Knight In Broken Armor - SN fic - PG13
Title: Knight In Broken Armor
Fandom: “Supernatural”
Disclaimer: John, Jim, Dean, and Sam aren’t mine; just for fun.
Warnings: mentions of underaged whoring; pre-pilot
Pairings: a bit of OMC/OFC, a smidge of OMC/Dean
Rating: PG13
Wordcount: 2060
Point of view: third
Notes: part of my Dean canon
She’s a tiny lil’thing with large dark eyes, long dark hair, and dark skin. Hispanic, five foot nothing, no more’n thirteen, though likely not even that. Wearin’ a pale pink shift and too much purple eyeshadow; beneath the sleeves, there’re bruises. In the shadows lurk three shapes, each smaller than the last.
He’s seventeen and angry-with the world, with Dad, with Sammy-so he took Dad’s Impala and left ‘em screamin’ at each other. He’ll be in trouble when he gets back, but at the moment he’s too pissed to care.
He leaves the Impala down the street and approaches slowly, keepin’ his hands in sight. She stares at him with her chocolate gaze and he sees the fear lurkin’ in her.
She wouldn’t fight him and she’d hope he’d pay, and for a moment, Dean hates his gender.
He stops just out of reach, hunchin’ down to appear smaller than his six feet. He has a hundred dollars in his pocket from hustlin’ pool and blowin’ some guy, and Dad’s made him mad, so he’ll spend it on this girl ‘stead’a bullets.
“C’mon,” he says, holdin’ out a hand. “Bring ‘em, too.” His eyes flick to her shadows.
She flinches and something in her face hardens. There’s steel in this girl, yet, iron. “No,” she whispers. “We stay here and you don’t go near them.” Her accent is soft, barely noticeable. She’s adorable, in a melancholy way, and’ll be gorgeous when she’s all grown.
“You do drugs?” he asks, leanin’ against the wall.
“No.” Her tone is sincere and he believes her.
So he pulls out a wad of bills and steps forward, forces it into her hand. “Spend it on food,” he murmurs and takes off. He doesn’t look back.
-
Next night, he’s at that spot again, grittin’ his teeth as he watches men use her. One of them gets violent, slaps her across the face.
And Dean decides that’s enough. He couldn’t take out his anger on Dad or Sammy-refused to-so he stalks up to the bastard whalin’ on a little girl and grabs him, tosses him into a wall.
By the time he’s done, the girl is cowerin’ with her shadows, three little boys somewhere between six and ten. They all have identical eyes-huge and brown and terrified.
Dean’s knuckles are bleedin’ and achin’, but the bastard’s unconscious. He takes a deep breath and says, “Follow me.”
They do. He leads them to the Impala and opens the back door for the boys, then shotgun for the girl. She huddles in the seat, arms wrapped around herself, constantly checkin’ on the boys.
“What’s your name?” he asks, turnin’ up the heat. He saw a neat little diner at the edge of town-Mr. Friedman told him they make killer hamburgers.
“Whatever you want it to be,” she mutters.
“No,” he replies. “Whatever you want it to be.”
She looks at him but he focuses on drivin’. The boys are silent in the backseat and that feels unnatural to Dean; he remembers Sam at their ages, and Sam was never still.
“Maria,” she finally whispers.
“Maria,” Dean repeats. “Pretty name. I’m Dean.”
He doesn’t ask for the boys’ names. He knows what it’s like, havin’ a baby brother to take care of; he can’t imagine havin’ three.
There’s a gas station down the street from the diner. He breaks into the bathroom and tells the kids to follow him in. He cleans everyone up as best he can and thinks it’ll have to be enough.
“Now,” he says, “let’s eat.”
-
All four of them are too small. Underfed and wary, waiting for him to yell and punch. Even before their current life, he can tell, they weren’t safe.
Pastor Jim is an hour away and the Impala has a full tank of gas. Dean thinks about takin’ them there, gettin’ ‘em off the streets before it’s too late and there’s no way out.
