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Chapter Text

Hunger is Not a Crime

Chapter One: “Behind Green Eyes”

As Sam opened the door and slid into the passenger side of the Impala, Dean turned his green eyes -- clouded at the moment with memories of what might have been -- to gaze up at Sonny’s Home for Boys, one of the few real homes he had ever known in his life.

From inside the car, Sam said. “Man, I still can’t even imagine how dad must have reacted. Pretty dumb move, losing the food money like that.”

“Yeah,” replied Dean, “Pretty dumb.”

He felt a pang in his chest, a sudden urge to tell Sam the truth. He hadn’t actually lost the food money in a poker game when he was 16 … because there hadn’t been any food money to lose.

What would Sam say? Would it surprise him to learn just how hungry Dean had been when he stole the peanut butter and bread that day? That his brother hadn’t eaten in two days, that he was starting to feel dizzy and that’s why he slipped up and got caught?

Would he understand, even just a little bit, how hard Dean had tried? How much he gave to make sure his little brother never went without?

Probably it would just reignite Sam’s feelings of anger towards their father. He knew how Sam thinks after all -- everything always their dad’s fault. John was dead. Why re-open old wounds?

And it really hadn’t been Dad’s fault, Dean told himself …

………

Their dad hadn’t always been like that … When Sam was really little, and their dad still did the grocery shopping, they’d never run out of food. If John had to leave the boys for a few days, he’d stock the motel room with enough food for a couple weeks, paranoid that they’d run out.

Over time,  though, things changed …

Dean started doing the shopping with cash John gave him. And year by year, it seemed like the money stretched less and less. Actually, it didn’t seem that way … that’s exactly how it was.

1. Inflation … it didn’t seem to occur to John that everything cost more as the years passed. For all that he was a genius hunter, Dean recalled (with just a touch of bitterness that he quickly pushed back down), he sure could be dense about other things. Like what his boys needed to survive.
2. He should really say, what John’s growing boys needed to survive. A 4 and an 8-year-old eat a whole lot less than an 8 and a12 year old do … not to mention when they each hit their teen years and the real growth spurts start happened.

Dean wondered, and not for the first time, if that’s why Sam managed to get so much taller than him. Because Dean made sure, from that first night huddled in the Impala after the fire, to the night when Sammy left for Stanford, that his little brother always had enough to eat.

Usually, Dean could manage by limiting his own portions, or even going without. But if it was a long hunt their dad was on, well, eventually the cupboards and the cash envelope would both run empty. And -- because Sammy missing a meal was not an option -- when the food and cash ran out, Dean would do whatever was necessary to restock one or the other.

When he was younger, his face all big green innocent eyes and freckles, begging worked well. But he had to be careful. Couldn’t cast any suspicion on John’s parenting lest protective services get called in. He had to catch a local bus -- or, if even the change for that was too much, walk -- miles away from whatever dump they were crashing in to be sure no one could figure out where the hungry little boy lived to ask why his father wasn’t feeding him better.

Later on, he’d hustle pool, once he was tall enough to be able to reliably make it past the bouncer into whatever local dive bar had the most likely pigeons.

But for a long time in-between, stealing was the only option. Sure, he’d work odd jobs when he could get them, raking leaves, shoveling snow, carrying groceries to old ladies’ cars. But you couldn’t feed two boys on the change grandmas were willing to hand you in parking lot.

And he did have to feed two of them, whenever he could. He made the mistake a few times of skipping too many meals, and it never paid to let things go that far. For one, he lost his edge, and he needed to be sharp to watch out for a sharp kid like Sammy. The last time he’d gone too long without eating, Sam got the slip on him and ran off to Flagstaff. And there had been hell to pay when he’d finally had to call John and tell him how badly he’d messed up -- that he’d let his little brother run away -- all while trying to not to let his dad hear that he was crying, choking back the sob that wanted to announce how terrified he was that Sammy was dead somewhere or worse. That was one of the few times John took his fists to Dean when he was cold stone sober …

……..

When they’d tracked down Sam, he spent almost a full day refusing to even look at Dean, staring moodily out of the Impala’s window instead. He’d just gotten chewed out, and sure, it was the screaming match of his life to that point, but still it was just words, words that bounced into Sam’s wall of self-righteous tween anger and right back off.

They’d picked Sam up that morning, and the was sun was going down before he finally caught a glance of Dean’s face at a Sinclair station while their dad was inside paying for gas and another six pack.

“Dean, what the hell man? Why’s your face so messed up?”

One eye was nearly swollen shut, his lower lip was split and so was one eyebrow, his cheek was bruised almost black. It truly was a testament to the self-absorption superpowers of the tween years that Sam was able to make it so long into the drive without noticing … a fact that was not missed by Dean.

He fought the urge to curl in on himself, on the pain that suddenly bloomed in his chest. That hurt way more than his face. Not that he blamed Sammy. This whole thing was his own fault, thought Dean. He and Sam had been fighting. Sam was complaining that Dean never let him do the things he wanted, like go to a movie with his new friends, never even bought the food he wanted at the grocery … didn’t care about him.

If he’d been doing his job better, providing better, Sammy wouldn’t have felt that way, thought Dean. He never wanted Sammy to feel like that … the way Dean felt all too often.

“Werewolf,” replied Dean. It was his go-to response when he didn’t want to tell someone the truth about the bruises. A year later, when Sonny asked about the bruises on his arms, he’d say the same thing (though that time he wouldn’t be lying when he said it wasn’t his old man).

And just like that, any concern that might have been growing in Sam’s intense, dark young eyes flickered out. “I was missing, and you went hunting?” he said, accusation heavy in his voice.

Now it was Dean’s turn to shift to gaze out the window, gingerly to avoid bumping the rib the suspected was cracked. As Sam huffed and grumbled softly across the back seat, Dean squeezed his eyes shut, holding back tears once again. Wouldn’t do to let Sam see that something more was wrong. The story was story now, and that’s how it had to be.

