Chapter Text
Dean sat in the school counsellor’s office. His toe tapped in time with the clock on the wall. The afternoon sunlight glinted off the counsellor’s purple cat eyed glasses. The name plate on her desk said “Mrs. Wright.”
“Dean,” Mrs. Wright said softly. She always spoke softly. “You have to understand this is a very serious situation. You’re sixteen; fighting can’t just be waved aside as horseplay gone wrong. You broke that boy’s nose.”
The crunch of cartilage under Dean’s fist had given him a burst of satisfaction. It calmed the rattling hum under Dean’s skin.
“The principal is considering expulsion,” Mrs. Wright went on.
Dean shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. I won’t be around much longer.”
Mrs. Wright frowned. “Yes. You move quite a lot. Do you think maybe part of your anger stems from the frustration of not being in one place long enough to make sustainable friendships?”
Low hanging fruit, Dean thought. And completely off target. He had anger issues because Dean Winchester was cursed. The raised brand on his arm had quit burning after the fight. But the pain would come back. It always did.
A knock tapped at the door. The secretary stuck her head in the room. “Mr. Winchester is here.”
Dean’s stomach dropped. He stood quickly. He muttered an apology to Mrs. Wright and hurried out of the office. He didn’t miss the way her eyes followed him like a hawk. Dean needed out of this town. The sooner the better. It shouldn’t be long if John was back to pick up Dean.
Dean’s spine straightened of its own accord the second he caught sight of his old man. John leaned on the front desk; his worn leather jacket covered in dust from the road. He had more stubble than last time Dean saw him.
Dean and John did not exchange words. John jerked his head towards the door. Dean followed him out of the school and into the Impala.
Dean sighed as he sank into the passenger’s seat. The smell of old leather, whiskey, and gun oil saturated the car. It smelled like home.
John turned the keys in the ignition. They drove all the way to the highway before John spoke.
“This is my fault.”
Dean looked at him sharply. John always started like this. Just once, Dean wanted to let John take the blame. But that wasn’t how this script went.
“No, it isn’t,” Dean said. “I threw the first punch.”
“You wouldn’t have all this anger if I could have been there for your mother,” John said right on cue.
“I’m the one who has to learn how to live with this,” Dean touched the Mark on his arm.
John sighed.
Dean waited for the next prompt. John would suggest they leave town. He found work somewhere else. They could have a fresh start.
John stayed silent. The endless blacktop of the highway stretched to the horizon. Dean fidgeted.
“I want you and Sam to stay with Bobby for a while,” John said.
Dean’s heart jumped. “What?” He blurted out. “Why?”
“Because it’s time you learned a lesson or two,” John said.
Dean swallowed hard.
“I have a job a few towns over,” John said. “Bobby’ll look after you.”
“I can look after us,” Dean argued.
“Do as I say,” John instructed.
Dean slumped in his seat. “Yessir.”
They collected Sam and emptied their hotel room in record time. Sam didn’t argue like he usually did when they packed up. That alone sent sparks of anxiety up and down Dean’s spine. He felt like Sam and John were conspiring about him. They had some plan. They were finally tired of him. Dean had to do something about it. If he didn’t act, they’d hurt him. Hurt them first. Hurt them. Hurt.
Dean clenched his fists and closed his eyes. It was too soon. He’d just fed the beast. He couldn’t have these destructive thoughts already. Not so soon after breaking some poor sap’s nose.
The Impala pulled up at Bobby’s driveway. John didn’t get out of the car. Bobby loved Sam and Dean like sons, but he would not tolerate John Winchester in his house.
Dean grabbed his bag from the trunk and tossed it over his shoulder.
John waved from the car and drove off.
Sam grinned at Dean. “So, what’s you do this time?”
“Shut up,” Dean growled. The hot curl of violence under his skin burned.
Sam’s smile wavered. “Hey,” he touched Dean’s sleeve. “You’re good, okay? We’re good.”
Dean took a deep breath through his nose. He nodded. “Yeah, I’m good.”
Dean and Sam trekked up Bobby’s front steps. Dean lifted his fist to knock. The door opened before he touched wood.
“Boys,” Bobby greeted them. Dean’s chest lightened. The only person who could calm Dean like Sam was Bobby in his worn ballcap and grey beard.
Bobby clapped them both on the shoulder. “Sam, you’re growing like a weed. You eating enough?”
Dean smirked. In the last year Sam had shot over Dean, much to his chagrin.
“I’m great, Bobby,” Sam leaned in for a hug.
Bobby turned to Dean. His face became solemn. Somehow Bobby could always gauge Dean’s condition. “You’re in a bad way, boy.”
Dean swallowed. “Yeah.”
Bobby nodded. “That’s why your useless daddy dropped you here. It’s time for us to get ahead of this thing.”
Dean startled. “What?”
Bobby led Sam and Dean into the living room. Dean dropped onto the couch beside Sam. Bobby paced the worn carpet.
“We have a lead on your curse,” Bobby started.
Dean leaned forward, a million questions on his tongue.
Bobby held out a hand. “Just let me say this. You know the Mark of Cain was given to you as a child on the day your mother was killed.”
Dean and Sam nodded. The pain lanced like a knife through Dean every time.
“Well,” Bobby continued. “John and I ain’t ever seen eye to eye on anything. But he’s agreed to one thing. It’s time you both learned how to fight.”
Dean blinked. “I can fight. I’m on the wrestling team-.”
“Not that kind of fighting,” Bobby said. “You’re both old enough now to fight beside your dad and me. To fight monsters.”
Sam bounced in his seat. “Like rugarous, and werewolves? And vampires?”
“And demons,” Bobby nodded. “If we’re going to break Dean’s curse, you’ll have to battle demons.”
The hungry fire in Dean’s core roared. It ached to spill blood, any blood. The blood of demons would sate the hunger.
“Yes,” Dean said. “When do we start?”
Bobby eyed him with the caution Dean learned meant he’d been too eager. He’d unsettled Bobby. Dean forced himself to sit back and take a breath.
“The thing that gave you that,” Bobby pointed to the red Mark on Dean’s arm. “Was a demon. John finally found a name. We’re going to find it and kill it.”
“What name?” Dean asked.
“Castiel.”