Author Note: Trigger warning for child abuse and fire. Also, spoilers for maybe the first few minutes of the pilot (I'm guessing that won't really bother all that many people). Please feel free to leave me your feedback, it is always appreciated!
Feeling restless, Dean rolled over on the bed and clicked the button on top of his (his!) clock and saw that midnight was approaching. He'd soon have completed a day of being seventeen.
That was weird to think. A few years ago, if someone had told him he'd be spending his seventeenth birthday in a bed that wasn't co-occupied by another man he'd have laughed in their face and tried to charge them for wasting his time.
And yet here he was, having finally gotten through a birthday without being reminded that this was the anniversary of his mother's death.
Her murder. You were born with blood on your hands, whore.
Knowing his mind wouldn't let him rest in peace, Dean slid out of the bed and went over to the windowsill. He pressed his fingers against the cold window, watching the halos of condensation appear around the places where skin touched glass, and looked up at the stars, the odd sodium streetlamp doing little to dampen the beauty of the night sky.
Some said that when people died, they became stars. Dean knew that wasn't true. Stars were formed from masses of dust and gas collecting to form their very own fusion reactor, they learnt as much in physics. But still, maybe his mum was one of those tiny specks of light, watching as this day came round year after year.
She'd probably smile at what a pleasantly mundane day he'd had. Sure, it wasn't like other people's birthdays; there had been no presents, no cards, no cake or embarrassingly loud singing. Hell, no one had even wished him a happy birthday. But that was all fine because today, in all its banality, was still the best birthday he'd ever had.
He looked up and counted out the seventeen brightest stars as he recalled the earliest birthday he could remember.
He watches the second hand tick along the clock face until it reaches his number. Six. That's how old he is today. A big kid now. Big enough to reach the bottom of the clock face.
Dean hadn't even known it was his birthday until he'd walked into his year one classroom and seen his name written on the beige (that's what his teacher calls it but to Dean it looks a bit like a yucky brown. A bit like his puke does when he's been hungry for a while and eats too much in one go) board that has the name of whoever's birthday it is that day.
The teacher asks another question. She asks which 'w' question word has she missed out on the whiteboard.
It's easy. The answer's 'why'. 'Why couldn't she remember such an easy word in the first place?' seems like a far better question to ask.
Dean doesn't put his hand up. Instead, he draws a picture of a horse in the corner of his page. His father used to work with horses, though he doesn't go into work very often now. There aren't any colouring pencils out so he can't colour it in. If he squints at it, it looks a bit like an elephant. He stores that away to tell his mummy about it before he goes to sleep. Maybe she can pick which animal it was meant to be?
The teacher asks another question and Dean doesn't listen again. He's not clever like the other kids, he's really dumb and he knows the teachers know it too. He once heard one of them whisper to another that he might be a 'returd'. Dean reckons he must be at least a little bit stupid, seen as he doesn't know what 'returd' means and can only giggle at the 'turd' hidden in the word.
"Dean, is something funny?" the teacher asks him. She looks angry and that really scares Dean so he quickly shakes his head and looks back down at his elephant-horse.
He knows better than to laugh out loud like that. He doesn't get why he's so dumb and forgets things like that all the time.
Even then, 'turd' is a bit of a funny word. So is 'fart'. And 'poo'. And-
His thoughts are cut off when the teacher picks him to answer the question.
Which is hard, because he doesn't know what the question is.
Dumb. Dumb. Dumb.
But he stares at the board and he thinks he can guess what the answer will be. The green pen shows words like 'isn't' and 'can't' linking up with phrases like 'is not' and 'cannot'. Only 'they're' has nothing written next to it, so Dean hesitantly says, "They are?"
"Good boy! That's really good, Dean!" The teacher seems very happy that he got that right, even though he took some time trying to figure out the question. Almost too happy.
Dean ignores the anger rumbling in his stomach that makes him want to jump up and tell his teacher that he's not really that stupid. But it's wrong to lie, so he doesn't do anything.
Instead, he thinks of what he'll ask for when he gets home today. He knows how birthdays work. People get presents and eat lots of cake and pass around chocolates. That might not be how his birthday worked, but that was okay. As long as he got what he really wanted, he'd be very, very, happy. Even happier than his teacher had sounded when he'd answered the question right.
The bell signalling the end of school rang when the minute hand was at thirty and the hour hand was between three and four. Dean stays for a few seconds, watching the longest hand on the clock point at his special number, before leaving the classroom and starting to walk home.
As he puts his arms around himself in a great big hug, he thinks it might be good to just ask for a jumper for his birthday. January feels really cold in just a shirt.
