Rating: hard R/NC-17
Warnings: AU, Normal Humans, Child Abuse, Angsts, Violence, Rape, PTSD, Prostitution, Under Age Sex, Possible Slash, Probable Homophobia,
Spoilers: there are mentions of character from all seasons but no real spoilers, also I switch up some relationships and locations as to where people live.
Summary: Dean had been living with a serial killer for twenty-six years, but he already knew that. What he didn't know was how it was going to change his and his brothers lives. As he grows up Dean struggles to protect his brother and himself. After twenty-six year of this something happens and things in Dean's life begin to change, for better or for worse, well that's yet to be decided.
a/n I also posted this on fanfiction under another name.
Monument, Colorado 2005
God, as it turned out, was late. Or at least in Dean's opinion he had been years too late. So late that he had given up completely on the thought and notion of God. He had prayed all his childhood away and ended up with nothing but tired hands and a hoarse voice. Dean hadn't prayed in ages, so when the door of hotel room was kicked open and a herd of cops entered, he couldn't help but wonder who had been praying for him.
The carpet tasted like shit, but Dean couldn't turn his head because of the officer holding him firmly down. Handcuff were slapped around his wrists and cut into his skin. He let out a small hiss of pain, only to have the officer slam his face deeper into the disgusting carpet. His vision was blocked but in the very corner of his eye he could see his father. There had been no time to grab the guns when the cops barged in, so John was in a very similar position as Dean. Though, unlike Dean, John was struggling. He yelled and cursed at the cops while his body refused to remain still. Dean listened as his father threatened the officers, Good plan Dad, Dean thought sarcastically.
Dean was no longer on the floor. Two cops hulled him to his feet and began to push him outside. Dean went willingly. He made no fuss as the officers read him his rights, or when they shoved his head down to hard when he was put in the back of the police car. Dean could hear the sound of the car locking, leaving him alone. He watched as some cops shook hands and congratulated each other, then watched as his father was dragged from the motel. The scene had gained many spectators, from the motel and a nearby establishment, people came to watch as Dean's father was slammed into the hood of a car before he was shoved into the backseat.
After a few minuets of celebrating the arrest the officers departed in their cars. Two got in the car with John and another two joined Dean. The siren was flicked on and the car skidded out onto the road. The cop in the passenger seat kept sending back glances at Dean, but never spoke a word. The car ride was absent of speech and filled by the screaming siren. Dean's hands twisted behind his back, trying to relieve some of the discomfort. He began to gnaw on his lip to relieve his nerves. He was scared, no, strike that, he was terrified. Dean knew what his father did, moreover he knew what other people thought they did. Dean didn't want to die, he had spent his entire life trying to prevent his death at his fathers hand, he did not want to end up dying on a table with a needle stuck in his arm. He knew that he had to tell the truth, but the question was, who would believe him?
They arrived at the police station, along with a dozen news channels plus reporters. John had gotten there first and was being pulled into the station while he was bombarded with cameras and microphones. All the way to the door John smiled at the cameras. Dead shuddered.
Dean was yanked from the car and pulled through the crowd of people. They screamed his name and thrust microphones and tape recorders in his face. Dean wanted to curl up in a ball and disappear. God he hated this. Finally he was free from the new reporters and it was slightly easier to breath. Once more he was dragged along, this time to an interrogation room. One cop opened the door as the other pushed Dean over the threshold then slammed it shut. Dean jumped at the sudden sound then composed himself before taking one of the two seats at the silver table. To his left the was a two way mirror, Dean took in his reflection and felt the same as what he saw. Tired and so damn beaten down, that he was sure there was no fight left in him. Dean sat down, mindful of his handcuffed hands, then allowed his head the fall gently to the table. The cool metal felt nice against his forehead and it helped ebb away the rapid beat of his heart.
Dean was not a true believer in God, however, as he had prayed before, he prayed once more. With his eyes shut he sent up a prayer that he would be saved. That someone would take mercy on him, whether that be letting him go or killing him Dean did not care, he just wanted this to be over. He ended his make shift prayer knowing in his heart that God had given up on him, or perhaps he had never care at all. That thought sounded more plausible then the other.
