Chapter Text
Dean’s vision flickers in and out, the peeling walls of the dingy motel room barely coming into focus. Muffled sounds surround him; the distant wail of a baby feels like it’s coming from another world. It’s as if his head is submerged underwater. The pounding of his heart drowns everything else out. This was all a mistake. A colossal, stupid mistake. It wasn’t supposed to end like this—a child’s life forever altered, its mother dead in her apartment—all because Dean screwed up. It should have never come to this point.
Dean had been tracking the werewolf the whole week. It should have been dead before it reached Manhattan, before it could wreak havoc in a crowded city teeming with witnesses. But it got away, and now it would haunt him for the rest of his life, replaying in his mind like a broken record.
The werewolf had been elusive, making its first kill while Dean was wrapping up another hunt nearby. Identifying the beast was easy, but it had quickly moved on, running across New York. The killings felt random, like the victims were simply collateral damage. Dean finally caught up to it in Manhattan, despite John’s warnings about hunting in big cities. “Too many damn people and cameras everywhere, just waiting to catch a glimpse of your face. It’s like the world’s got a front-row seat to our mess,” John had said.
Getting the beast into a secluded area proved impossible. Everything came to a head when Dean followed it through a broken window in an apartment complex. As he climbed through, the werewolf sniffed the air, seemingly searching for something. Dean raised his gun, but the crunch of glass shards underfoot drew the creature’s attention. It lunged, claws slicing through the space Dean had just occupied.
His heart raced as a woman opened the door to what looked like a bedroom. “Run!” he shouted, but before she could react, the werewolf pounced. She dashed back into the room, the monster right on her heels. Dean barreled in behind her, only to witness the beast’s claws rip across her back. Her screams mixed with the deafening sound of his gun firing.
Stepping over the dead creature, Dean rushed to her side. She was hunched over something on the floor. When he turned her to face him, he saw she was cradling a baby. Blood painted her lips as she struggled to speak, desperation etched in her eyes. “Please… take care of my son. He’s special… There’s darkness out there… You know how to fight it. He needs someone strong. He needs you.” Each word trembled with urgency. “Please… don’t let anything happen to him.” With that, she took her last breath.
Dean gazed down at the bundle of blankets. His hand shook as he gently pushed aside the fabric covering the baby’s face. He felt a knot in his throat as he looked into tear-streaked cheeks. This felt all too familiar—a baby crying after losing its mother, with Dean as its only comfort. The baby stared up at him with wide, sea-green eyes, lip quivering, evoking memories of tragedy and overwhelming responsibility. Carefully, Dean lifted the child from his mother’s arms, holding him close. As he used the blanket to wipe away the infant’s tears, he felt something stitched into the fabric: a name. Percy.
A loud banging on the door jolted Dean from his thoughts. After calming his breath for a moment, he opened the door, baby cradled in one arm, only to find his father’s furious face. Dean stiffened, instinctively shifting from scared eighteen-year-old to the soldier his father had trained him to be. “What the hell did you do, boy?”
“I messed up, sir,” Dean replied, forcing his voice to sound steady despite the quiver. “The baby’s mother… she died.” He glanced down at the sleeping child, who had cried himself into exhaustion, blissfully unaware of John’s anger. “I couldn’t save her.”
John grumbled, frustration etched across his features. “Dammit. Why do you have it? If the parents die, you’re supposed to leave the baby with a neighbor. How many times do I have to remind you of something so simple?”
“I plan on taking care of him, sir.” The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. Dean met his father’s gaze with determination. He had to do this, no matter how angry John was.
“What are you talking about, Dean? Don’t be an idiot. You’re not going to take care of someone else’s damn baby.” John’s anger flared, clearly irritated by Dean’s stubbornness.
“Dad, I know you’re not on board with this, but I really think I should take care of him.” Dean tried to reason with his father, hoping to defuse any rising anger. John was as stubborn as they came—an immovable force. Many had deemed it impossible to change John Winchester’s mind. Dean’s only chance lay in the hope that his father hadn’t already made up his mind. “I couldn’t save his mom, and I can’t stand the thought of leaving him all alone.”
“You can barely take care of yourself!” John shot back. “Raising a child is a huge responsibility, and you can be damn sure I’m not going to help!”
“I get that raising a baby is a lot. But you always told me to fix my mistakes. To make things right. That’s what I’m trying to do.”
“If you do this, you’re on your own. Don’t expect me or Sam to wake up in the middle of the night to take care of it. If he messes up a hunt, that’s on you. Do you understand, boy?”
“Yes, sir.” The words came automatically, drilled into him since childhood.
Dean looked down at the baby in his arms. Percy slept on, small and warm, fingers curled into the fabric of Dean’s jacket like he already knew this was the safest place in the world.
John turned away, already done with the conversation.
Dean didn’t follow.
He adjusted his grip, careful, instinctive, and felt something settle in his chest—heavy, terrifying, and unshakable. Letting Percy’s mother die was a mistake but keeping him won't be.