No. He really wants this, even more than he wants to be warm. Everyone always did this with their parents. Everyone had their favourites and they'd tell each other them and laugh about the best bits while Dean sat in the corner and tried to put the bits that were mentioned together. It was a bit like a jigsaw puzzle, but it was one he could never finish.
When he gets to the door, he gets on his tiptoes (a bit like a ballerina but that's really girly so he decides it's not really like a ballerina) and unlocks the door, trying to stop his fingers from shaking. They've gone a little blue, but they've done that before and all Dean has to do is stick them in his mouth for a little bit and they'll come out gooey and red again.
Once he's inside, he closes the door and takes off his shoes. They're really tight now and his toes are starting to hurt from curling up for so long. He doesn't know what to do about that, so he'll try to ignore it for now.
His father's in the living room, sleeping on the couch. Dean sees him, then sees the whip leaning against the corner a couple of metres away. He shudders and feels all tingly, like he's going to be sick. The whip has not been used often, but the few time it has, it's left Dean crying like a big baby and wishing his father would just go back to using his fists.
The memories scare him and Dean doesn't want to think about them so he leaves the room and goes to put his little drawing with the picture of his mummy. She'll probably like it, though she'll wish it was blue, because that's his mummy's favourite colour.
When he comes back, his father has started to stir. This is probably a good time to ask him for his present, he might be in a good mood after sleeping. Dean shakes his shoulder a little and his father starts to wake up.
But the moment he opens an eye, Dean knows it was a bad idea. His eyes have those wiggly red lines again that he gets when he's been drinking a lot of that yellow fizzy stuff in those dark brown bottles. Now he's nearer, he can smell it on his father's breath too. Dean starts to back away but it's too late.
"Whaddya wan'?" The words sound all jumbled up together but Dean's okay with that. He's learnt how to work out what his father's saying even when he's not feeling very well.
"I-I just thought that, as I'm six today, you could-" he stops and bites his lip, he can see his father getting mad. "You could read me a story?" His father's getting off the sofa now and Dean takes another step back. "Any story! We never do anything like that and everyone in school does an-an-and I thought it might be fun," he adds in a rushed mumble.
His father reaches him, those red squiggles in his eyes seem to have gotten bigger, and pulls his arm back. Dean knows what's coming and he braces himself.
The punch comes and Dean falls back on his bottom. His tummy hurts now and he wants to be sick even more, but his father isn't done yet so he stands up again and tries to listen like Father wants.
"First you take her away from me, then you complain about how I haven't given you enough already?" Father's hand lashes out and Dean feels his head jerk to the side before the familiar, tingly, pain starts up on the cheek.
Dean just nods and leaves before he makes his father even more mad by crying or anything like that.
Later that day, as the shorter hand on the clock reaches ten and the longer hand reaches two, Dean lies down on the carpet and shivers a little to try and get warm.
It had been a stupid plan anyway. His father was too busy to read stupid stories to him. Dean was such a 'returd' for even asking him about it.
He closes his eyes and tries to think about something else. His first thought is the picture with the big smile, like his mum had just said 'cheese' before the photo was taken. He wonders what made her so happy that she was smiling like that despite being stood next to his father, who had always seemed so big and scary and strict to him. Maybe his mummy was a lot better at following the rules and not being a 'fucked up bastard' than he is. Or maybe it was just because she was older and older people can't be hit like children can.
He thinks about the song his father sometimes sings. Dean doesn't know where he heard it, but he always sings it when he's sad so it must be important to him.
Dean's a little bit sad now, so maybe it's okay for him to sing it to himself, even if he can't remember all the words like his father can.
"Hey dude, don't make it sad… take a la la and make it better. La la la, la la me into your heart…"
Slowly, Dean's eyes drift shut.
One of the first things Dean had done after Mrs Winchester had told him he had full access to the internet was to look up the lyrics and learn them.
"Hey Jude," he whispered, his breath forming a white fog on the windowpane, "Don't make it bad, take a sad song and make it better-"
"What are you singing?" Sam's head popped round the door, the rest of him soon followed.
"Nothing," Dean said, his voice breaking out of its whisper. "Shouldn't you be in bed?"
Sam shrugged. "Couldn't sleep." Sam walked slowly through the room in the dark and came over to the window. "Was it Hey Jude?"
Dean nodded and looked back out onto the silent streets.
"Cool, that used to be my mum's favourite song," he said as he hoisted himself onto the windowsill.
"Really? I didn't think ma'am was into The Beatles."
