Work Text:
Here we go with a prompt-story:
… . Dean was born a knight of hell, and John tried to fix him when he was a kid. So basically just a back story on that. It can either be a back story or a whole new story whatever floats your boat... : )
By Miss Ferraro
A/N: … as you probably already figured, there's no Sam in this one.
After my computer crashed, and the better part of the story was gone (because I didn't do a backup of my stories for a week before that happened), this was GONE too.
So I needed to rewrite it. – More or less. It's different from the draft though.
WARNINGS: DARKER THEN DARK. AND DAMN SAD. AND FUCK - I DID SOMETHING REALLY HORRIBLE HERE.
A/U, john!winchester, dean!winchester, knight!of!hell!dean, john!tries, dean!tries!not, teen!dean,
Here we go …
Into The Dark
Oneshot
John's damn exhausted.
With Mary gone (burning on the fucking ceiling of Dean's room), and demons on their tail, ready to rip away the last good (or rather not) thing that's left in John Winchester's life, they're on the run ever since.
It's no easy thing to manage.
With his toddler-son assumed being a Knight Of Hell, demons hot on their heels to take him away, and he himself having sworn to kill that Yellow Eyed Bastard who dared to rip this apple-pie-life away from him (them), he's more than just tired.
John Winchester wouldn't have thought that any of this supernatural crap is real, if it hadn't been for himself seeing and living through it.
Now he's a hunter, with a five-year-old in tow, who – deliberately or not – tries to get him six feet under.
Specially since Dean's not any kid. He's THE KID.
Apart from all the usual obstacles in a father's (or mother's) way to raise a child on his (her) own – even when it's soul isn't marked by hell itself – it's not an easy task.
Dean doesn't only try to stick everything possible into jacks, or climb on whatever tree or furniture seems appealing to him right then, nope. Dean seems to love when he can watch living beings die.
He's fascinated by roadkill.
Pokes at dead birds or mice, before he revives them with a single touch or fucking breath. – And no, he's not fixing them up, so you know. They return from the dead, poor souls trapped in rotting bodies.
One time, Dean figured it'd be fun to have a dog – that's when he's been seven years old. And since John had told him NO for several times, Dean figured, he'd get one himself.
Do I have to mention roadkill again? Because that's what the dog (or at least it partly looked like one) must've been. Can you even imagine how Dusty (that's what Dean's been calling it) smelled?
I bet you can't.
Though, the poor animal seemed to be kind of happy. Wiggling its (broken and utterly disgusting, fur-missing, flesh-dissolving) tail, barking happily (well, it probably was supposed to be barking, because the thing missed a part of it's jaw) when Dean patted its head or back.
But the real big mess started, when Dean's been feeding Dusty … As there wasn't a lot of his abdomen left (roadkill, like already mentioned).
John's not only been furious, and disgusted, but also afraid. Of his son. And for his son.
That night, he locked Dean up in the cabin they were actually holing up in, took Dusty outside and into the woods and put a bullet to its brain.
Act of mercy, John's been calling it.
Despite, that Dean's not been intentionally killing beings, and that he – other than all the weird shit he's been pulling – was a normal kid, John felt the urge to make him stop.
To get Dean to fucking understand, that what he's been doing ain't good. – That it's far off the reservation, John can't even …
John tried it with love. He honestly did. Told Dean with all the calm and patience he could muster, that what he's doing, how he's behaving isn't okay. Isn't normal. And that he wants him to be normal.
As normal as any seven year old can be.
But Dean isn't. So, it comes ahead to the day, when he's barely 14, that he finally snaps.
They are yet in another town, and Dean's yet in another school for their time being. He's always the cool guy. Never the one who gets bullied, or fucked with.
It doesn't even take his black eyes to make people back off.
Though, there's this boy – Nate – who gets bullied.
Usually Dean doesn't bother. He's too occupied with whooing girls and get them to drop their panties in whatever cubbyhole is the closest at school. He's not interested in hanging out with the other cool guys, or to become friends with anyone.
After all, he'll only be there for a couple of weeks.
But what he can do is, leaving an impressive appearance on the girls. Not to mention, that those girls are way older than him, by the way.
Dean's damn proud of that fact.
But then there's Nate.
He's caught Dean's attention at the very first day.
A lanky tall boy with shaggy hair and deep-brown eyes. An absolute geek, if you ask Dean. He even looks like a fucking book-worm, as he always carries way too many books with him. And other school-stuff Dean doesn't waste a single thought on.
That kid has a smile like a damn supernova which is about to explode. All bright and blinding, when he flashes those dimples at Missy-May (She's a typical nerd too. Red long hair, freckles and glasses like fucking magnifiers).
Anyway, point is.
The kid's doing Dean's homework. In return, he takes care that Nate's left alone by a couple of bullies.
It's a simple deal they came up with at that very first day, when Nate went waterboarding in the boy's toilet, and Dean walked in on the three idiots sticking the kid's head in the toilet while flushing.
Dean walks with him on his way to school and back home.
Somehow, the squirt grew on him. Like cancer – but though (not really cancer. More like a little brother, but Dean would never admit that to anyone).
