Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Dad?”

“Dean? Now’s a bad time, can you….”

“We’re out of money.”

“Again?! Look Dean, you’re smart, figure it out. Or else." 

Click.

He didn’t remember the first time. People always talked about it, their first time. Girls got all glowy-eyed and the other girls would ask if it hurt. Guys would laugh and high five and compare made-up time scores.

But for Dean, it all bled together. Sure, there was a time when he remembered his first time. He knew it had hurt. But that was it. He couldn’t remember a face, a name. Not even a city.

He was bent against the wall, hands pressed against it for support while some sweaty middle-aged guy rutted against his hips. He bit his lip, ignoring the sparks of pain trailing up his abdomen. He’d learned to stop crying out a long time ago. Unless they were into that, of course.

The guy finished and Dean shuddered imperceptibly as he felt hot liquid shoot into him. The man patted his bare ass cheek, tucked himself into his pants, and walked away. Dean didn’t have to look back to know the money was on the table. They’d learned not to fuck with him.

He took the 20 bucks and walked to the corner store with it. He bought some groceries, a Twinkie for Sammy. It didn’t go far, but it’d last a few days, until he could find someone else.

He walked back to the hotel room and froze. The car was out front, and it was empty. Shit.

Dean found his key in his pocket and unlocked the door, his stomach clenching painfully and each step shooting more agony into his rigid spine. Dad was there, sitting with Sammy in his lap and showing him a picture of the Grand Canyon, saying, “One day I’ll take you there.”

He looked up when Dean entered, eyes tracking his son’s sore steps and lingering on the hickey’s lining the boy’s neck, hiding just under his shirt collar.

Dean kept his head down, waiting. Sam had been here alone. It’d only been half an hour, but he had been here alone.

“Dean! Look what Dad brought us! A postcard!”

Sam squealed, his eight-year-old form almost too big for the child in his voice still.

“Hey, Dad..” Dean said, setting the bag of groceries on the counter with a quick glance towards the bed where Dad and Sam sat, hoping the pathetic amount of food inside the flimsy plastic bag would be apology enough for the old man.

“Dean,” his father nodded, jaw set, understanding in his eyes. Apparently he was in a good mood today. He looked back to Sammy without a further word and fished out another post card from his bag.

Dean collapsed against the other mattress, knowing he needed a shower and some new clothes, but not bringing himself to care. He pulled the blanket over himself so Sam wouldn’t see the blood staining the back of his jeans if it had leaked through, and fell asleep to the sound of his little brother’s laughter.

He was sixteen when someone finally got the best of him. He’d had three clients wanting him at the same time. Group discount and all. But when he showed up to the hotel room, they’d cuffed him to the bed and did what they had wanted, then emptied his pockets and took his cash and wallet.

He had to break his thumb to get out of the handcuffs, and maybe that was the reason why he was caught stealing. His dominant hand was useless. The bread bag rustled in his left hand underneath his shirt as he tried to walk out of the store.

It wasn’t long until he was back in handcuffs again.

He didn’t need to hear the police officers to know that his dad didn’t pick up. They’d gone back to the hotel once Dean finally told them where he was staying, and there was no Sammy. Just Dean’s clothes and an empty room.

He’d screwed up.

He felt like that now, held against the wall by some demon bitch that had come after the Colt. The useless, melted Colt that was at their bunker in Kansas, far away from their Illinois motel room. Sam was tied to a chair, head hanging limp and dazed as he tried to focus his vision on his brother. Dean had walked in half-cocked, heard Sam’s cries of pain and rushed in without thinking.

“Let him go,” the older Winchester growled.

“Or what? You’ll have your pet come burn my eyes out? Sorry, sweetheart, we’re smarter than that. This place is warded. Your angel can’t get in,” the demon purred, a smile twisting her lips.

“Oh trust me, it’s not Cas you have to worry about.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed, and the demon faltered, just for a moment, but then her feral growl was back and suddenly Dean’s breath was gone. He wheezed, fingers clawing at his throat. Eternity seemed to stretch by, and he felt his eyes rolling back into his head.

“Stop, stop! Do what you want with me, just let my brother go!”

Sam’s voice was pleading, vulnerable in a way it hadn’t been for years. Not since he’d watched Dean get torn apart by hellhounds.

The demon laughed, and turned her head back towards Sam. Dean fell to the floor, head lolled and still. So very still.

“About time you offered up your body for your brother, instead of the other way around.”

Sam’s breath heaved in his chest, heavy and burning and he couldn’t seem to get enough air. The demon’s voice snapped his eyes away from his brother’s unmoving form and to her.

“What do you mean?” he asked. Stall, he had to stall. Dean would be okay. He always was. He had to be.

“Where do you think all those Twinkies came from, Sammy boy?”