"No, not her, I mean the mum that gave birth" Sam scrunched his face at the horrifying thought, "to me. I was actually born in America, some place in Kansas," he said casually, swinging his legs out in front of him. "I thought you knew that already?"
Dean shook his head, trying to take the information in. "So ma'am's not your real mum? Is sir your real dad?"
Sam shrugged. "They're both my real parents. They've raised me since I was a baby and I didn't even know I wasn't their biological kid until a couple of years ago," he said stoutly, his eyes narrowing slightly with defensiveness. "Family doesn't end with blood."
"Sorry, sorry," mumbled Dean. "So what happened to your, uhh, birth parents?"
"They died in a fire. My dad was called John Winchester and he'd been in the Marines, which I thought was pretty cool. My mum was Mary Winchester and Mum says she used to sing Hey Jude to me to get me to go to sleep."
"I'm really sorry they passed away," Dean whispered.
"It's okay, I can't miss what I don't remember. The only things I know are from what Mum and Dad have told me. They used to have a house in Kansas, near to a garage where my dad used to work as a mechanic. My mum used to take a lot of pictures of me and send them to Dad-" Sam saw Dean's puzzled look and added, "Dad over here, John's brother. But anyway, one day there was a big fire in the house and they both died, but somehow I was completely fine, just had a bit of blood on my lip. Mum calls me her 'miracle child' because of that. My birth parents hadn't made wills so I was given to the closest living relative and that was Dad."
Dean tried to quash down the panic he felt rising at the thought of the kid next to him dying. "I'm glad you're alive," said Dean, gruffly.
Sam flashed him a quick smile and exhaled quickly. "So am I."
They both looked out onto the sleeping town, lost in their own thoughts.
Dean felt his stomach crumple with guilt as he thought about his wish to the djinn.
I wish I was their real kid, like Sam.
He'd been such an idiot. Sam wasn't their biological kid. Hell, Sam wasn't even a blood relative of ma'am's. He was adopted, just like himself, and yet he'd always understood that one didn't need to draw a line in the sand where one wasn't needed. Maybe one day he could learn to do the same.
Don't kid yourself. Sam's the kind of kid they love and deserve. You're a beat up hooker who gets their son in danger.
It had been over three months since Sam had risked his life to save Dean's. Three months and still not a day passed where Dean didn't find himself wondering what on Earth made him worth saving. That too from some stupid, twisted, hallucination in which Dean had somehow managed to wish their lives to be swapped.
You didn't mean to.
Yeah, but he had. And even then, the first sight he saw when he came to was Sam's concerned face as he untied him. From the moment he'd dived in front of that car he'd known that he'd give his life for the midget without a second's thought. He just hadn't expected the idiot to do the same for him.
Dean swallowed and prayed that the Winchesters never found out how much shit the little guy went through because of him.
Selfish. Always so selfish. It's like your- what was that phrase Billy used?- ah, yeah, pièce de résistance.
Next to him, Sam suppressed a yawn.
Dean leaned away from the window and looked at his brother. "It's way past your bedtime, midget. The ghosts come out after midnight and eat kids with dimples."
Sam smirked. "I told you all that supernatural stuff was real."
"I was waiting for an 'I told you so'. Surprised it took this long in coming," Dean grinned. "But you should go to sleep soon. Your mum and dad won't exactly be delighted if you roll out of bed at eleven tomorrow."
"Why do you always say 'your mum and dad'? Why not 'mum and dad' like I do?" asked Sam, the pale moonlight highlighting the wrinkles in his scrunched brow.
Dean bit back a bitter laugh as he reached into the pocket he'd sewn into his pyjamas and ran his index finger over the cold metal.
Oh God, where to start?
To be honest, he didn't even want to start, so he just shrugged and said, "I dunno. Makes it easier to not get attached."
"Why would you not want to get attached?" Sam's brow furrowed further, before his eyes widened with fear. "You're not thinking of leaving us, a-are you?" he whispered.
"Nah, I'd never want to leave," Dean said softly, wondering quite how his inner walls and defences had been smashed in without him even noticing. He was growing weak. "Besides, don't you need to wake up early for a dentist's appointment tomorrow?"
Sam's eyes blinked blankly and Dean knew that his change of topic hadn't gone unnoticed. Still, the kid nodded and stifled another yawn.
"You can take my bed if you want," Dean waved an arm at the double bed that still felt far too big to be wasted on him.
Longing danced along with the reflection of the streetlamps in those hazel eyes as Sam stared at the bed. But then he looked down at the carpet next to it, shook his head, and headed for the door.
"G'night, Dean."
P.S. What did you guys think of the season finale?