Dean wondered how long they were going to make him wait until he finally saw another cop, or detective, or, hell maybe even the FBI would show up. He knew that they were trying to scare him, make in stew in the cold room, but what Dean knew and they didn't, was that he was innocent. Well mostly innocent, he had never killed anyone, but he had also never told another living soul that his father was a murderer.
The door opened so suddenly Dean's head flew away from the table and he nearly knocked himself out of the chair. He was surprised that someone was here so soon, he had figured that he would be alone for much longer.
The man who walked in sent Dean an unimpressed glance then took the seat across from the young man. He was a black man with a 'take no shit' attitude smug on his face, he looked away from Dean and opened up a folder, which Dean figured held his, and perhaps his father's, case file. The man flicked over a few pages and smirked before he looked up.
“Do you know why you're here son?” he asked condescendingly.
“Yes,” Dean replied, ignoring the other man's tone.
“Well then,” the man huffed a laugh. “Why don't you tell me why you're here and I'll fill in the blanks for you.”
“What's your name?” Dean asked after a beat of silence.
“FBI Special Agent Hendrickson,” the man said smoothly.
“FBI Special Agent Hendrickson, I am here because my father is a murderer,” Dean told him.
“Only your father?” Hendrickson asked with a cocked eyebrow.
“Only my father.”
“See here's a part where I'll fill in the blanks for you Dean,” Hendrickson said. “May I call you Dean?” he asked snidely and Dean nodded despite it. “You and your father are killers, you and your father murdered three girls in New Mexico, a man in Texas, a couple in Vermont, and six people in Kansas. You and your father are serial killers. Elusive and very clever, I'll give you that, but serial killers nevertheless.”
“Your wrong,” Dean said not looking at the man, his eyes had drifted to the left and hovered where the floor met the wall. His voice was weak, he was sure that Hendrickson did not believe him for one moment.
“I don't think I am Dean,” Hendrickson said and relaxed back in his chair a bit.
“I never killed anyone,” Dean insisted.
“Can you prove that?” Hendrickson laughed. Dean's eyes shot back to the man. He wanted to yell at the man that he could never kill anyone, but his nerve betrayed him. Although the man had not hurt him, the sinking feeling that he would held tight in the pit of Dean's stomach.
“No,” Dean replied softly, averting his eyes from the man once more. “But I never killed anyone, never...” his voice wavered and he stopped speaking.
Hendrickson stayed silent for a long while. He took in the man before him, he was jumpy and scared, but that was not uncommon for someone who was just recently arrested. Although there was a tug at Hendrickson's gut as the young man claimed he had never killed before. The FBI agent picked up the Winchester file once more and leafed though it. He read old reports of the murders and saw Dean's name there many times but no photo, while pictures of John were plastered across every other page.
“Lets say that you're telling the truth, say you didn't kill anyone,” Hendrickson spoke up, his mouth twitching a little. “Did you know that your father was a murderer?”
“Yes,” Dean said to the floor.
“Why didn't you tell anyone?” Hendrickson asked, actually curious as to what the answer would be.
“I couldn't,” Dean said so slightly that Hendrickson wasn't sure if he had actually spoken.
Hendrickson edged his head forward, his brows creased. He folded his hands on the table and closed his eyes for a moment then opened them back up. Dean's body language was speaking in volumes, Hendrickson took it in and with a grimace realized the story had taken an abrupt turn. It was not just the fear of being caught and arrested, Dean was terrified of something much more then going to jail.
“Did your father threaten you?” Hendrickson asked, though he figured he already knew the answer. Dean refused to speak, his head was turned down and his eyes fluttered around the tiled floor. “You need to speak to me Dean. If your father threatened to hurt you if you told on him or anything else; you need to tell us. This could lessen you prison time.”Hendrickson tried to bargain with the young man. “So I'll ask you again; did your father threaten you?”
“Yes,” Dean said finally. “All the time,” he continued to speak to the floor, not chancing a glance at the FBI agent.