He’d messed everything else up. This he could get right at least …

………

Yeah there had been hell to pay for that mistake. As John’s fist smashed into his face for the third time, finally causing the 15-year-old’s knees to buckle out from under him, Dean hadn’t even protested. Not even one whimpered or gasped “Dad, please…” Because he knew. Dean knew it was his fault. Sam might be dead and it was his fault. He’d failed. One job to do and he’d fucked up yet again, just like he always did.

When John’s steel toed boot collided with his side throwing him backwards onto the carpet … a single tear traced down Dean’s already swelling cheek. The kick felt like as close to an absolution as he would ever get.

………

It hadn’t been nearly as bad the time Dean passed out during gym class when he was 13. They were learning wrestling moves, something Dean should have had down easily. Especially since he was, embarrassingly, grouped into the lightest weight class. He was not scrawny by nature … only by necessity as, yet again -- for the third hunt in a row in fact -- his dad was running late and the food money was running out.

That time, John had just chewed him out. Not about not taking care of himself though. He’d half hoped, stupidly he thought, that John might finally notice the pattern that kept repeating. That he’s feel some sympathy for his eldest. Or even be proud that Dean had taken care of Sam so well.

But no … Dean had put the family in danger . Now they were going to need to move on, again, before any concerned social workers came snooping into their business.

Still, Dean’ shame over putting his family in jeopardy was lessened by his relief that his dad was back. Soon they’d be on the road, they’d stop at a diner, and he’d get to sink his teeth into a cheeseburger, the most glorious food ever invented in Dean’s humble opinion.

As he scarfed down the burger and fries and licked the grease off his fingers, Dean knew Sam would give him that bitch face, the one that accused Dean of eating like a pig. But screw what Sammy thought. A burger after their dad got back from long hunt? That’s as close to heaven as Dean was pretty sure he would ever get.

And anyway, it wasn’t Sam’s fault he thought Dean was a glutton. Night after night when Dean didn’t eat, he’d told Sammy, “s’okay, I’m still stuffed from the massive lunch I ate.”

I wish, he thought … lunch was usually a water bottle he refilled each day at the drinking fountain, maybe an apple or peanut butter sandwich if the money wasn’t too tight yet. But it was better to go without lunch and eat a bit at dinner when he had to choose. Keep Sam from asking questions that way.

The worst part? They’d qualify for free hot lunch , easily. But he was too ashamed to ask John to fill out the paperwork. It would feel like accusing him of not being a good enough dad.

Dean would never accuse John of that … even if sometimes, deep in his heart, a little traitorous part of him thought it. The part that whispered he didn’t deserve a right hook in the eye just because his dad was drunk and thought Dean had been a little too slow on the trigger during the last family hunt. The part that dared admit, just every now and then, that a boy shouldn’t have to be both father and  mother to his younger brother, especially when he had no father or mother looking out for him.

………

Dean knew he’d waited too long this time. His head was starting to get that feeling like it was spinning. His knees felt just a touch shaky. He had enough food for Sammy for another day or so, but he needed to get something in his own belly and quick before this damn weakness betrayed him into making another mistake.

He’d tried getting into the local bar. He was good at pool (god knows he had enough time to practice it in shitty motel game rooms … plus it was one of the few things he and his dad did together where John relaxed, where he’d give his eldest a content smile). And no one expected someone as young as him to be as good as he was, so hustling could get him good money … if he could get into the bar to do it.

He’d thought the bouncer was going to let him too. The guy had smiled, acted understanding. It set off some alarms when he told Dean to follow him to the “side entrance.” But hunger and his need for money clouded his judgement.

When the bastard had grabbed his arms, suggested an exchange of favors for letting him in the doors, it had taken Dean longer to pull his arms out of the man’s grip than it should have. He cursed himself as he sprinted away. Stupid to get in that situation. And stupid body of his, not being strong enough right now to show that creep not to lay his hands on him. Now he was going to have red marks at least. Probably bruises. He’d have to wear a long-sleeved shirt 24/7 to keep Sammy from seeing those.

Damn, he just needed something to eat. And soon. He’d feel stronger, be able to think more clearly, just as soon as his stomach would stop gnawing at his insides.

That’s when he saw the sign for Hewlett’s Market. His feet started moving towards the welcoming florescent glow from the paneglass windows before Dean even realized what he was about to do …

………

Chapter Text

NonononononononoIfuckedupIfuckedupIfuckedupIfuckedupIfuckedupIfuckedupIfuckedupIfuckedupIfuckedup

The mantra kept repeating itself, echoing through Dean’s head, quickening his pulse and breathing until he felt like he might start hyperventilating.

He was sitting in a cell. A friggin’ cell in county lock up.

And Sam was sitting alone and scared in a motel room. With no big brother to protect him, make sure he brushed his teeth, walk him to school in the morning …

Dean’s head fell forward into his hands and a raw sob tore from his throat and wracked his body. This was unforgivable. And the worst part was that he knew, he just knew, that Sammy would forgive him. And Dean knew he DID. NOT. DESERVE. THAT.

He’d used his one phone call to ring the motel room and reassure Sam the best he could, given the circumstances. He’d told Sam to call Dad and if Dad didn’t answer then to call Uncle Bobby. And it took every ounce of strength and self-control Dean had to keep the tears out of his voice as he told Sam he wasn’t going to be home that night … maybe not for a while.

“What do ya’ mean?” Sam had said, stunned. And he was much less successful than his big brother at keeping the quaver out of his voice.

Dean gripped his shirt over his heart as Sammy’s voice, suddenly sounding years younger than 12, sent a jolt of pain ripping through the big brother’s chest.

“I’m so so sorry Sam. I fucked up,” he’s said simply. “I WILL come home, I will. But it might take me awhile.”