It comes ahead to the day, when Dean's late (due making out with his teacher Misses Smith, to get this damn A+ in biology).
Yeah, Dean knows how to get along with the ladies. No matter what age (he's totally into the 16 & up league here), no matter what floats their boat. He's on it – each time.
It's a fucking gift.
Though, John doesn't quite share that believe. He's lectured Dean more than once, to keep his dick in his damn jeans, and that he doesn't want to see him ever again with a twenty year older woman having sex on his damn bed.
Dean Winchester isn't reviving dead animals anymore. Nor does he want to have a dog, or cat, or whatever. Torturing them ain't his most favorite hobby anymore too ever since he's turned ten.
It's the ladies nowadays.
Always the ladies.
And Nate.
Nate is precious. He's not to be touched.
And that's where it gets ugly.
Due Dean's make-out-session with Misses Smith, he misses Nate and Nate decides to head home on his own.
What a big mistake.
Those bullies wait for him two blocks away from school, and pull him into the bushes to give him a lecture he won't ever forget.
Sadly, Nate does not survive the attack.
It's an accident. Really.
They didn't mean to … at least that's what they tell Dean later on.
Because it's Dean who finds Nate's lifeless body surrounded by those jerks. They all stand frozen in place, as they stare down on the kid's corpse.
An ugly gash on his forehead, cheek swollen and bruised. Blood still welling from his mouth and nose, despite that he's already dead and his body cooling down.
He's all ashen, his lips – where they are visible among all the blood – blue.
Dean pushes them aside and falls to his knees beside Nate. He cradles the kid's head in his arms, calls his name, tells him to wake up.
But the kid's eyes stare into nothingness, all live drained away minutes ago.
It tears Dean apart. It twists his guts and burns his throat. It hurts. It hurts so bad.
Dean tries – for once – to get a human soul back into its body. He breaths him in and exhales, in hope that Nate's going to draw in his life-promising breath.
But nothing happens.
Nothing at all.
Nate's gone. Fucking gone .
And those bastards are alive. – Unharmed even.
But that's definitely not how this is going to end, because Nate's not one to stay unavenged.
Blackness bleeds into Dean Winchester's eyes and swallows all the green and white, until there's nothing human about them left.
When the murderers attempt to take off, screaming and yelping and crying for help, there's an utterly feral – dangerous – expression creeping into Dean's features.
And he takes them down. One after another. He tears them apart – literally – with his bare hands.
When Dean comes back to the motel that night, blood and other fluids sticking to his clothes, John's already waiting for him.
His father is anxious. Tapping with one foot on the carpet, bottle of booze in one hand, gun in the other one.
The TV is playing, and there are the news. Reporting four dead bodies. Probably teenagers. No one can tell who they once were, as there is not a lot of them left behind.
Except for one. Nate's. Nate, who's nicely arranged, all blood wiped away, so that he looks like he's in a deep slumber.
There're daisies growing all around him where he rests.
"What've you done?", John asks. There are streaks of dried tears all over his face.
Dean slams the door shut behind him and glares at his father.
"They had it coming.", Dean answers.
"Who? Huh? What did they do to you? What did that Nate-kid do to you?", John asks, his voice thin, desperate to understand. He can't imagine that Dean'd hurt that boy though. He's seen them together. Had a cautious eye on them the first couple of times Dean walked with him down the street, until they disappeared around the corner.
"I didn't do anything to Nate. – He was my friend, and they hurt him. – So I've hurt them." Dean's eyes flash black for a matter of seconds. "So yes. I don't regret anything, dad. They had it coming."
John eyes his son. "You killed them. You killed innocents, Dean."
"They were everything but innocent." Dean shrugs off his jacket and tosses it on the ground. "Nate was innocent. – He didn't deserve to die. They did. – And I pray they'll rot in hell. Or better: They come back as ghosts so I can put them down a second time around."
Dean sounds cold. Distant. And so terribly honest, it causes John to shiver as a cold dark pit grows mercilessly in his stomach.
The young Winchester stares at his father for a few more seconds. Looks in those sad huge eyes, and he can't bring himself to feel sorry for what he's done.
Not ever.
Dean takes a shower. Long and hot, until his skin is red and stings and burns. So do his eyes, when the emotions overwhelm him, and he lets it go. The anger. The frustration. The loss.
Silent tears mingle with the water, washed and carried away to where no one would ever find out about them.
Not even John. Never John.
So, when Dean's done, all the blood and grime gone. All the love he's had left to give washed away with it, he emerges from the bathroom, wearing fresh clothes and looks as emotionless as he ever could be.
John looks up from his duffel. Dean's sits right beside it on the bed. Already packed.
A plastic-bag with his bloody clothes rests beside the bed on the floor.
"We better leave.", John states, eying his son for a long moment before he draws in a deep breath and straightens up. "You ready to take off?"
Dean tilts his head to the side and eyes his dad. "What about the hunt?"
John shrugs. Who cares? "I'll call Bobby on our way. Someone else's gonna take care of it."
~ The End ~