“What did he threaten to do if you told,” Hendrickson pursued gently. Dean could hear concern echoing in his voice, that was a tone he had not hear in long while. Slowly Dean raised his head and cast a look at the other man. Hendrickson tried to remain calm and to appear open to anything Dean may have to say. Dean kept his mouth shut as he rolled his shoulders and squared himself in his seat. He was now facing Hendrickson completely and even though he felt exposed he knew it would help the agent trust him more.
“Stand up,” Hendrickson said sharply and stood just as fast. Dean jumped and turned in on himself once more. Hendrickson mentally reprimanded himself for the quick action. “Please,” Hendrickson said after a beat. He watched Dean swallow hard and could see his shoulders shaking ever so slightly. “I just want to take off your cuffs,” Hendrickson explained. Dean eyed him wearily then stood up as instructed. Hendrickson moved around him and with a great swiftness removed the handcuffs. Dean's hands remained behind his back until Hendrickson had gone back to his seat and sat down. Dean copied him and placed his hand on the table where Hendrickson could see them, although with the new freedom Dean had no idea of what to do with his hands. He kept turning them over and over in each other.
“Dean,” Hendrickson began and Dean eyes almost met his gaze. “What did your father threaten to do to you?”
“He—He threatened me all the time,” Dean said to his now free hands. “Told me he would beat me, stab me, take off a limb or two.” His voice shook the entire time he spoke. “He would say he was gonna kill me sometimes...”
“Did he ever try?” Hendrickson questioned and Dean squeezed his eyes shut.
“Yeah—,” Dean said in one strangled breath. “A couple times.”
“What caused him to try and kill you?”
“I—I tried to tell someone, and well Dad found out and nearly throttled he to death,” Dean told him. “Once he stabbed me in the side and left me in a motel room for a week, alone. I had tried to run away...” Dean explained sadly.
Hendrickson stared at the young man in front of him. He attempted to take in what this man was saying. His own father beat him, nearly killed him, and he still stayed at his side, why? Hendrickson looked at Dean's eyes, they were much older then they should have been, so close to dead eyes. There was also a scar that ran from his cheek down to his neck, and light violet bruises streaked across the part of Dean's neck that he could see. Hendrickson's eyes moved down to Dean's hands, they were folded on top of one another but he could still see scars on their backs. Hendrickson swallowed hard, he wondered what the mans body looked like, he imagined that it was filled with more scars inflicted by a serial killer. The detective now wanted to believe that Dean was not a killer, but the captive of one.
“I would have told if that was the only thing he threatened,” Dean's voice broke Hendrickson away from his thoughts.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“If death for me was the only thing dad would have done if I told the cops, I would've let him kill me long ago,” Dean said as his eyes left the agent and moved back to the wall. Hendrickson did not know what to say. When Dean had called that murderer 'dad' Hendrickson felt like punching him, then the admission that he would have gladly died to turn in his father, had him spinning.
Realization hit him hard and fast.
“What else did he threaten you with,” Hendrickson demanded. There was something that Dean had to protect more then his own life and Hendrickson needed to know what was so important that he would die for, that he would be killed for.
“He threatened to kill my brother,” Dean said softly.
“You don't have a brother,” Hendrickson said quickly. He had read the file extensively, Hendrickson knew this case inside and out, there was no mention of another son of John Winchester. It was only John and Dean Winchester that existed, those two were the people who were on a killing spree across the US.
“There's no record of you having a brother,” Hendrickson said. He was now flustered and frustrated by the words that were being emitted from Dean Winchester. “What's his name?”
“Sam, and I know there's no record of him,” Dean returned, his voice catching at his brothers name.
“How,” Hendrickson asked, confused and irritated. “Why, why is there no record of Sam Winchester?”
Dean sighed then looked Hendrickson right in the eyes, the pressure of such deep, sad eyes made Hendrickson want to look away but he did not, he stared right back as Dean spoke.
“Because, I killed him.”
