Chapter Text
October 18th 1984
Four year old Peter Quill sat in a corner of the pre-k classroom, coloring something for his mother. He was drawing with a green crayon when a boy walked up to him.
"Can I borrow your crayon?" The boy asked. "Dean. We say please." The boy grumbled, "please."
"Sure!" Peter says, handing Dean the crayon. The Winchester walked off and Peter grabbed a red crayon and continued to draw.
Dean sat back down at his own desk and went back to drawing. His mother died a little less than a year ago and now at 5, he has to take care of his brother. So why is he drawing? He should be at the motel, taking care of Sammy!
He practically slammed the crayon on the desk and put his head down instead. "Dean. If you're done with the crayon, let's give it back to Peter." The teacher said.
Something snapped inside of Dean, being overstimulated, and threw the crayon and accidentally hit Peter hard on his eye.
The Winchester went worry mode and went over to the Quill, starting to check the eye. "I'm sorry. I got frustrated."
"It's alright. I'm Peter Quill."
"Dean Winchester."
November 21st 1988
Dean sat down by Peter in the waiting room as they listened to the latter's Walkman. The Quill's mother wasn't doing to good. Meredith had a tumor in her brain.
Peter's grandpa walked out before saying, "Peter. Your momma wants to speak with you." When Peter didn't answer, the Grandpa continued, taking off the quill's headphones and saying, "Come on, Pete. Take these cool things off."
Dean knew his best friend well. He knew even more that wasn't a smart move that the Grandpa played. Peter's Grandpa turned off the Walkman.
The heart monitor beeped steadily as Dean walked with Peter into his mom's room as emotional support.
All of Meredith's friends and family were by her bedside and comforting her. Peter walked to her bedside, Dean trailing loosely behind.
"Why have you been fighting with the other boys again, baby?" Meredith asks. "Peter." She pushes when the boy in question doesn't respond.
"They killed a little frog that ain't done nothing. Smushed it with a stick." Peter responded. Dean did help aid in the fight but it was mostly Peter and Dean was proud of his best friend. His only friend.
"You're so like your daddy. You even look like him. And he was an angel." The mother says. The Winchester refused to believe that sentence but stayed silent. How could the dad in question be an angel when he wasn't there for Peter's whole life? He isn't even there when Meredith is on her fucking death bed!
"Composed of pure light." The mother continued and it was clear she had not long left at all. "Mer? You got a present for Peter, don't ya?"
"Of course." She replies before nudging a small present wrapped with colorful wrapping paper and a blue ribbon. "There." She says softly and the Grandpa picks it up, putting it into Peter's backpack saying, "I've got you covered, Pete."
"You open it up when I'm gone, okay?" The mother says. Peter didn't reply. "Your grandpa… is going to take such good care of you. Dean too. At least until your daddy comes back to get you."
"Take my hand." She continues. Peter couldn't bring himself to so she asks again. He still couldn't bring himself to and then she flatlined.
Peter started breaking down. "Mom? No! No! No! No! Mom! No!" The grandpa dragged Peter and Dean out of her room. Dean hugged a sobbing Peter as the grandpa went back into the room.
But Peter ran off, running outside of the hospital and into the grass, sobbing in the middle of the night.
By the time Dean got outside, the Quill was nowhere to be seen.