He forced himself to end the call soon after. He couldn’t bring himself to tell Sam he was in jail, and he didn’t even know why. Of all the people in the world he knew wouldn’t judge him, not really, Sam was #1 on the list. Sure, he’d give him that bitch face, and probably give him a hell of a hard time, but at the end of the day, it wouldn’t mean anything. Dean didn’t know if he was afraid of disappointing Sam, of worrying him even more, or what it was that kept him from telling his little brother the truth this time.

This was an ongoing predicament for Dean. Sammy was his brother, also in a fucked up way kind of his kid, but also his best friend, closest ally, staunchest supporter, and most honest critic. He was the one and only person Dean would ever open up to about anything serious. But when push came to shove…

Dean didn’t. And he could tell that sometimes it pissed Sammy off, as it should. Maybe he just wanted to keep up the illusion of strength. After all, Dean was the glue holding their little family together. If he cracked … any tenuous normality they had would break all to pieces.

Shitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshit, thought Dean. How could he have let this happen? He really was the screw up Dad made him feel like half the time.

Then Dean had another thought, one that stole his breath and made his heart skip a beat.

Dad. Dad was going to kill him for this.

………

Dean didn’t remember deciding to walk into Hewlett’s Market. When he thought back, trying to untangle what had happened, it felt like he’d been outside in the dark chill of an almost autumn night one moment … and then he was suddenly standing in the warm fluorescent glow of the grocery, hearing the sliding doors *swoosh* shut behind him.

He’d walked casually down a few aisles before finding the one he was looking for. He took one loaf of Wonder Bread and one smallish jar of Jif Creamy Peanut Butter, tucking them into his denim jacket as cool as could be.

But he wasn’t thinking straight — he was just so damn hungry. How suspicious must it have looked to walk into a store, amble around then walk out without buying anything? He hadn’t set up a distraction. Hadn’t planned a decoy purchase, or had any money even if he’d wanted to. And bread was just … well, it wasn’t the most inconspicuous thing he could have chosen to try to walk out with under his jacket.

(Maybe, for just a moment, Dean’s mind had unconsciously remembered peanut butter sandwiches at a table covered with a checkered cloth in a brightly lit kitchen … remembered a pair of hands lovingly pouring a glass of cold milk and cutting the crusts off the bread … as his body told him it was starving, demanded to be cared for, perhaps Dean remembered the last time he had felt cared for … and so he reached for the bread, he took the peanut butter. But if Dean felt any of this, he wasn’t able to form it into a coherent, conscious thought.)

Everything about it was stupid. And when Hewlett saw the suspicious as hell kid strolling out of the store, he’d walked over to the deli meat counter to mention it to his buddy, a deputy officer named Billy who had just gotten off duty and was picking up a few staples after a long day on his beat.

Stupid! Dean growled to himself. Not to even survey his surroundings before taking the five-finger discount. He’d missed a friggin’ cop for fuck’s sake. A cop in uniform! What the hell was wrong with him!

Then when the dude jogged to catch up to him, touching his shoulder lightly to get Dean’s attention, Dean had flipped. He’d slugged Billy the cop right in the eye. It was pure reflex, fight or flight — or a tangled up, confused combination of the two — combined with a bit of his dad’s training finally kicking in, plus the shock of seeing a cop right behind him, and the panicked and desperate thought: oh no … Sammy!

………

So Stephen Hewlett pressed charges. And the cop showed no pity when he hauled Dean into the country jail … well, maybe a little. He did give Dean his own cell instead of throwing him in the drunk tank.

Officer “CallMeSirIfYouKnowWhat’sGoodForYou” was pretty pissed when he’d realized Dean had wasted his one phone call. The cop’s words, not Dean’s. Dean would have made the same choice, the same call, in a heartbeat.

When the cop gave him a second phone call … Dean’s stomach dropped. He almost wished the officer was as much of a hard ass as he pretended to be. Dean did not want to make this call …

*RingRing* *RingRing* *RingRing* … “Hello?”

Figures his dad would have to actually answer this time.

“Uh, hey Dad. It’s Dean.”

“Dean? What is this number? Where are you calling from? Why aren’t you and Sam at the motel?”

“Well, um, Sammy is at the motel Dad. I just …”

John cut him off sharply, “You left your brother alone? It’s the middle of the goddamn night Dean? What the hell are you thinking! Where are you?”

“I screwed up Sir … I … I’m at the police station.” Silence on the other end of the phone. Oh fuck, Dean thought. “I shoplifted a couple things from the local grocery.” Still silence.

Dean would rather have his dad yell at him, chastise him for stealing (as though Dad’s credit card and insurance fraud wasn’t theft?), even tell him exactly how much he’d fucked up. The stony silence coming across the line was so, so much worse.

“I …” he needed to explain himself, needed a story John would buy. “I lost the last of the food money. Playing poker with some guys from school. Thought I could hustle them and double it, but I just got dealt a bad hand…” That wasn’t great. John would be pissed. But the shame Dean would have felt were his story true was sooooo much less than the shame he would’ve felt telling John the actual truth.

(But it wasn’t your fault, a small part of him whispered, Dad left you without what you and Sammy needed, he should have been taking care of you, you shouldn’t have to be protecting him right now … Dean pushed the thought aside, barely registering it.)

*click*

What? Did Dad just … hang up on me? Dean’s blood ran cold. He really just … hung up? This was bad, this was so much worse than he could have feared.

And something else was pushing through the fear now as Dean felt hot tears start to flow down his cheeks. He just … hung up. I’m in jail and he hung up on me. He hung up on me.

Once more, pain shot through Dean’s chest and he folded forward on himself, just the slightest bit.

“Hey kid,” said the cop behind him, reaching out to put a hand on Dean’s shoulder. Jackass just couldn’t learn his lesson. His fingers barely brushed the denim of Dean’s jacket before Dean whirled around and pushed past him, walking fast back to the cell. When he got there he stood at the back, staring at the cement wall, refusing to let the cop see the tears that continued to course down his face.