Hendrickson knew he was a good detective, his investigation skill were top notch, and no one would disagree with that. He placed high in the rank of FBI agents in his field and knew that with the closing of the Winchester case he would earn a promotion. But none of that seemed to matter as he sat in front of Dean Winchester. His head told him that the young man had been apart of the mass murders that covered many states, but his gut told him otherwise. With the emission that he had killed his brother, Dean Winchester had Victor Hendrickson's mind turning. His instincts made him want to believe that Dean could not have killed anyone, all the shit the kid had gone though, with having a serial killer for a father, must have made him fucked in the head, but Hendrickson was still unsure if the man before him was a killer.
“You told me you never killed anyone,” Hendrickson said, his voice flat. Dean shifted uncomfortably.
“Yeah, well...,” Dean paused. “It's a long story.”
“Dean you are under arrest for murder,” Hendrickson laughed. “You have the time, as do I.”
“I'm only gonna tell it once,” Dean said, his eyes back to the wall. “So either write it all down or get someone to record it.”
“Is this your confession?” Hendrickson asked.
“No, not really,” Dean said with a sigh. “It's a confession of what my father did, and what I did to survive him.”
Hendrickson nodded then stood up suddenly, the quick movement made Dean flinch away from the man. Hendrickson cursed at himself once more as he moved over to the door. He opened it and called out for a tape recorder or a video camera. He came back to the table and sat down with his actions more controlled than when he stood.
“Do you need a drink?” Hendrickson asked.
“No,” Dean replied. “But, thank you.”
The next moment a man opened the door with a video camera in hand. Hendrickson reached out a hand for it. The man stared at Dean wide eyed and with a shaky hand he handed the camera to the FBI agent. Hendrickson glared at the man until he left, his eyes still wide, with fear or wonder, Hendrickson couldn't decide. He set the camera on the table flicked out the view screen, turned it on, and pressed the record button. A red light began to blink and Hendrickson brought his attention back to Dean.
“Dean Winchester,” Hendrickson said a little too loud. “State your peace.”
Dean looked over at the camera, in the viewfinder Hendrickson noticed that Dean was only half in the screen. He face was turned to the left and the scar running down his face stood out almost to strongly against his pale skin. Dena turned himself slightly towards the camera and straightened up a bit. His eyes flicked from the camera over to Hendrickson.
“There's no way my father will ever be released, right?” Dean asked hesitantly.
“No, not even with an amazing lawyer,” Hendrickson told him.
“Good,” Dean said firmly then lost all tension in his voice as he began to speak about his past. “Uh, like I said this is a long story, so—uh, yeah, I'll get on with it. The first person my father killed was my mother. Your police files probably say she died in a house fire, which is true, but my dad is the once who set the fire. I was four, and I watched him set the curtains in Sammy's room on fire. He gave me Sam and told me to run outside. I did, and I waited for my mom and dad to come out, but only my dad did.”
“Sam,” Hendrickson mumbled. “There is no record of a Sam, as I said before Dean. There was a full investigation on that fire, many thought that it was intentional but we couldn't prove it, but there is nothing saying that two boys came out of that fire alive, or that one died.”
“No there isn't, I know that.” Dean said quickly. “That part comes later.”
“Fine,” Hendrickson said throwing his hands in the air, then kicked himself as Dean shied away from him once more. Hendrickson sighed and let his hand fall down in his lap and spoke again. “Just tell me one thing, how old was Sam when that fire happened?”
“He was just a baby, not even a year yet,” Dean answered, and Hendrickson wrote something down on the case file he had opened. He had flipped over a page and on the back had written in all capitols; SAM WINCHESTER, underneath that he had started a list of Sam's life.
“Right,” the other man said. “Continue.”
“There are more then twelve,” Dean said, his voice stronger now.
“More the twelve what?” Hendrickson took the bait.
“Murders,” Dean said, his voice losing the strength it had just gained. “My dad killed more then twelve people, probable more around eighteen or twenty, that I know of. There are probably a lot more”
“Do you know the names of these people?” Hendrickson asked, pen at the ready.
