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Dean Winchester was four years old when he lost his mother. Four when he saw her on fire on the ceiling and carried his baby brother out of the building that was once his home. Four when he moved from a comfortable house and his own room to the back of a car.
Dean Winchester was four when his life turned on its head for the first time.
***
Dean Winchester was five when his father killed his first demon. Some low rank nobody, Dean realized later, but it had seemed like a big thing at the time. It /had/ been a big thing, because John had brought them real food for once, not just dollar tacos or wonder bread and peanut butter.
It was the first time Dean had seen his dad smile in a long time.
He made a point not to get used to it.
***
It was a few months later when his father got the idea to start Huntercorp. The moving around that comes with hunting wasn’t exactly ideal for getting a day job, he had said, so why not make hunting that day job?
As expected, it was slow going at first. A couple odd jobs here and there where they actually got payed, but they were still just barely getting by. That was when John decided to get some other hunters in on the act. That was also slow going, seeing as most hunters didn’t want to be directly tied to their kills, but John didn’t stop trying.
And that was when Bobby Singer came in.
Bobby Singer, one of the only constants in Dean’s life (besides Sam and the lingering fear of ghosts, demons, ghouls, ect). They had stayed with Bobby a few times when John had to take off and they were in the area, and Dean wouldn’t hesitate to admit he was like the uncle they never had.
And now John was trying to recruit him for this... whatever it was. He had ended up settling on the name Huntercorp, but it wasn’t quite a ‘corp’ yet because John and three hunters were the only members, and they still didn’t get payed 75% of the time.
So John went to Bobby, like most people did when they needed something. Dean had expected Bobby to applaud John’s effort, but tell him ‘there’s no way people will pay for this crap, anything else you need?’ Much to Dean’s surprise, that didn’t happen.
Bobby said yes, and now Huntercorp had its first serious employee. (Not that the other hunters weren’t great, too, but they didn’t seem to really care. Dean didn’t blame them, as much as he believed in his dad, he knew that hunters were supposed to stay underground for a reason, and that maybe killing what could easily be a person was one of those reasons.)
(Not to mention they didn’t even have a business license.)
Lucky for John, even if Bobby looked disorganized and drank too much, he was quite efficient when it came to managing a business. At least Huntercorp was turning a profit—not enough to be called stable—but enough to keep them afloat most of the time. For now they stuck mostly to ghosts and demons for paying jobs—it was harder to convince people vampires and shifters weren’t just people.
It wasn’t much, John had said, but at least it was something.
***
Nothing happened for the longest time: just bouncing from hotel to hotel, occasionally crashing at Bobby’s place, and hunting. Well, Dean didn’t hunt much. It was more John’s thing, but sometimes things needed to be killed and no one else is around to do it.
Then everything exploded. Not literally, of course, but it might as well have been. All of a sudden there was money, John was more happy than Dean could remember seeing him him in years and they could afford to stay in actual hotels that don’t smell like someone died in them. It’s like someone flipped a switch: one day they’re two steps from the streets or a mental hospital, the next they’re living in L.A and John is on the news— and not for killing someone.
They scrap the Impala and John bought a Cadillac that cost more than Dean was worth ten time over.
John still wasn’t around much, but at least they had enough money for food now. Everyone seemed so much happier. Sam was content to play with toys— and for the first time, Dean thought his brother might have the chance to be a kid.
Even stranger, they started going to school.
After a few months, Dean had accepted the new normal. But just because he accepted it didn’t mean he let his guard down. If his dad had taught him anything, it was the fact that nothing good ever lasted.
***
John spoiled them, anything they wanted, any time of day. Dean supposed he was trying to make up for the years of living on the road, trying to apologize.
Sorry I wasn’t there for you; sorry you had to raise yourself and your brother; sorry I screamed at you those times.
Sorry you’re broken.
Dean never wanted any of this, though. He never wanted a penthouse in New York, or two thousand dollar whisky, or a private jet.
Dean just wanted his Dad to say he loved him.
But Dean did what he did best: adapted. If this was the apology John was going to give him, Dean would accept it. Because if John thought all this stuff would make Dean forget what happened to him and Sam, Dean would play his part; he’d pretend.
And eventually, Dean stopped needing to pretend.