The smallest boy inhales a hamburger and drinks three Sprites. Maria fusses at him in Spanish and Dean doesn’t let on that he’s fluent. The kid’s name is Jaime and he pouts at Maria, but she doesn’t relent.
“Only water for him, now, please,” Maria asks Dean and he nods.
The middle brother is Benny and he never meets Dean’s eyes. He eats his hamburger slowly, steadily, and sips his water. He doesn’t speak to his siblings and looks only at Miguel, the oldest brother.
Miguel finishes his burger swiftly, though not as swiftly as Jaime, and gets a refill on his Sprite. He murmurs to Benny in lilting Spanish. Dean wonders if any of them but Maria speak English.
The boys sit on one side of the booth, Jaime at the wall and Miguel on the end. Maria sits beside Dean, careful not to touch, shivering. He drapes his jacket over her and she flinches but doesn’t shake it off.
Once the hamburgers are gone, Dean orders apple pie and sundaes. Jaime and Miguel dig into them with relish, and Maria tries some. But Benny just stares at his hands. Dean wonders why this kid is so withdrawn when his brothers aren’t, and all the conclusions he reaches just piss him off even more.
After the desserts are gone, he holds the doors for the kids again. “Please take us back,” Maria softly pleads.
“Do you have any belongin’s you want?” he asks and Maria sucks in a breath.
“Please,” she whispers, turning her large, dark eyes on him.
Benny speaks suddenly. “Photographs.” Dean glances in the rearview. “Back at the apartment.” He has no accent at all and, meetin’ his eyes, Dean knows he’s lookin’ at a little player.
“You know how to get there?” he questions and Benny replies with flawless directions.
Maria blisters her brother with a torrent of harsh Spanish; Benny listens without argument and then tells Dean, “Turn left here.”
Dean pulls up in front of an old apartment building. “I’ll get our things,” Benny says. He reaches forward to grip Maria’s shoulder. “Stay here, sister,” he murmurs in Spanish. “We can trust this man.”
Benny slips out of the Impala and smiles at Miguel before closing the door. Maria hisses something and grabs for the handle, but Miguel says, “Let him go, Ria.”
Maria turns in her seat to glare at him. Miguel continues, “It’s over. This man wants to help us-Benjamin is right.”
Dean watches outside the car, on the lookout for any threat. Benny hurries back with a beat-up booksack. It’s filled to burstin’ and Dean gets out of the car, pops the trunk for him.
Once he’s back in the car, Maria asks, “What are you goin’ do with us?” She’s still huddled against the door.
“I have a friend-he’ll be able to help you.” Dean keeps his voice soft, kind. “He’s one of the best men I’ve ever known.”
Silence goes unbroken for almost an hour, but finally Maria asks, “Why are you doin’ this? What do you want from me-us?”
Dean shrugs. “Helpin’ people’s what I do. And I don’t want anythin’, sweetheart-not from you or them boys.”
He pulls up Pastor Jim’s driveway, around the back. Jaime’s asleep, slumped on Miguel, and Miguel’s almost passed out on Benny. Maria, though, is wide awake, and Benny’s tenaciously clingin’ to consciousness. “Stay here,” Dean tells her. “Everythin’s gonna be fine, I promise.”
He waits until she meets his gaze-he’s never seen a sadder pair of eyes. “Men have told me that before,” she whispers in Spanish, turnin’ to watch her brothers.
Dean reaches out to touch her but lets his hand drop before contact. “If you trust me and my friend,” he replies, also in Spanish, “you’ll never have to sell yourself again.”
He doesn’t wait for her reaction, just slips from Dad’s Impala and pads up to Pastor Jim’s door, softly knocks.
“Dean?” Pastor Jim says he opens it. “You in trouble, son?”
Dean sags against the jamb, tells him, “I found some strays. I need your help.”