“Alright then …” said the officer, uncertainly. Dean heard the metal door clang shut, the key turn locking him back in, then footsteps receding down the hall.

………

It felt like days to the boy in the cell. In reality it was only a couple hours before Deputy Officer Billy came back, making sure to jangle his keys to give the kid in the holding cell some warning just in case he needed to wipe his eyes.

Billy had a son almost this kid’s age, and imagining those defiant green eyes with tears in them … well it tugged at his heartstrings more than he liked to admit to himself.

Don’t get him wrong, he was still pissed about the right hook to his eye. But he wasn’t going to add assaulting an officer to the kid’s rap sheet. The boy’s record was otherwise clean. Bad enough that he was facing a rap sheet at all just for trying to get something to eat.

“Hey,” said Billy, reaching through the bars to set a fast food bag down on the floor of the cell. The kid looked up at him, eyes still defiant. And even though his stomach rumbled audibly at the smell and sight of the bag, he didn’t approach. He just stubbornly went back to studying the floor.

“Listen,” said Billy, clearing his throat awkwardly. “Your old man will call back, probably walk through that door any minute. I’m sure he just needed a second to wrap his head around his kid calling from county.”

The boy refused to make eye contact, staying stubbornly quiet. Billy could respect that the kid didn’t want sympathy.

“Alright then,” he said and turned to walk away. He was barely out of sight of the cell when he heard the rustle of the paper bag as it was grabbed and opened.

Billy sat down at his desk with a sigh and ran both hands through his hair in frustration. This was turning into a real bitch of a situation. Why hadn’t he waited until the morning to go stock his fridge?

He hadn’t missed the bruises starting on the kid’s arms when he cuffed him, and the thought of someone gripping any teenager rough and hard enough to mark up his skin that way made Billy’s blood boil. But the bruises looked damn fresh, and the kid’s father seemed not to be immediately available, which was the only thing stopping Billy from getting protective services involved. He might still though … he had not liked the way the kid flinched, almost imperceptibly, when he told him to pick up the phone again and call his dad. And unfortunately the little brother was old enough to stay home alone, even if home was a motel room (another detail Billy did not like) so no dice on a child endangerment charge there.

There was also the boy himself adding complications on complications. Insisting he wasn’t really that hungry. Just felt like a sandwich and had forgotten his wallet, meant to come back and pay later … like Billy was gonna buy that. The lie was pretty half hearted as it was, like the kid had already accepted that he was going to have hell to pay for this. Plus another growl from his stomach sort of undercut his story.

That’s when Billy decided he could really use a milkshake … and just happened to grab a burger and some fries while he was at it, even though he’d already had dinner.

He couldn’t stop thinking about those bruises though. The kid actually had the nerve to respond “werewolves” when he’d asked how he got ’em. Punk.

But something had clearly gone really sideways in the teenager’s night for him to end up here, with hurt arms, with a stomach growling like a Grizzly and eyes that looked at a sack of burgers like it was the first food he’d seen in days …

Scratch that, thought Billy. Something had clearly gone off the rails in this kid’s life in general. God damn but he wanted to help him. Billy got into this line of work to protect and serve, but this was not a kid who was going to let some stranger save him, that was damn obvious.

And for all the anger, all the snark, all the hostility, even the sucker punch … Billy couldn’t look at those downcast green eyes and not want to save this Dean Winchester, no matter what the kid seemed to want. … I wonder if there’s a way to get Sonny involved, he started to muse.

The phone rang, startling the deputy out of his thoughts.

“Hello?”

“Hi, I’m John Winchester,” said a gruff voice on the other end of the line. “You got my son, Dean, locked up in one of your cells.”

“That I do,” drawled Billy, trying to read the other man’s tone.

“Well, you can let him know I’m not coming to bail him out. He did something this dumb all on his own? He can figure a way out of it or face his punishment on his own too.”

*click*

What the hell? Billy still gripped the phone, listening to the monotone left behind by the disconnected call. WHAT THE ACTUAL HELL! Could the guy really be for real? That was his son back in that cell, and he wasn’t even going to swing by, wasn’t even going to tell the boy in person what he’d decided?

Asshole. But then again, this might be for the best.

He’d tell the kid the truth — the less loyalty Dean felt to that bastard the better Billy supposed — and he wouldn’t soften it. That sounded harsh … he knew his wife wouldn’t approve when he told her this story. But the kid had made it clear he did not want sympathy. And if the boy had someone else besides his dad to maybe focus some of that anger on … well, Billy would count that a kindness done.

First, though, he was going to swing by that motel room, see what sort of conditions those boys were living in, maybe even intercept this John Winchester and tell him to his face what his initial impression of him was.

………

Dean stared out the window as the green hills of southern New York state rolled by. It was a beautiful September day, the kind of day when families were probably out picking early apples together. But Dean’s eyes didn’t register the scenery.

He left me …

Dean knew his dad was far, far from perfect. But on the other hand, the man was also a hero. Hunting ghosts, killing monsters … shit but that was a rough job. No wonder he drank on his days off.

Yeah, he expected a lot of Dean, maybe more than most parents would or should expect of their kids. But Dean wasn’t the baby; Sammy was. When you’re four-years-old and your brother is six-months-old, well, you seem a lot older than you might if you were the family’s baby. Besides, his dad had an important job. Maybe the most important job in the world. And Dean had to take care of Sammy so that his dad could do that job. Dean already would have thought protecting his kid brother was the most important thing he could do, but the fact that him doing it so single handedly freed his dad up to save people? That made it really, really important.

