Dean sighed deeply as he parked the impala on the side of the road, his green eyes locked onto a little white house. The house looked normal enough; white picket fence, blue shutters, and covered in green plants. However, the cop knew the terrors that had raged in the house personally, so whatever comfort there was to be had, he felt none…Only anger and pain.

He didn't want to be there. His heart felt like it was going to burst from his chest, and he had to take a minute or two before he got out of his car. He wasn't wanted here…perhaps never was, but he came for Sam; and Sam alone. He expected nothing else. That is, if Sam would come willingly this time.

Dean had sent Sam a text before he went to sleep the night before, explaining his intent, and the time he would pick him up. He received no answer, as was expected, but Dean knew Sam had received it. The little check mark confirmed it. So Dean was only a little shocked when the door opened before he even made it to the porch, a night bag over Sam's shoulder.

Dean stilled as Sam brushed past him without making contact, heading to the impala. Then, Dean froze completely. His mother stood at the opened door, her eyes upon her eldest son. Dean couldn't look away, his green eyes as wide as her own. Her blonde hair was swept up in a messy bun, and she had deep circles under her eyes. She looked like she hadn't slept in weeks, and her eyes blamed Dean quite openly. Dean's jaw locked; his body rigid as a rod.

"She doesn't want to talk to you." Sam muttered under his breath as he passed Dean again, this time heading back to the house. Dean could only watch him go, tensed and wide-eyed. He'd known that to begin with. Mary looked away then, and Dean finally took a breath, looking away himself.

"Yeah," The cop managed to croak, giving them both a tight smile. His hands trembled in his pockets quite visibly, but he managed to keep his anxiety only in his hands. Mary's eyes flickered down to them and Dean forced the trembling to stop altogether. He could not let his pain show; not now. Sam looked at his hands too, once, before going back in the house, Mary stepping aside to let him in with a small smile.

Dean felt like he was going to throw up. He hated it.

Dean turned to go, without another word, and about jolted when he felt someone wrap a hand around his forearm, stopping him. The man turned around, wide-eyed, to find equally green eyes staring into his own. His mother held onto his arm tightly, her hands trembling as hard as his own.

Dean couldn't breathe again, and his eyes whipped up to find Sam staring at them, wide-eyed himself, his laptop tucked under one arm. He shared a shocked look with his younger brother before he was brought back by the caress of a chilled hand upon his unshaven cheek.

Mary looked at him, her eyes screaming multiple emotions at once: anger, hurt, betrayal…forgiveness? Dean blinked in shock, in denial. No, there was no forgiveness to be had. It had to be hatred he saw. He only wished her caress had been a slap to his face instead. The gentleness of her hand hurt worse.

Dean closed his eyes and pulled away, his jaw clenching once. His eyes felt raw, and he knew that he was probably on the verge of tears, or already crying. He gently tugged his arm free and started walking away from his mother, from his brother, and the damned house. He got in the car without a word, starting the car. He honked once, sharp, a warning.

Dean didn't look at Sam when the car door was opened, waiting only for Sam to close the door again before the impala's tires screamed as loud as his mind as he stomped the gas, the law be damned. His eyes were burning, and he knew then that he really had been crying. He did not care to know for how long, and was honestly glad for Sam's silence for once.

Sam looked out the back window, tears in his own eyes, watching as his mother grew smaller and smaller as the impala raged away. She was still where Dean had left her, one hand extended towards them both.

Dean said nothing as they reached the apartment. His hand was shaking so badly that he could barely turn the key to open the door. When he did finally manage to open it, he about ran through it, and away from his brother. He went into his room without a word, leaving Sam to lock the door. Dean could not handle him right now, and he felt that Sam felt the same, and his tears came at full force.

Dean all about collapsed on his unmade bed, on his stomach, pressing his face into his pillow. He refused to let any sounds escape as he wept. He wept for Sam, he wept for his mother, and, lastly, he wept in anger over his father. He no longer wept for himself. They did not care for him…and neither did he.

Dean could barely look himself in the mirror anymore without feeling like a homewrecker. He, Dean Winchester, the Destroyer of Worlds; he had torn his family apart with his own hands. That was what his mother's eyes had told him; reminded him.

Mistake.

Destroyer.

Unwanted.

Dean squeezed his eyes shut, feeling hot tears soak into his pillow, and blue dots danced behind his closed lids. He thought of his mother's small hands, and their warmth. She was so small, so fragile. She had lived a hard life…Especially with John Winchester.

John Winchester was an abusive man. He had been for as long as Dean could remember. What was worse? He did not touch his sons. No, whatever anger that fueled him, he took it out on their mother…Their gentle, warm, mother. To Dean, it felt as if his father had done more. He had not hit them, never did, but he ruined him.

With each strike laid upon his mother, Dean felt something break deep within his soul. Mary was silent under his rage, intent on trying to quell her husband's demons. But Dean knew, long ago, that his father's demons were too great to be tamed. And he felt his own begin to itch at his brain from an early age.

Dean hated his father. He had decided that the very moment his mother's skin was blossoming black and yellow. That was why he became a cop. He wanted to stop the pain, and he wanted to be the one to stop it with his own hands. However, whatever love, and gratitude, he had originally thought would come to him, was quickly wiped away.

That was his sin: he had arrested his own father. He had finally put an end to the abuse, and he thought that he had managed to save his family. But…no; the moment that John was carried away, whatever anger that had been stored up inside his mother came upon Dean. Her soft hands had turned to iron, and they struck him as if he were his father. She had cursed him—his very existence—and Dean felt lost ever since.

Mary was inconsolable after John was arrested, and was deemed unfit to care for Sam. Sam, being only fifteen at the time, was faced with the option of foster care. And Dean? Dean was watching his family fall apart by the doing of his own hands, and he did only what he could: he became Sam's legal guardian at the age of twenty-two. Sam did not want to go—did not want to leave their unstable mother—and had told Dean more than once the he hated him.

This is your fault! Your fault! You have broken my heart—

His mother's last words had wrung in his head ever since, as well as the feel of her fists.

Dean fell asleep with tears still running down his cheeks, and to the soft sobs of his younger brother from the other room. For he was, after all, the Destroyer of Worlds—homewrecker.