piled on top of each other. The agonising heat of a radiator through metal handcuffs.
But then there was heat like this. Warm showers. Thick blankets. The Impala bonnet after a long drive.
The shower slowly cooled, leading to the formation of goosepimples along his arms. Priya had been explaining their evolutionary benefit a couple of weeks ago; how they made the hairs stand up and form an insulating layer, keeping the body (albeit ineffectively) warmer. Stupid Bookworm knew everything.
Stupid Bookworm and stupid Sam and stupid sir and stupid ma'am. They were all such idiots. What were they thinking, taking someone like Dean into their lives and caring about him? What did they know of the Heathcliff they were harbouring?
Those eyes.
Those eyes, lightning green, cold and hard. Those eyes he'd hoped to never see again. They didn't belong in a world of GCSE grades and bright eyed brothers.
Those eyes knew Dean for the black stain he was.
Of course, he knew he was making it up. There was no way the man was who he thought he was. Besides, he'd been busy talking to that girl with a lot of acne and a chronic case of giggling about her grades, so he was probably her dad or something.
Shaking his head, he opened the shower door and ran the towel over his torso, noting the change from skin and bone to wiry muscle; the results of a combination of regular food and his daily attempts to emulate the martial arts maestros. He seemed to have had a growth spurt too, having nearly caught up to his giant of a brother. But the criss-cross of white scars bore testament to the fact he could change his name, his school, his family, but his past remained the same.
Dean paused before sliding into his new pyjamas, enjoying the feel of the fresh cotton against his fingertips. Ma'am had been yelling at Dean to 'put your goddamn bed sheet in the wash before you get a rash' and 'why do I always see the same trousers and shirts coming out every week? This one's even got a hole in it!' before Dean had come over and shown her that they were the only four shirts and trousers he owned. Her face had gone from annoyed to sorry in less than a second and before he knew it, he was being bundled into the baby and being driven to the nearest department store.
After an hour of battling with ma'am about how he really did prefer generic, no brand jeans, and yes, while he liked Batman, he did not need it on his t-shirts, and definitely not on his boxers, they made it to the till without having killed each other. It was then that she decided Dean needed some pyjamas, leaving Dean standing awkwardly with a pile of clothes in his hand, smiling at a pretty brunette who seemed eager to smile back.
Dean was just about to initiate a conversation when ma'am returned and started bustling them towards the counter to 'get this shopping crap done with'. Breaking eye contact, Dean left the store with two bags in his hands and the knowledge that girls were surprisingly easy to flirt with as long as honesty was never on the cards.
No one really looked at a whore twice.
Dean pulled on the dark blue bottoms and wondered if he'd ever be able to be truly honest with anyone. Probably not.
But it didn't matter. What mattered was that Sam was currently on Dean's bed, finishing all the popcorn before the movie had even started. Sam was determined to show Dean the wonders of the magical world by persuading (coercing, if one was honest) him to watch a Harry Potter movie a night until they had completed all eight. They were up to the fifth one and Dean still wasn't really seeing the appeal apart from the fact that Emma Watson chick was hot and Voldemort had no nose. Dean had suggested The Shining for their movie nights upon Billy's recommendation, but Mr Winchester had banned it with mutterings of 'didn't sleep properly for a month' and 'still scared of axes' so Harry Potter it was.
As expected, Dean walked into the room to find Sam sprawled over his bed (his bed! That still felt so good to think), three quarters of the way through the bowl of popcorn as the Warner Brothers logo came up on Sam's laptop.
"Scoot over jerkface, I'm older which means I need more room," said Dean, as he slid under the covers, trying to roll Sam's body over. "You better not have eaten the liquorice without me."
Sam shoved back at Dean, not willing to lose his prime position. "No, you move! I'm taller! And besides, why would I eat the liquorice? It tastes of goats' turds."
"And how the hell would you know? Little Sammy been eating goat shit?"
Sam suppressed a smile and let the battle drop. "Shut up, it's getting to the good bit!"
"It's the title credits!"
"Yeah, well, they're good!"
They grumbled and jiggled and poked each other into a comfortable silence, with only the sounds of munching and that tinkly Harry Potter music (he could almost hear Sam hissing an annoyed 'Hedwig's Theme' in his head, the Dumbledork) to be heard.
The lightning green of the Killing Curse flashed up onscreen. Panic rose up within Dean so quickly, he felt like he might throw up.
Super. You've got a case of morning sickness now? Get a grip, Dean.
The light vanished, replaced by a dead Cedric Diggory. The feeling of drowning while completely dry refused to leave.
"Sam," said Dean, urgently shaking the kid's arm.
"What? You can't be scared yet, it's not even got to the scary bit, the scary bit's when Bellatrix kills-"
"Sam, listen to me," Dean jerked Sam's arm, letting go when he caught the mild look of pain that flitted across his features. "Sorry, but listen to me, Sam. If I say Poughkeepsie, you drop whatever you're doing and run, you got me?"
Poughkeepsie? Really?
I dunno, I think they said it on Friends recently.
Still, we need a word we won't use often. Poughkeepsie will do. Sammy needs to be safe.
"Wha-why? What's gonna happen? It's just a film, Dean, none of that stuff's real, you know-"
"Forget about the movie!" Dean heard his voice rise and tried his best to quell some of the fear. "I mean, I like it and everything, but this is important. If I say Poughkeepsie, you get the hell out of wherever you are, okay? You get yourself to safety."
"Uh, okay then. Poughkeepsie, got it. But are you okay, Dean? We don't have to continue if you don't want to…" Sam trailed off, badly hidden longing in his eyes.