And if John occasionally roughed Dean up a bit, it wasn’t like Dean didn’t deserve it. The first time had been a slap across his face as Dean carried their duffels to the Impala in Fort Douglas, Wisconsin, after the Shtriga hunt he had ruined. It caught Dean totally by surprise. His father had always demanded obedience and responsibility from his eldest, but aside from a few normal childhood spankings, he’d never hit Dean before that night.

Dean’s world shifted when John’s hand connected with his face. Something inside of him shifted. Neither he, nor his relationship with his dad, would ever be quite the same.

And Dean accepted that. It hurt, sure. But he knew how badly he’d screwed up. He’d left Sammy alone, in direct defiance of his father’s orders, and the Shtriga had almost taken Sam from them. His brother, the most important person in his world, almost died and it was his fault. As they drove away from Fort Douglas, Dean’s cheek pressed against the Impala’s cold window to ease the sting left by John’ hand, Dean felt like he had, in fact, gotten off easy. He deserved much much worse than the disappointment in his father’s eyes and one back-hand across the face.

It’s probably why he accepted the door that it seemed to have opened in his father, the one that let his anger out around Dean, especially when he was drinking. No matter how many times he hit Dean, it never touched what Dean felt he deserved for almost getting Sammy killed.

Still, despite it all, Dean always knew one thing for sure: they were a family. Dad might leave them alone for days, weeks, even months at a time. But he always came back. He always would come back. Mom had left Dean, but it hadn’t been her choice. Sam had left Dean when he ran off to Flagstaff. But Dad … Dad never left, not for real.

Until now.

The cop didn’t try to spare his feelings any when he told Dean his old man wasn’t coming after all. Deputy Assface had even swung by the motel only to find John and Sam already gone. They’d left. Well and truly left.

And something inside of Dean broke.

Chapter Text

Dean got up from the mat, wiping sweat away from his eyes with one hand, extending the other to help his teammate to his feet.

He’d never understood the appeal of team sports. Having to sit in a classroom most of the day was bad enough, why would anyone actually volunteer to stay longer at school.

For the record, he hadn’t exactly signed up for this voluntarily. Sonny “encouraged” everyone at the boys’ home to get involved in at least one extracurricular activity. It wasn’t really optional, not unless you wanted to get bugged about it by Sonny multiple times a day every day until you caved. And it got Dean out of some of his chores around the farm, so that was a win he guessed.

No way in hell was Dean going to be one of the football jocks, and since bowhunting, knife fighting, and ghost hunting weren’t school sanctioned hobbies, he chose the one thing that maybe he wouldn’t embarrass himself at: wrestling.

To his surprise, and initially to his chagrin, he actually liked it too.

Anyone who had known Dean throughout the last 12 years of his life would have been surprised to find that he’d excel at an activity so bound by rules. He hadn’t meant to sucker punch the deputy in the face, but that sort of thing was really more in character for him than than a fake “fight” where he couldn’t punch anyone at all.

But there was something comforting about the whole thing. Knowing his opponent wasn’t going to suddenly break the laws of physics. That at the end of the match, injuries were the exception, not the norm. And just the ability to predict everything more easily than he’d ever been able to at any other point in his life.

Now that he was eating normally — or as Sonny would say, “eating like a damn ravenous dog” — he was up to a respectable 135 pounds, perfectly average for a fit 16-year-old boy. And he was dominating in his weight class.

The open pride on his couch’s and on Sonny’s faces when he would win … their words of undiluted praise and encouragement … well, that felt just plain weird. Kinda nice if Dean was being honest with himself, but in an embarrassing sort of way. He was used to compliments that went something more like “decent form when you took that shot, but next time remember to …”

Not that Dean cared what Sonny thought. Yeah, the guy was okay. But he wasn’t Dean’s dad, wasn’t family even. Dean was only going along with the wrestling thing because it was a good way to let off steam, okay?

Though his excuses to himself fell a little flat when he’d get a B or even an A and make sure to leave it where Sonny had a chance of seeing it. Not like Dean needed to be surreptitious about telling Sonny how he was doing in school. Sonny always asked about any test, paper, or project eventually. Dean figured he must have a calendar somewhere where he kept notes on all the boys’ academic and extracurricular schedules … but even taking that effort to remember …

Dean smiled sadly as he walked to the locker room. Sammy would be so surprised if he could see Dean’s grades. Sam knew Dean was smart … he was just always shocked when that manifested into anything resembling “book smart.”

That was Sammy’s thing in their family, and Dean let him have it. Mostly because it just wasn’t what was most interesting to him. They were never at any one school very long anyway, so why bother? When something did interest him, like U.S. History or English occasionally did, Dean excelled without putting in too much effort. The rest of the time he passed, sometimes barely sure, but with putting in apparently no effort.

It’s not like Dad gave a damn about his grades. Dean had always thought he was pretty lucky in that respect. No one nagging him about homework. But sometimes he wished …

Dean, now freshly showered and changed, smoothed his hair in the mirror. He’d seen Robin watching practice from the bleachers.

With a feeling in his chest that felt an awful lot like it might be happiness, he jogged outside to try to catch her before she walked home.

………

Sonny glanced over at the boy working on the old Wheel Horse tractor. “Hey D-Dog! Don’t forget to drink some water! It’s hot out here for October.”

He chuckled to himself as he listened to low grumbling from behind the rusted orange clunker. Kid was determined he was going to get that thing running again. And Sonny was sure that he would.

He didn’t know if he was getting static about the “D-Dog” or about having the audacity to look out for the kid’s hydration level. Either way, he was always happy to rile up some affectionate annoyance from any of the boys, especially those who didn’t have parents back home who gave enough of a damn to get on their cases or nerves.

It was hard to believe the boy who’d shown up here with nothing but the clothes on his back and the bruises on his arms a little over a month ago was the same kid yelling over to ask him about a different size socket for the impact wrench.

He honestly hadn’t known what to make of Dean that first day. Sonny sometimes felt like he’d seen just about every kind of story imaginable pass through the boys’ home, but then a hard case like Dean would show up and prove he could still be surprised.