A terrible feeling crept into the pit of Sam’s stomach, and he withdrew his eyes, finding the floor suddenly very appealing. Thoughts warred within him. Old suspicions and ideas and memories of Dean . He looked up just in time to see Dean’s angel blade slide through the chest of the demon, a thunderous crackling sounding as she slid to the floor with a stunned look stamped on her frozen face. Dean wiped the blade on the hem of his jacket and stepped over her without a second glance.

Within seconds, Sam’s bonds were slashed and he was being helped from the chair, Dean’s solid arm warm around his shoulder.

“Come on, Sam. Let’s get you home.”

The car ride was silent. No music, no talking. They rode for two hours before Sam finally turned his head towards his brother. He opened his mouth-

“Sam, don’t.”

“Dean….”

Dean slammed on the brakes and pulled the car to the shoulder of the back-country road they had been driving on, anything to avoid traffic cameras.

“I said don’t,” he snapped.

Sam’s mouth gaped, but his brow furrowed and he found his words.

“How long?”

Dean turned to him, face unreadable, but he wouldn’t meet Sam’s eyes.

“What?”

“How long was it going on? How long did you hide it from me?”

His brother smiled.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Sammy.”

Sam huffed and twisted his head to catch Dean’s gaze, forcing him to meet his eyes, just for a second, daring the elder to look away. Dean, for all of his pride, held the stare with a locked jaw and challenging glare.

Sam was the one who had to look away.

“Dean…. I….” He looked up, finding his brother’s eyes still on him, expression softened into one of fear and trepidation. His entire body seemed to scream. I don’t want to talk about this.

“Thank you.”

Dean’s face blanked in surprise, mouth open as a soundless breath fell from his lips. The younger Winchester just nodded, then reached out and flicked on the radio. His heart ached and his gut was telling him to go bring John Winchester back from the dead just so he could kill him again for what he'd put Dean through. He wanted to scream, punch a wall. Beg for forgiveness. Give Dean back his childhood. Make Dean spill all the dirty little secrets he kept trying to protect Sam from. But when he looked at his brother, the set of his shoulders and the lines tugging at his mouth, he couldn't. 

Dean’s grateful look was enough for him. He could let his go. For now. 

Sam woke up in his bed at the bunker the next morning, nursing a throbbing head and finding his mind cloudy.

He walked out to find Dean cooking bacon and eggs, like every morning, with Castiel sitting at the table on a laptop. The scene stung for some reason, and he realized vaguely it was because they were missing Jack. And Mom.

“Morning, Sammy. Sunny-side up or scrambled?”

“Dean…You….How… What happened yesterday?” Sam finally managed, falling into the seat beside Cas. Dean glanced at him from the corner of his eye and grinned.

“You don’t remember, Sam? Demon, wanted the Colt.”

Shaking his head, Sam brought a hand up to his temple, applying light pressure to the aching pulse point.

“Not all that surprising. She konked you pretty good.”

The pressure in his head was building, insurmountable.

“A demon did this?” Sam asked through gritted teeth.

“Yeah,” Dean replied, setting down a glass of water in front of his younger brother.

Sam took it in his hands and found his grip shaky.

“You alright there, Sammy?”

Sam nodded, then promptly shook his head.

“No, I think I need to go back to bed,” he said.

“You do that, I’ll make sure Cas doesn’t eat all of the bacon,” Dean said with a wink. Sam shot him a small smile as he rose and headed for his room, glass of water in one hand and his forehead in the other.

When they heard his door clank shut, Cas looked up at Dean.

“Hush, I know,” the hunter said, plopping into the chair Sam had just vacated.

“You can’t keep doing this,” Cas said, voice firm but gentle. Dean stared at the angel’s hands, and finally brought his eyes up to meet the blue ones scrutinizing him.

“I don’t know any other way.”

Cas’ expression eased, softness crinkling the corners of his eyes as he shot Dean the wayward owl look he often wore.

“Maybe you should just tell him. Or not wipe his memory, let him find out.”

The chair skidded across the floor as Dean shot to his feet, already walking back to the kitchen where the eggs were burning in the pan.

Cas followed him, insistent, eyes on the back of the man’s head. Dumping the blackened eggs onto a plate, Dean finally looked up.

“And tell him what, Cas? That Dad never gave a shit if we starved? That I whored myself out for milk money so Dad wouldn’t beat the shit out of me again? Or leave me rotting in some group home? No, fuck that. He shouldn’t have to carry that. It wasn’t his fault.”

A hand fell on the hunter’s shoulder and he tried his best not to flinch.

“It wasn’t yours, either, Dean,” the angel said softly, eyes full of too much emotion for the Winchester to process.

“Cas, please, just let it go.”

Dean shrugged the hand from his shoulder and turned back to piling the dishes in the sink. He’d wash them later.

“You won’t always be able to protect him, you know.”

The hunter turned around to find Cas’ gaze facing the direction of Sam’s room. He sighed, heavily, and scrubbed a hand over his face.

“I will for as long as I can. Like I always have.”

When he looked back up, Cas was gone and the bacon was burning.

Great.