Dean didn't have to wait for long. A knock interrupted the teen's thoughts, and Mr. Wilson popped his head through the doorway, his tired smile masking an exhausted man. "Hey, Dean."
"Hey, Mr. Wilson. What are you doing here?"
"We've been here before, Dean." The man sighed before fully entering the room and taking a seat next to the teen's bed. "Why didn't you call me, Dean?" he implored, his eyes begging for an answer. "You know I would've been there in a flash! I've already got the police interviewing Sam and the rest of the kids to get their testimonies. All I need is some pictures of your injuries, and we have another court case."
Every time the two had been in this situation before, Dean nodded silently and watched Mr. Wilson rage and pace, all the while cursing those that dared to hurt a child. Now, though, the man simply slumped in his chair, crushed and close to tears. The teen stared in astonishment as one of Steve's old subordinates planned the prosecution of the country's beloved Captain Rogers–his own commanding officer, no less–and the man's genius, billionaire, (former) playboy, philanthropist husband, the famed Tony Stark.
Dean reared back as if struck, his face awash with horror. "What? No! Steve and Tony didn't do anything! This isn't like the other times, I swear!" Dean denied adamantly. He was supposed to believe me. He has to!
"Look at your arms, Dean!" the man raised his voice, gesturing to the clear handprint bruises visible on the teen.
"Those aren't from them! They've never hurt me!" Dean shouted. There was no way that he was going to let two of the only genuine people he'd ever met go to jail.
"You don't need to defend them." Mr. Wilson reached for the teen's hand, intent on giving him support, but the boy yanked his hand away.
"No! You don't get it! Steve and Tony didn't touch me! They're the best parents we've ever had and you're trying to take us away!" Dean was fighting tears now.
"It doesn't matter if they're better than the ones you've had, if they hurt you once, it's too many." The man tried to explain to the distraught child.
"But they didn't! Why aren't you listening to me!"
"Then tell me how you got hurt this badly without the two of them knowing." Mr. Wilson cocked his head and waited for a reply.
Dean opened his mouth, and said nothing. He couldn't tell him what actually happened. Not without putting his life in danger.
"Got into a fight at school."
"Don't lie to me, kid. Don't you dare, not with what we've gone through."
Dean gaped at the man, then scoffed. "We?! What we've gone through?! Last I checked you weren't the one taking all that shit from people that you swore would protect us!" The teen was shaking with anger.
"There is no we! If anything it's been Sam and I! But even then, he has no idea what fucked up shit I've had to put up with to make sure he didn't go hungry! He has no idea how many times I've bitten my cheek bloody to keep from screaming because I didn't want to wake him up! What I've done to keep that kid safe!" Dean paused, his chest heaving.
"So no. There is no we, Mr. Wilson. You don't get to insert yourself in my sob story. And you do not get to take us away from the only home that's actually felt like a home since the one our mother went up in flames in."
Mr. Wilson was quiet.
"You swear that Steve and Tony have never hurt you?" He asked, tentatively.
"On Sam's life." Dean's eyes bore into the man's, knowing that he understood the weight of his words.
"Alright." He nodded. "But I am going to need the truth about what happened because I know the fight at school story is BS."
Dean didn't respond.
"Dean?" Mr. Wilson prompted.
"Can I see Steve and Tony now?" The teen whispered, clearly dismissing the man that did so much for him, that cared so much for him, but obviously didn't understand him.
"Yeah. Yeah, I'll just–uh–I'll just go and get them." The social worker stood up, turned back, as if to say more, but shook his head and exited the room.
It was once again Dean and his thoughts. The teen tried to calm himself, but his breathing was still hard and his hands clenched the thin bedsheet.
"Dean?!" The door was thrown open and there stood Steve, or, what he thought was Steve. The usually collected ex-military Captain was ruffled and frazzled, his hair sticking out every which way and his clothes frumpled and wrinkled. The most jarring difference was the man's face, it was obvious he had been crying, still was, in fact. His eyes were rimmed red and tear tracks ran down his cheeks.
"Oh, thank God, Dean! You're alright!" Steve rushed to the teen's side, forgoing the chair and sitting on the edge of the bed. "Oh, Dean, darling we were so scared!"
The man started smoothing down the boy's hair with one hand and placed a comforting hand on Dean's knee, squeezing occasionally.
Dean gave a small, but genuine smile. "Hi, Steve."
The man chuckled, a few more tears falling. "Hi, Dean."