"What, and miss finding out who Bellatrix kills? Not a chance." Dean forced a grin and ruffled Sam's hair, who soon batted his hand away.
"You'll probably cry, you really like that character," Sam smirked.
They settled down once again and their heads sank lower and lower as the film went on. Through drooping eyes, Dean mumbled "Harry should hunt that little bitch down" as that vicious explosion of pink called Umbridge appeared once again. The only response was a quiet snore.
Dean slid out of the bed and wrapped the blanket around Sam (it might be the middle of August, but there was no need for the kid to catch a cold), before stopping the DVD and returning it to its box.
Things have its place and you have yours. Don't you forget that.
Wise words. Wise words from a malicious woman with a nasal voice.
He watched Sam's chest rise and fall with his even breathing. Usually when Sam didn't manage to keep up his love affair with the black-haired boy and his snowy owl and fell asleep, Dean just rolled him over and went to bed next to him.
But not today. His place wasn't under warm covers on a comfortable bed next to Sam. His place had always been somewhere else.
Lying down on the floor with his jacket as a pillow, Dean squeezed his eyes shut and breathed in the musty smell of the carpet.
Like one ever forgets their place.
He squeezed tighter, trying to think about potions and photo albums. The photos moved, how cool was that? He had a photo once, of a woman in a white dress and a smile that made the sun look gloomy. A smile that made another man's eyes light up with pure adoration. Eyes that soon became the reason Dean didn't stop wetting the bed (or rather, floor) until he was seven. Eyes that never let him forget what he was…
The eyes are looking at him from the picture. Because the picture still exists now. The picture hasn't been discovered yet, hidden under a pair of shoes in the hall closet, and torn to shreds in a drunken rage.
But he never looks at the picture for his eyes. He looks at it for her megawatt smile.
He doesn't know what 'megawatt' means yet, but he knows he will someday.
But there are some things he'll never know. So he makes these things up. In his head, his mum smells like Play-Doh and wears the bead necklace Dean made in school for her on Mothers' Day a couple of years ago. In his head, she laughs at all of his jokes and likes playing hide-and-seek (Dean thinks he'd be really good at this game if he ever had someone to play it with, seen as he's found all the small spots he can squeeze himself into if his father comes home hammered) and listens to his stories and even lets him have the food that's not out of date. In his head, the golden haired woman loves the same shade of blue as he does and they often go to the park together and she never, ever, hits him, even when he's been a 'little bastard' and 'fucked up'.
In his head, he is loved.
He wants to think about the mummy in his head, about the really pretty picture, but try as he might, he can't recall the gleaming teeth and slight dimples. His eyes blur as tears form and another wave of hot, raw, pain shoots up his arm.
It was supposed to be a quick trip down to the grocery store and the handcuffs were just to make sure he didn't get into trouble while his father was away. The radiator wasn't supposed to be on and the trip wasn't supposed to take goddamn hours.
Father had better get back soon, he can't take much longer and his toes just can't reach the other end to turn the heat off. He can see the knob taunting him, sat smugly on '4' when all he has to do is to get it down to '2' to make it bearable.
His toes stubbornly refuse to grow a couple of extra inches and just reach goddammit. Goddammit, goddammit, goddammit, it hurts. It makes him think of his last birthday, the feel of the dog chain as it seemed to keep landing on him forever. He cried and cried and the only response he got was a simple 'she'd be here if it wasn't for you'.
He cannot help but think it true as the two metal rings of the handcuffs dig into his left wrist. The pain seems to be moving from red to white to an odd sort of bluey-yellow that defies description because all he wants is for someone to uncuff or at least knock him out.
Just as he starts to smell the burning flesh and his vision begins to blur, the door bursts open and there he is. His saviour.
The cold green eyes flicker between a grimace and a sneer before his nose catches up and he rushes forward with the keys. The man hesitates, fearing to touch what Dean's been in contact with for what feels like hours. Dean really wants to say 'about fucking time' in a flippant tone that'll hide the onslaught of fear and pain and relief he's feeling but he doesn't use words like that yet, so he doesn't.
The lock clicks open but the metal has to be peeled off his wrist, leaving behind bleeding, burning, flesh. The pain doesn't leave, doesn't even numb, it'll take weeks for it to fade. But that doesn't matter. That doesn't matter because his father's here. His father cared enough to save him and is currently rocking him, muttering 'sorry' over and over again.
Maybe he is sorry. Maybe this'll be the end. Maybe now they can be like a real family, go to football games and share Christmas presents and everything. Maybe he can go into school with his head held high because, this year, his father came to his parents' evening and was proud of how well he was doing in maths.
Maybe cows will fly. Or is it pigs? People tend to say one of them but he's not sure which. He doesn't talk enough to other people to know, really.
He does know that nothing ever changes. Nothing he will ever do will change the fact his father would much rather he had died than his mother. Nothing will stop the man from taking to the bottle when he's feeling especially lonely and laying into the evidence left behind by her demise.
But it's okay, because he's alive and someone's holding him and rocking him and for two minutes he can forget that this is the same person who chained him up in the first place and he can just be his saviour in his eyes.
There's one fear that refuses to go away, one fear that he knows he must address or he's going to be so scared whenever the handcuffs come out he's not going to be able to keep the tears at bay.
His saviour might not always get there in time.
Author Note: If anyone would like to create some artwork for this fic it'd be wholeheartedly welcomed! I'm awful at art but I thought it might be nice if the story had a proper icon (for this website) and banner (for Livejournal/AO3). If anyone feels like making anything, please do tell me/send me a link!
As always, I hope you enjoyed the chapter and I'd love it if you dropped me your thoughts in the comments section.