Whatever it cost him, Dean wasn’t letting this kid grow up alone.
. . .
Percy is used to this.
Sitting on the hard chair outside the principal’s office. Listening to the arguing through a door that doesn’t quite shut all the way.
He’s used to it.
He tells himself that, over and over, like it might make the tight feeling in his chest go away.
Inside the office, voices rise and fall.
“This is the third incident.” The principal’s voice is tight and sharp, like she’s trying not to yell. Dean’s is lower, strained, with words Percy knows he’s not supposed to say slipping through anyway. Percy scrapes the toe of his sneaker against the tiles. “He scares the other students.” Percy swallows. He knows how this ends. “We can’t have that kind of behavior.”
They always say the same things. Violent. Disturbing. Troubled. Big words for a kid who just wanted to get away. Percy hears his name too many times, threaded through every sentence like proof.
“He was defending himself,” Dean says, sharp enough that Percy winces.
“That doesn’t excuse—”
“He’s ten.”
Percy presses his hands together, knuckles still sore. He didn’t start the fight. It’s not his fault Troy is built like a brick wall and decided to stand in his way. It’s not his fault Troy didn’t see the hooded guy watching the school gates, standing too still, like he was waiting for something. Like he was waiting for him.
There’s always something.
Once, the water fountain exploded when Percy touched it. And sometimes—sometimes Percy catches people watching him, and he swears he saw some of them—some of them have fangs.
He hates this part the most.
The waiting.
The listening.
Because Dean always comes. Always leaves work, always shows up, always stands between Percy and grown-ups who look at him like he’s already a problem. Percy presses his forehead to his knees and wishes, not for the first time, that he could just be normal enough to stay.
They get into the car without saying anything. The door shuts. The locks click. Percy counts them without meaning to. .The radio stays off, which is never a good sign. He watches Dean from under the curtain of his scruffy hair, like if he doesn’t look all the way, Dean won’t look back. His hands are clenched around the steering wheel. Too tight. Like he’s holding the car together with them.
“I’m sorry, Dad.” The word slips out before Percy can stop it. He hates that word. Hates that it comes out every time, like a reflex. Like he’s already guilty.
Dean doesn’t answer right away. The engine hums. A blinker clicks even though they’re not turning. “Are you hurt?” Dean asks finally.
“No.” Percy pauses. Dean looks at him, eyebrow raised, and Percy rushes to correct himself. “I mean— not much. I swear I didn’t start it. Troy’s just a di—”
“I know, Percy.” Dean exhales through his nose. “All that sass, none of the muscle.”
Percy snorts before he can help it. “Yeah, well, whose fault is that?”
Dean laughs, quick and real, and reaches over to ruffle Percy’s hair. Percy ducks away on instinct and then leans back into it, pretending he didn’t. “How about you and me go get some milkshakes?” Dean says.
Percy nods, small and careful. The guilt doesn’t go away, but it loosens a little, like someone untied one knot and left the rest.
Dean watches Percy demolish the milkshake, spoon scraping loudly at the bottom of the cup. Candy chunks first. Always first. Kid’s got priorities.
Dean’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. He’d clocked the guy hanging around the school when he picked Percy up. Too still. Too focused. A man, maybe—no. Probably not a man.
“Hey, buddy,” Dean says, standing. “I gotta step out for a minute.” Percy barely hears him, already digging for one last piece of chocolate.
Dean slips out the side door, rounds the corner, and doesn’t waste time pretending. He slams the guy into the brick wall behind the diner, forearm at his throat, gun pressed hard against his temple. “Let’s see,” Dean mutters, ripping the hat off his head.
One eye.
“—I’ll eat yo—”
BANG.
They’re quiet again when they get back to the apartment. “Percy,” Dean says, forcing his voice steady, “I’m gonna need you to go pack your things.”
Percy stops mid-step. Turns around fast. “What? Just because I got expelled doesn’t mean we have to move. Nick lives down the street. Just because we don’t go to the same school doesn’t mean we can’t hang out. We don’t have to start all over.” The words tumble out too fast. Angry and scared and tangled together. Dean hears all of it.
“That’s not what this is about,” Dean says.
Percy frowns. “But what about your job at the mechanic shop?”
“Percy.” Dean’s voice sharpens despite himself. He reins it in too late. “Just—go pack.”
Percy stiffens. “Okay.” He walks off, shoulders tight.
Dean stands there long after Percy’s door shuts.
Cyclops. Definitely a Cyclops. They don’t hunt alone. “Damn it,” Dean mutters. There’s always something. Every town. Every school. Like the world keeps circling back no matter how fast Dean runs.
He looks around the apartment. Bare walls. Furniture that isn’t theirs. Nothing that says home, just temporary. Always temporary.
The phone rings.
Dean snatches it up. “Who is this?”
A pause.
“…What?!”