-
Maria refuses to meet Pastor Jim’s eyes. Dean carries in Jaime, then Miguel, though Benny walks in himself. Pastor Jim tells Dean to put the boys in one of the guest beds, one he and Sammy had shared years before. Miguel and Jaime curl up together, then Benny slides beneath the covers, too.
Maria stands silently, waitin’. She looks young and resigned. “Dean,” Pastor Jim says, pullin’ him into the kitchen. “Does John know where you are?”
Dean avoids his gaze, looks at the floor. “I’ll be back before he knows I’m gone.”
“And Sam?” Pastor Jim asks, voice knowin’.
Dean shrugs. “They’re so wrapped-up in their fight, they wouldn’t even notice if I never went back.”
“Dean,” Pastor Jim rebukes, raising Dean’s chin with a light touch. “You know better than that. There ain’t a thing in the world your daddy and brother love more than you.”
Dean scoffs and shakes his head. He wants to let Pastor Jim comfort him, wants to stay and wrap himself up in gentle kindness-but he has to get back or Dad’ll kick his ass.
Maria is standin’ in the doorway of the boys’ room, waitin’. She looks up from the floor as Dean walks over. “Trust Pastor Jim, kid,” he says gruffly. “He’s a good man.”
“Will I…” She pauses, licks her lips, continues in Spanish. “Will I see you again?”
Dean smiles. “If you wanna.” He lightly grips her shoulder then kisses her forehead, noddin’ to Pastor Jim on the way out.
She’s a sweet girl; she and the boys have a future now, have hope. Pastor Jim will help them-he’ll know a place they can go. And he’ll keep them together, out of the system.
He goes home, to Dad’s frosty silence and Sam’s angry stare. But at least, he thinks, parkin’ and lookin’ up at the apartment buildin’, they’re together. He knows where they are, knows they’re safe. He can take care of them.
He’ll call Pastor Jim late tomorrow, see how the kids are settlin’ in, see what he plans to do with them.
-
“You know what time it is?” Dad demands quietly as he shuts the door.
“Yes’re,” he replies just as softly. “I had somethin’ to do.”
“Without tellin’ me?” Dad rises out of his chair, stalks over.
Dean stands his ground. “I’m sorry, sir. I should’a told you I was goin’.”
“You’ll run five extra miles after school tomorrow,” Dad tells him.
Dean nods, says softly, “Yes, sir.”
Dad really was worried about him, he sees now. Dean isn’t the son who takes off without word, the one who storms away and is gone without warnin’.
“I am sorry, sir,” he says as Dad sinks onto the couch. “Dad, I just-” He can’t think of what to say, of how to explain.
Dad reaches up to grab his shoulder. He squeezes tightly, almost enough to hurt. Dean settles next to him and Dad shifts his hand, grips the back of his neck. “You can’t vanish like that, Dean,” Dad tells him. “I didn’t know what to do, where to begin searchin’.”
Dean nods. “I won’t do it again, Dad. I promise.”
Dad lets him go. “Head on to bed, son. You got school in the mornin’.”
Dean rises and slowly walks to his room, turnin’ at the door to look at Dad. Dad’s got his head in his hands, scrunched up-for the first time in his life, Dean thinks of Dad as old. But he’s barely forty, yet.
“Goodnight, Dad,” Dean calls softly and Dad straightens up.
“Goodnight, son,” he replies with a small, sad smile.
-
Sam’s asleep in Dean’s bed, tangled in Dean’s blankets. Books are spread out over Sam’s bed and Dean’s too tired to move them. He slips in beside Sam and sighs.
Four kids, each bruised and wary, alone but for each other. He doesn’t know their story-though he hopes one day they’ll trust him enough to tell him.
At least Pastor Jim can help them now.
“Dean?” Sam murmurs, more asleep than awake. He rolls over, eyelids flickerin’ open for a moment before shuttin’ again. “You’re back.”
“Yeah, Sammy,” he responds. “Sorry for just takin’ off.”
Sam mutters, “Don’t ever do it again.”
For the second time that night, Dean promises, “I won’t.”