“No,” Dean replied. “Don't even know if most were men or women, I just know he killed more.”
“How?” Hendrickson's question hovered in the air for a long moment.
“When he'd just killed someone, he would whistle,” Dean said looking anywhere but the camera. “And usually, if I was lucky, he wouldn't beat me. The second person I know he killed was a woman. I was seven. He literally came home with blood on his hands, he whistled Knocking on Heavens Door. Then went into the bathroom and washed his hands. I knew what he had done, and I didn't do anything, because I was scared and, well, because I was seven.”
1986 Osceola Washington
Dean did not like it in Osceola, although he was really staying in a motel in Enumclaw, his father demanded that they visit the old town. Sam had clasped down on Dean's hand and had not let it go for one moment as they followed their dad down the deserted street. There were only a few buildings left, and most looked like they would fall over at any moment. Dean watched his father, he seemed to be looking for something but Dean didn't know what, all he knew was that he wanted to leave, and that Sammy needed to leave, or else he would have nightmares.
“Dad?” Dean asked timidity. “Are you almost finished?” John made no acknowledgment that he had hear Dean at all, if anything John walked faster and left his children behind. Dean slowed and allowed his father to get further away then took Sammy over to one of the buildings that did not look like it was going to topple over. From there he could see his father and most importantly he could see the car. The building sheltered the brothers from the slight wind that was blowing down the empty town. Dean sat down and brought Sammy down with him. He sat the little boy in his lap and began to tell him a story. It was the same story he had told Sam the night before but it didn't matter, Dean knew that Sam liked the stories, even if he repeated them. Dean liked the stories too, they easy to remember and they always had a happy ending. Sam listened intently to Dean. The younger Winchester did not speak much, but he made up for it with listening. Dean often compared him to a sponge much of the time, because he would drink up any story like it was chocolate milk. Dean found that he liked that Sam did not talk much. If Sam was quiet it meant that there was less for John to get angry about.
Their father seemed to get angry at everything and anything that his boys did. It had been Dean's job since he was four to look after Sam. If Sam was crying, it was Dean's fault, if Sam had a full diaper it was Dean's fault, if John lost all his money at poker it was Dean's fault. Dean had gotten used to the feeling that it was always his fault. Dean was pretty sure that Sam knew that their father blamed Dean for everything, so he kept quiet to keep his brother safe. Dean was grateful for someone who knew him, even if Sam didn't speak much Dean knew that he could count on his little brother to make him feel better.
Sam shivered, so Dean wrapped his arms around his brother. It was midday, but Washington did not have favorable weather. There were clouds overhead, but no rain, yet. Dean knew that if they stayed much longer the rain would start, and if Dean or Sam got water on the interior of the car they would be in trouble. Well, Dean would be in trouble because he never let Sammy be the one who got punished. Dean continued to speak as Sam spread his hands over Dean's arm, he poked at his brothers hands, and pressed their palms together. Dean watched Sammy and smiled softly at the little boy. He didn't realize it but he had stopped talking, Sam did though.
“Dean, don't stop,” Sam whispered like a secret. “You were just getting to the best part.”
Dean gave a little laugh then started the story back up. He didn't have time to finish it though, because a few minutes later their father came walking back up the road. Dean pulled himself and Sam up and hurried over to the car. John had a wicked smile on his face, Dean did not like it one bit. He hustled Sam into the car once their father was sitting down then jumped in after him. Dean sat in the back of the car with Sam, it never seemed like an option to sit in the front seat with his father, not that he would have wanted to.
The drive back to the motel was silent. Sam held onto the end of Dean's shirt and looked out the window. Dean was tired but he knew he couldn't sleep in the car, their father would get mad if he did. Dean kept one eye on his dad and the other on Sammy. Sam smiled slightly as they passed a woman and her many dogs, who were running away with her. Dean noticed that his father was smiling as well, but he knew that the dogs were not cause of the smile. Once John had gotten his boys back to the motel he let them get out, tossed Dean the key then took off. Dean stood in the parking lot for a moment, a little stunned that his father had left them again so soon. He held back a sound of frustration and forced himself not to cry in front of Sammy. Dean took a long breath before taking Sammy by the hand and walked over to the room in silence. Dean unlocked the door and when they were both inside locked it back up.