When Billy first brought the boy in and sat him down on Sonny’s couch, Dean wouldn’t even lift his eyes. Sonny distinctly recalled thinking someone had broken that kid’s spirit.

But then, when Billy took off his sunglasses and revealed the black eye Dean had given him, it was like the teen flipped a switch, put up a wall between his pain and the world and projected a cocksure, smartass version of himself onto it.

Sonny knew that Dean had come here hungry, no matter what the kid claimed. But when he made Dean a sandwich, the teen ate in carefully measured bites, even leaving a bit of the crust on the plate … like he was just trying to prove Sonny wrong.

Dean was good at hiding. Sonny just couldn’t figure out from what.

He considered himself pretty good at reading people by this point in his life, but this one … every time Sonny thought he had Den pegged, he ended up being wrong. Starting with that first night. Dean had asked, “How do you know I won’t just run away?” And Sonny was sure Dean would stay because he was clearly starving. First order of business would be to get a little more meat on the kid’s bones…

But that night, as Sonny waited in a lawn chair outside the boys’ dormitory (this wasn’t his first rodeo …) Dean had proved him wrong, doubly so in fact.

Just after 11pm, when everything was still, the rest of the house having at last fallen soundly asleep, there came Dean, as empty handed as he had been when he showed up that afternoon.

That was surprise number one. Usually when a kid decided to run they’d take their belongings or, if they didn’t have any, they’d grab a pillowcase and load it with the clothes Sonny gave them and usually a few cans of food pilfered from the kitchen. But Dean was going to take off into the night with nothing but his own clothes and his charm to see him wherever he was going. This was a kid who was here for shoplifting?

Surprise number two was when, after taking maybe five steps out of the door, Dean stopped. Sonny couldn’t make out the boy’s face in the dark, but he could hear the ragged sigh, thick with unshed tears, that shuddered out of Dean as he slowed and then stopped. Dean gazed into the night, frozen to the spot, for a solid five minutes. Then he slowly turned around and walked back inside.

Now what the heck was that all about, wondered Sonny. The kid wanted to be somewhere else, and badly, that was clear enough. But wherever that was, Dean also clearly felt like he couldn’t go there. Maybe he wouldn’t be welcome there?

Dean was a puzzle, that was for sure.

It took three days for him to let his guard down enough to start eating normally. Normally for Dean that is. He’d bolt his food down like half-starved dog afraid someone was going to take his bone from him. And if you mentioned it, or anything else really, to Dean, the kid would put his hackles up just like a junkyard pit bull, half guard dog, half attack dog. But Sonny knew this about people and animals … anyone who acted like that had been hurt … had felt fear.

He didn’t explain any of that to Dean when he started calling him D-Dog. It clearly annoyed the kid, just a bit, but again Sonny considered that part of his job — annoy them just enough to make the boys feel a small part of what kids from stable homes felt towards their parents.

Sonny was very, very good at his job.

And the biggest surprise of all with Dean? He made it easy.

Kid was starved for positive attention way more than he was hungry for food. Sonny kept a calendar with all the boys’ big assignments written on it, and he always checked in with them after something was due. They all knew he would eventually. But Dean was so anxious to make sure someone saw how well he was doing, he couldn’t wait for Sonny to come to him.

He’d drop his backpack by accident (kid did have a bit of a clumsy streak at times, usually around anything breakable like Rose’s vases — like he got so nervous about not breaking these domestic landmines that he couldn’t manage to do anything else), but he’d played this particular card a few too many time for it to have been an accident. He’d drop his backpack, and look at that! A test with a big red 98 circled on it would fall out. Or an essay with a conspicuous B+ written on it would happen to be left “accidentally” on the study room table when the boys went to bed. It made Sonny smile just thinking about it.

The kid was smart. He was resourceful. And he didn’t need to learn about discipline or responsibility. He already had those in spades. Course he also had more than his share of trouble, Sonny was sure, but still … Dean was not the typical kid who came to Sonny’s Home for Boys.

He’d tried to get Dean to open up about his family. And he had no intention of stopping trying. Occasionally, Dean would say something about his little brother. There was real love there, and Sonny could see that for Dean, missing this Sammy was like the constant throb of toothache. But there was no surer way to make Dean clam up than to bring his dad into the conversation.

Just once, when Sonny had pushed maybe a little too far, insinuated a little too forcefully that no decent father would leave his bruised and hungry son to rot in a jail cell, Dean had snapped back that John Winchester was a hero and Sonny didn’t know what the hell he was talking about.

It broke his heart. Such a good, really a truly good, kid being treated like that … and all Dean could do was keep defending the father that hadn’t even cared enough to tell him to his face that he wasn’t coming back for him. Wherever John was, he hadn’t called once to check in on his son. Bill said he hadn’t received any calls at the station either. And all this over a loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter …

Sonny hoped John would have the decency to stay gone.

That’s why he was happy when Dean and Robin started making eyes at each other. Robin was a good kid too, worked at her daddy’s diner in town and helped her mama with guitar lessons for the younger boys. And anything that caused Dean to put down more roots here was good news in Sonny’s book.

………

Dean lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling of the dormitory, thinking about the feel of Robin’s lips on his, the taste of her cherry chap stick, and the fruity scent of her shampoo. He had kissed a couple girls before, but it was nothing like with Robin.

When Dean hit on a girl, got her to smile, got her to focus on him for just a little bit, something in his chest, some tension he carried around with him, loosened a little bit. He knew those moments of connection were fleeting, knew he’d be moving on. So he kept any real emotions at arms length. But he liked to pretend.

He felt bad about that, the pretending, sometimes. He knew he’d led girls on before. But he couldn’t help himself. Other than time spent hanging out with Sam or the occasional hunt he’d get to tag along on, his life was just … lonely.

