broke the wings off that little songbird - SN fic - R
Title: broke the wings off that little songbird
Fandom: “Supernatural”
Disclaimer: Dean, Sammy, and Johnny aren’t mine; just for fun. Title from “Top of the World” by the Dixie Chicks.
Warnings: AU in a major way; character death
Pairings: Dean/OMCs; implied Dean/John and Dean/Sam if you infer certain things a certain way
Rating: R
Wordcount: 745
Point of view: third
Sammy was fourteen the September he died. He played the hero, just like Dad’d always taught, and he died by some stupid kid’s bullet.
That kid shot himself in the head about a minute before the SWAT team stormed the school.
Dad sank deep into depression and wasted away, finally dying a month later.
And Dean was left alone.
-
He tried hunting at first, his attempt at keeping Dad’s legacy alive. Spent a year hunting, in fact, before a poltergeist-a weak one, a young one-shattered his left kneecap and three ribs.
Once he’d healed up, without even a limp, half a year was gone and the hunt no longer beckoned.
He’d barely graduated highschool, and no college would accept him on the grades he’d had-but he was a master at forgery.
So Samuel Johnson submitted his grades to Stanford. And Samuel Johnson got in.
-
He spent two years at Stanford before leaving. He wouldn’t admit to enjoying himself-this was his honoring of Sammy’s memory. He did well-better than-at Stanford. Made friends, made As, could become anything he wanted.
But it wasn’t him. Not Dean Winchester.
And Samuel Johnson didn’t exist. So he left the dorm one night, melted into the shadows, and vanished.
-
He wandered for awhile, eating enough to stay alive. He spoke rarely, never laughed-surviving, barely.
He wasn’t honoring Dad, wasn’t honoring Sammy-but they both left him behind. And he hated them for that.
Two years passed. Before he knew it, half a decade was gone since Sammy played the hero and fell with a bullet between his eyes. Half a decade since Dad withered away, not caring enough about Dean to stay.
Sammy would be nineteen now. Would probably be at college. Would be happy, most likely, in that world where Dean never truly fit, his playacting to the contrary not withstanding.
Dean turned twenty-three and celebrated by killing some bastard in a barfight. He knew he was floundering, lost, not the boy who’d buried Sammy, who’d buried Dad, who’d dug them up and burned them.
Three months later, he killed again. Another fight. And it was easy, so easy. The man’s face broke beneath his fist, the man’s skin tore, the man’s eyes faded-and it felt so right.
No, Dean wasn’t a hunter anymore. He ignored the monsters, the shadows, the ghosts and the wraiths.
Instead, he went on a rampage from Florida to Washington, from Maine to California’s base, from Canada to Mexico. He killed men with dark brown hair and green eyes, men who were taller than him-he’d imagine Dad’s features on their faces, or Sammy’s, as he fought them, as he ripped into them, as he left them dead or dying.
He killed and vanished, leaving no trace but the corpse.
-
And ten years flew by. Fifteen years since Sammy died, since Dad died, since Dean lost his reasons for being. He had twenty murders under his belt, though only he knew about them all. The authorities were after him, though he didn’t have a name or a face yet-some guy named Hendrickson headed the team. There was a profile of Dean, mostly wrong. Everything they had was lacking. Sadly lacking.
Sammy died. Dad died. They left him alone.
He knew the man he’d become would shame Sammy, shame Dad-anger them both. They’d probably hate him.
Maybe Dad would even put him down. Dean knew he’d let him.
So he went out and picked one final victim, a healthy guy about nineteen with sharp green eyes and dark brown hair, clocking in at six foot three.
-
Dean killed. He even tortured. But he never raped.
His final choice, named Jonathan, he decided to seduce. And it was easy, very easy. Dean was thirty-four and looked twenty-five.
After fucking the boy, Dean turned violent. But he’d picked well and the kid fought back.
Dean had placed a gun in sight, within easy reach. And his final choice fulfilled his most fervent desire by pulling the trigger and-
-
“Don’t forget, Dean,” Sammy says as they separate for the day, Dean heading for work after dropping his kid brother at school.
“Yeah, yeah,” Dean waves him off. “Soccer, I know.”
Sammy smiles at him. “It’s fun. Dean, I’m good at it.”
“’course you are,” Dean smiles in response. “Next game’s Thursday, right?”
Sammy nods.
“Okay. I’ll get you at five, Sammy.”
Sammy waves and Dean pulls away.