“You wanna watch TV, Sammy?” Dean asked.
“Okay Dean,” Sam said and scurried over to the bed they shared. Dean flicked on the TV then turned it to a kids network. Sam sat on the bed and became absorbed in Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, as Dean went to the kitchenette and opened the cupboard. There was one box of mac n' cheese, and one loaf of bread. The fridge did not have more, just milk, and some cold cuts.
“Mac n' cheese or sandwiches for dinner, Sam?” Dean asked, his head still in the fridge.
“Mac n' cheese!” Sam said happily. “Thanks Dean!”
“Sure Sammy,” Dean said and allowed himself to smile. He loved the times he had alone with Sam. The little boy would talk boy and actually be loud, like a three year old should be. Though Dean always feared that John would not come back before the ran out of food, or before they got kicked out of the motel, or before someone called child services. That was Dean's biggest fear, not that his dad would beat the hell out of him, but that Sam would be taken away from him. Dean needed Sam, probably more then Sam would ever know. Sam was the only thing keeping Dean from losing his mind. He needed to be sane and keep his cool so that Sammy would be alright. 'Look after Sammy,' that was Dean's motto and he strived to follow it.
Hours later, after Sam had fallen asleep, Dean lay beside him in the bed and waited for John to come home. Dean had to be up to open the door for his father, he had fallen asleep one night before John had come home and had gotten a severe beating for making him wait outside until the banging on the door awoke Dean. Dean was keen never to let that happen again, not because the beating was bad, it was because Sam had seen it. When John stormed out that night, to a bar most likely, Dean had to comfort Sam. He hated seeing his brother distraught, so he stayed up. He listened to Sam's breathing and listened for the car to pull up. Dean knew the sound of the car all too well. The Impala always gave Dean a clear indication of when his father had arrived with its loud engine.
Dean could hear it then, the rumble of the car pulling in close to the room. Dean got out of the bed and went to unlock the door, he stood aside and waited for John to enter. Dean could hear whistling before the door opened. John came into the room, cast a glance at Dean, then continued to whistle. Dean recognized the song, Knocking on Heaven door, then he saw the blood. His father's hands were red, as were his pants and there was a splatter of blood across his blue shirt. Dean felt his own blood go cold. John noticed his son staring and gave him smack to the back of his head. Dean flinched away and grabbed the back of his head and awaited for more blows. When they failed to come he ventured a glance up.
“Get to bed,” the older man grumbled.
Dean did not need to be told twice, he nodded and scrambled back to Sam. He placed a protective arm around the boy and closed his eyes most of the way. He carefully watched his father step into the bathroom and wash the blood of his hands and whistle the end to the song. Dean didn't have proof, but he knew that his father had killed someone. The feeling of horror and dread was enough proof for Dean that the man he shared a room with was a killer.
The next day John went out early to get food for the car ride. They were leaving town and Dean knew why. Sam was still asleep so Dean turned on the news. He watched it until the story he didn't want to be true appeared on the screen. A woman stood in the middle of the street Dean had been on yesterday and told of the body they found in the deserted town. A woman, a blond mother of three, was dead, stabbed to death, and the killer was pulling up in his car right outside the door.
Dean turned off the TV and woke Sam. They packed their things and left the town in a hurry. Dean did not speak, Sam kept trying to get him to finish the story he had been telling the other day, but Dean could not. He gave Sam a picture book instead, and spent much of the car ride staring at the back of John's head. His father was a murderer, Dean already knew that, he knew John had killed his mother, but now he had taken the life of another person. Dean wanted nothing more then to run, but...Sam. Dean's eyes flicked to Sam and he changed his mind. He had nowhere to go. Nowhere he could take Sam where they would be safe. He thought about telling the police, but the thought of foster homes and being separated from Sam was not something he could imagine living with. Sam turned the page in his book and Dean began to plan.