But with Robin, Dean found he wasn’t pretending. It made him damn awkward around her too; lucky she seemed to find that cute. And he wasn’t keeping his well-practiced shield up either. Without intending to, he’d started to make plans … little plans that most boys his age would think nothing about. Like taking Robin to the homecoming dance. Like what she might say if he asked her eventually to be his girlfriend …

But as soon as he caught himself thinking that way, the guilt would hit him like a ton of bricks. The longer he stayed here, the longer Sammy was out there by himself, with Dad or — Dean hoped — with Bobby. He wondered what story Dad had made up to explain Dean’s absence, or whether he’d told Sam the truth. Probably the former. Wouldn’t do to give Sam more reasons to be pissed at Dad.

And that’s why, as much as Dean longed to stay, his desperation to leave never really faded. He was the buffer between Sam and Dad. Those two could push each other’s buttons like no one else, probably because in a lot of ways they were so similar. Dean needed to be there to protect Sammy from John’s anger when he was deep in his bottles. And he needed to be there to protect John from Sam’s sharp words.

Most of all, he needed to be there to continue his long-term project: making sure, despite their similarities, that he, Dean, raised Sam to be a different man from their father in the ways that mattered, and similar to John in the ways that counted too.

God he missed Sammy! He missed the excited way the kid would babble on and on about some book he’d read or something exciting he’d learned about in school that day. He missed the annoyed huff “it’s Sam not Sammy” would make when Dean pushed his buttons on purpose. He missed the way Sam’s eyes would seek him out as soon as he stepped out of the school building each afternoon.

And Dad … Dean didn’t know how he felt about his dad just now. Didn’t even want to think about him if he could help it. The physical pain he felt in his chest every time he let his mind linger there for too long, every time the words “abandoned” or “left” drifted through his thoughts … it was just too much.

So Dean went back to thinking about Robin, wondering if he’d be able to do some odd jobs and make a little cash to buy her a corsage for the dance …

………

Sonny didn’t think his heart could break anymore these days. But damned if Dean didn’t have to go and prove him wrong yet again.

As the taillights of the classic Chevy disappeared into the night, Sonny actually felt a tear escape down his cheek. God, what would Dean say if he could see me now, thought Sonny, with a rueful shake of his head.

Meeting John and Sam, he thought he understood a little better now. First there was the eager look in the younger brother’s eyes as he craned his head out the window, no doubt hoping to see his big brother running towards him with open arms. When Dean had gone down to the car though, all there was between them was a smile, a “Move over Bitch,” from Dean, and a “Whatever Jerk,” from Sam. But the looks on their faces … Sonny could tell they were saying, “I love you, please don’t ever leave like that again.”

Watching Dean slide into the backseat next to Sam was like seeing two puzzle pieces snap together. They just fit there, together, in that car.

And John … he really was something. Sonny immediately knew where Dean got his charm and his ability to turn all eyes towards him when he entered a room. And the man just radiated a cool confidence. He could see why Dean felt such hero worship towards the guy.

But the way he’d greeted his oldest boy … just a nod and a “Toss your bag in and let’s get going” … Dean deserved so much more. So much better. Sonny couldn’t be sure from such a brief interaction, but he suspected John just didn’t have anything more to give.

What Sonny wouldn’t give to know the story behind this trio …

And so Dean left. Left without even saying goodbye to Robin, or his teammates, or the other boys. He shook Sonny’s hand, thanked him for everything. Then he surprised Sonny one last time when he gave the older man a heartfelt hug.

After a few hastily scrubbed away tears, the wall came up. Dean got a determined look on his face, like this was his job and he was going to do it. One last curt handshake and he was gone.

Sonny was left standing there in the dark and the dust left in the wake of the Impala, holding the piece of paper Dean had slipped into his hand. Wondering what the heck it meant …

If anything ever gets weird, like really weird, here’s how to reach us …

Chapter Text

“Dean ... Thank you.”

Dean looked over at his brother, a genuine question in his eyes. “For what?”

“For always being there, for… having my back. Look, I know it hasn't always been easy…”

Dean cut Sam off, plastered a nonchalant smile on his face and said, “I don't know what the hell you're talking about.”

As the Impala’s engine roared to life, Sam rolled his eyes. You try to have a moment with this guy …

And of course that’s exactly the last thing Dean — Mr. “NoChickFlickMoments” — wanted.

But Sam had seen it. For just a moment, while he tried to tell his big brother how much he had meant to Sam back then … how much he means to him now … Sam saw a crack form in that damn armor Dean always had up around himself. For an instant he saw through it, past Dean Winchester Hunter, to Dean his brother.

Usually Dean only let the mask slip when he was worried about Sam, which was annoyingly often ever since the trials.

Truth be told, though, Sam had felt sort of … disoriented ever since he woke up in the car with Dean with no memory of what went down. He needed his brother. Not a protector just … a brother. And he was pretty sure Dean needed that too.

“Dean, could you cut the crap for a second and just talk to me about this?”  

“I told you, there’s nothing to talk about.”

“It was my childhood, too, Dean. I deserve to know the truth.”

“Yeah, Sam, exactly. It was your childhood too so why are you trying to ruin it even more now?”

Dean winced. Finally , thought Sam, with grim satisfaction. He might not know everything there was to know about his big brother, but he sure as hell knew how to push Dean’s buttons. And getting Dean angry was one of the best ways to get him to slip up and say more than he intended.

“And what exactly does that mean?” Sam pushed.  

Dean shifted uncomfortably. Then sighed and pulled the Impala over to the side of the road. Sam suppressed his victorious smile until Dean got out of the car and slammed the door shut in apparent frustration. Then Sam scrambled to follow him. It wouldn’t do to give Dean too much time to cool off now.

“Listen Sam, it’s …” Dean started and then stopped, running a hand down his face to his chin and staring off into the night. In the light of the moon, under the blanket of stars that stretched over the Catskills, Sam could see his brother grasping for the words.

