So sorry for the delay! I wish real life didn't get in the way of everything but what can you do…
I already have quite a few chapters written, and my beta's working as fast as she can! She says she's sorry for the wait!
It was dark. It was suffocatingly dark. Dean's heart was racing as he tried to figure out where he was.
A door opened and light flooded into the room, momentarily blinding the teen.
"Come 'ere, you!" a booming voice roared. Dean felt a bruising hand drag him through the doorway until he was thrown roughly back to the ground.
"This is 'ow you repay us?! We feed you, we clothe you, we keep a roof over your 'eads, and this is 'ow you treat us?!" the man screamed at him. Dean was still trying to orient himself, just managing to get on his hands and knees. Why was he so dizzy?
A half-eaten loaf of bread was thrown in front of him. At the sight of it, a memory came flooding back: where he was, who he was with. And the events that followed.
"You steal?! From me! 'Ow dare you?!" Dean was sent tumbling back to the floor by a stinging backhand. Cupping his cheek, the boy once again attempted to right himself, but the man decided to help him by grabbing a fistful of his short hair and yanking him up.
"I'm sorry, sir, but Sam was hungry, and our deal–" Dean found himself saying, despite knowing it would only anger the man further.
"I don' give a crap abou' our deal! If you live under my 'ouse, you gotta respect me!" With one hand still in Dean's hair, the man wrapped his other hand around the boy's throat, not tightly enough to cut off his circulation or airflow, but definitely enough to threaten it.
"Now, you gonna 'pologize, or am I gonna make you?"
Dean refused to show the man fear, but he gave him what he wanted. "I'm sorry, sir."
The scene shifted.
Dean's head was clear again, but his heart was still racing.
"I don't care if you're sorry, Dean! You left your brother alone!"
Dad.
"I was only gone for a minute–"
"A minute too long!" their dad snapped. They were in a motel room, Sam fast asleep in the far bed. "I get back and find a dark room with no one here to protect Sammy? Dean, that's literally your only job! Why the hell do I train you if–"
"But dad, I just went to get–"
"Excuse me?" John eyed his son dangerously.
Dean dropped his gaze. "Sorry, sir, it's just that I–"
"I don't want any excuses. I want your brother safe." John swiftly ended the conversation when he opened a bottle of whiskey and shut himself in the bathroom.
Dean stood there by himself, just as before, the room dark and Sam just five feet away, sleeping peacefully.
He wasn't alone, so why did he feel so lonely?
"–ean! Wake up! It's time for breakfast!" Dean vaulted upwards in his bed, knocking his pillow to the ground as he clutched the sweat-soaked sheets.
It took a moment for Dean to get his bearings. A dream. Just a dream.
Mostly.
The first man in his dream was Mr. Thornton, their third foster father. That'd been the last night he and Sam spent in that house. He'd called Mr. Wilson as soon as the asshole passed out.
The second part of the dream happened in Albuquerque. Upon hearing his dad's return, Dean had gone to fetch some ice for his dad's nightly whiskey. The boy really had only been gone a moment, but try telling that to the ex-marine.
"Dean? You okay?" Sam stood next to his bed, backpack swung over one shoulder.
"Yeah, yeah, Sammy, I'm fine. Did you say breakfast?" The teen racked his memory. What time was it?
"Yeah, Steve and Tony said you weren't feeling well last night, so you went to bed really early. How are you feeling this morning?" Sam inquired, searching his brother for any signs of illness.
"Pfft, I'm fine! Fit as a fiddle!" Dean threw off the rest of his covers and attempted to stand. "Ah, mother–!" He curled in on himself when the action pulled at the wound in his side. Fuck, he forgot about that.
"Dean! Are you hurt?" Sam reached out to steady the teen.
"Nah, just a cramp. No need to be a worry wart, Samantha." Dean pushed aside the pain with a well-practiced ease and set about getting ready for school. "Why don't you head on down, and I'll join you in a bit?"
"Are you sure you're okay? You don't look too good." Dean shifted as Sam continued to stare at him intently.
"How many times do I have to tell you?! I'm fine! Now, go!" Dean aimed a mostly-empty water bottle at his brother, but the smaller boy shrieked and ducked out of the room before it could leave his hand.
His side really fucking hurt. Dean studied his shirt and eyed where it was stuck to his skin with dried blood, hissing when he touched it. Thank fuck for black shirts–he did not want to have to peel that off.
"Dean! Come on, pancakes are waiting!" Clint shouted up the stairs.
With a sigh, Dean threw on an oversized sweatshirt before checking himself in the mirror. Ignoring his bloodshot eyes, he scrubbed at the dry tear tracks, before giving up and grabbing his backpack. Taking a deep breath, and then wincing in pain at the mistake, Dean prepared himself to face rest of his foster family.