“You didn’t lose the food money playing poker, did you?” Sam watched his brother turn to him in surprise. Dean seriously did not give him enough credit sometimes …

“What makes you say that …”

“Growing up, you never once let me be hungry Dean. I don’t think I ever missed a single meal. Not one. You expect me to believe that you would really risk our food money on poker ?”

Dean sighed and looked out at the dark countryside again. A good sign , thought Sam. Dean didn’t like to make eye contact when he was talking about himself.

“The food money ran out. It wasn’t the first time … you know how Dad could be, so focused on the hunt he … he didn’t always think about the practical, non-supernatural side of life.”

You mean he didn’t always think about us , thought Sam, but bit the words back before they could escape his mouth. The last thing he needed to do right now was send Dean spinning off into a defense of Dad.

“How often, Dean?” That’s the question Sam asked. But the one he was thinking was, How did I never realize this? … His mind was spinning, thinking back to all the times Dean had said he was already full from an earlier meal. Young Sam had thought his brother had seriously messed up eating habits, no sense of portion control, but now … How could I have been so stupid? Grown up Dean never missed a meal. And yeah, he could pack away a good amount of food, but he never stuffed himself sick. Why had Sam believed he would have eaten so differently as a teenager?

“Pretty often.”

Shit . This … god but this changed a lot. He knew Dean had given up a lot to take care of him. But the realization that his brother had gone hungry so Sam wouldn’t have to? He thought about how Dean would scarf down his meals the first few days after their dad came home from a hunt. About how his “pig” of a brother never seemed to gain weight despite how Sam thought he ate… Now it was tears that Sam was fighting back. He stayed quiet, waiting for his brother to go on.  

“I’d hustle pool when I could. That got easier the older I got. But when we were younger, I’d … I’d steal things, small things, when I couldn’t get food any other way. Look, I’m not proud of this okay? But what was I supposed to do? Let you go hungry?”

You could have told Dad … Sam thought. You could have told me .

“Dad had enough on his mind,” Dean continued, almost as if he knew what Sam was thinking. “And it’s not like there was really any extra money for him to leave us anyway. He needed ammo and supplies for the job. So I did what I needed to do, okay.”

“Yeah, I’m not judging you, man, it’s just…” Sam paused. This was a risk, but he had to say it. “I wish you’d have told me. We could have figured it out together.”

Dean looked over at him, relief and sadness mingled in his expression. “I wanted you to just be able to be a kid, Sam, as much as that was possible anyway.”

“I’m sorry, Dean,” was all Sam could think to say.

“Sorry for what?” His brother’s green eyes searched Sam’s in confusion. You can be seriously dense sometimes Dean …

“I gave you so much shit growing up, always complaining about how I just wanted to have a normal life, and how you and Dad wouldn’t let that happen. And all that time you were doing everything you could to give me as much normal as possible. But I was so wrapped up in what I didn’t have … I couldn’t even see how much you gave me, how much you gave up for me.”

Dean’s eyes were overly bright in the moonlight. Sam had the feeling he wasn’t the only one holding back tears now …

“Could you … could you tell me about what happened that landed you at Sonny’s?”

And Dean did. Sam almost couldn’t believe it, but Dean told him the whole story … even the part about Dad hanging up, about him never calling him back. Fuck , thought Sam. Of all the things Dad could have done to Dean for putting them in danger of a protective services call, that was probably the worst possible punishment. He suddenly had a feeling he knew where a good chunk of Dean’s abandonment issues started …

Dean’s teenage years had been so different from the way Sam had always pictured them.  

Suddenly, he was throwing his arms around Dean, hugging him tight. It was the kind of hug they usually reserved for when one of them came back from the dead. Dean stood still for a moment, caught off guard. Then he returned the hug with seemingly just as much emotion as Sam was feeling.

“I love you, Jerk.”

“Love you too, Bitch.”

………

Dean let the hug go on way longer than he usually would. It just … his brother’s arms around him filled a place in heart that had been aching ever since he answered the call from Sonny.

When they finally let go, Dean cleared his throat awkwardly. “S’nough chick-flick-moments for now. Let’s hit the road.” He took a deep breath, that only shuddered a bit, and wiped his eyes quickly and discreetly as he turned to get back in the car.

He hadn’t told Sam everything. Hadn’t mentioned the bouncer and the bruises. Hadn’t told him just how bad the hunger had gotten. But it felt good to have this secret out in the open finally. It just felt really damn good.

His teenage years really hadn’t been as bad as Sammy was probably imagining now. After all, their family had been together, all three of them, and that’s what Dean had always wanted more than anything.

Dean thought about Timmy, poor kid had nobody and no one other than an angry spirit. No, Dean’s childhood hadn’t been so bad. At least he had Sammy and Dad and Bobby growing up.

.........

A couple hours later, when Sam’s head had rolled back against the seat and his breathing had settled into a light a snore ( Guy should really learn to sleep with his mouth closed , thought Dean, He’s lucky I’m not in the mood to stick a spoon or a piece of jerky in there and startle him awake… though he did chuckle at the thought) Dean reached into his pocket and pulled out the crumpled slip of paper.

When Sonny had grasped his hand for the last time, he’d slipped it into Dean’s palm. Whatever it said, Dean was pretty sure he wanted to keep it for himself. He loved his brother, and meant it when he said he wanted fewer secrets between them, but a guy needed some privacy … He smoothed out the note on his denim clad thigh with one hand, the other hand keeping Baby smoothly cruising down the highway.

I' m proud of you Dean. You really are your own man, even if you did go into the family business. When you look in the mirror, I hope you see what I do. And don’t you be a stranger! - Sonny

The tears Dean had been holding back all night finally rolled freely down his cheeks. He carefully folded the note back up before he could get it wet and smudge the ink.

He slipped the bit of paper into his wallet for safe keeping.