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When Sam left him for college, Dean was 22. It devastated him. Not that he'd ever admit to it, obviously. But it had shattered his world - his entire family split into pieces. He'd tried (and failed) to convince Sam to come back to the house - to just apologise, even if it he didn't mean it, to their dad, smooth over the ravine that had formed between them all. Sam had refused, pushed him away, hell, he'd all but told him to get lost and 'go crying back to daddy'.
It had hurt.
But Dean had understood what he'd wanted, in a way - out of this fucked up life, the constant hunting, running, fighting. It was tiring, but as far as he was concerned that was their life. Sure, Sammy could try for bigger and better things - he'd actually graduated high school, unlike Dean, who had dropped out to help John on his hunts when he was 16. His dad had needed him, to help fight, to help them stay together, in one piece. He'd made his peace with that, and he thought Sammy had too; but clearly he was wrong. Well, so what, he thought. At least someone gets out of this relatively 'normal'. That ship had clearly sailed for the rest of the Winchester unit.
But the more time that passed, the more a creeping feeling ate away inside him. If one of them got out, bettered himself, what's to say Dean couldn't do that too? Not that he could leave, not really, but it didn't have to just be this life, always on the road, did it? The longer Sam went without calling or even texting to check in, the worse John seemed to get. Nobody spoke about it - John had meant what he said when told Sam he'd be dead to them if he left. But Sam didn't even reach out to Dean; and never picked up the phone or returned the rare messages he hesitated to leave for him.
The longer the seemingly futile search for the yellow eyed demon went on, the worse John's drinking got, too. With little to no hard leads or evidence, Dean considered a number of times whether it was worth incurring his father's wrath to question whether this was really worth still following. Worth their entire lives, all the cash they had, the scams and the blood and sweat and tears it cost. Don't get him wrong - Dean wanted that son of a bitch dead-er than anyone else ('cept maybe John), but they hadn't had a real lead in a little under two years now. He never said it, though. His dad was bad enough; drinking most nights when they got back from that days hunt, muttering vaguely threatening shit at him, without Dean throwing that into the mix. His father's treatment was nothing new - since he was old enough to help really, John's vague (and sometimes specific) anger and frustration at anything and everything was directed towards him in his more volatile moods. It only progressed from there over time. More than a good portion of his injuries - bruises, small cuts, even a broken bone once - were from his own kin as opposed to the the monster of the week.
Dean didn't really have a solid plan anyway - he was mulling over an idea in his mind, toying with it. What if he tried to do something with himself? Not as rash as Sammy, no cutting off the family. Who said it had to be all or nothing anyway? Since he'd dropped out of highschool, the only real way to start his 'maybe' future was to get some kind of qualification. The GED was the most logical option. What he'd do with it from there was beyond him yet; but it was a start. Enough to let a small flicker of hope spark, kindled deep inside and hidden from all prying eyes.
It was hard. Harder still, trying to find some semblance of privacy in their double bed motel rooms, typically using the time spent staking separate locations to study, and the rare times John went to a bar to drown his sorrows instead of drinking in front of the crappy motel TV.
Dean worked tirelessly for months - scribbling notes in his "secret" journal after dark (the one that John mercilessly mocked Dean for being a girl with a diary, when he'd gone to open it one day in curiosity. It had been worth it - barely - to keep his real goal hidden). It wasn't easy, but he'd managed to both keep it hidden, and make progress enough that he was mostly passing the mock paper tests he checked himself by. He even found himself running through questions and study material in his mind as he lay in bed before sleep, or while sat in passenger seat of his dad's beloved car. Maybe this was actually possible, he'd found himself thinking more than once.
Eventually, he managed to drum up enough spare cash between hunts (pocketed before presenting his earnings to John from his latest pool hustle) to attend the actual exam. His nerves were shot to shit, he'd hardly slept the night before, and the three coffees he'd drank that morning sure as hell didn't help.
Getting to the test itself wasn't too bad. He'd managed to lie easily enough to his dad - something about a girl from the bar last night insisting he take her out to lunch today, Dean being sweet enough on her he wanted to keep his word. Maybe he should've felt some kind of guilt, especially at how easy the lie came to him, but he couldn't bring himself to care in that way about it. John grunted at him, clearly unhappy but deciding after some deliberation to cut him some slack (for once, Dean thought privately). He'd grumbled something about staying safe, and that they'd be leaving at 1600 hours sharp to hit the open road - whether Dean was with him or not. He'd agreed quickly, a "Yes Sir" slipping from his lips before he'd realised, his frame standing a little straighter as he did.
He'd managed to get through the suffocating test without completely losing his cool, but it had been a close call. The room had been too quiet - every noise, shuffle, cough from all the other occupants setting off his hunter senses, and he'd felt naked without any of his normal weapons (save the small silver knife hidden in his boot) on his person. A small part of him even worried that at any moment, in the middle of the exam, John would come barrelling through the double doors to drag him out - that he'd be caught in the middle of his not-quite lie.
But his luck seemed to hold for once. He finished the test, turned it in with the invigilators at the end, and by some miracle managed to get the hell out of that community centre and head to the diner John had told him to meet him at. He even kept it together when his dad needled him for details, seemingly in one his ever-rarer good moods. Made some bullshit up about a cute date, but she wasn't a forever type girl - just some fun before they headed on to the next area. They ate mostly in silence, save for John briefly telling Dean where the hunt was taking them next. It didn't really matter to Dean - never did. Just more time on the road, another monster to fight, another bottle his dad will drink and another shitty bed to fall onto at the end of the day. At least this diner had a pretty good burger.
They left shortly after, John paying their bill and slipping into the Impala with ease; a calm silence settling over the both of them. Dean watched out the window, unsee-ing eyes on the trees passing by, and considered whether it would even make a lick of change if he did end up getting the certificate. He drifted off like that - considering the 'what-ifs' of his future, and fell into an uneasy rest.
Because he was a Winchester, his luck obviously wouldn't last.
A few weeks later, they were cutting through Kansas for their latest hunt, and had a few days spare - for travel, restocking, and other generic Winchester life admin tasks (like sending out more phony credit card applications). John had told Dean that he was going to split off, check in on a few 'friends' of theirs, before swinging by their PO box before meeting back up with Dean again; he agreed, saying he'd do some research at the library in the meantime.
The research was mostly uneventful - looking for any potential signs of the yellow eyed demon on the computers at the local library, though none seemed promising. It was expected at this point. He'd then turned his attention then to potential cases to look into over the next few weeks, making notes of a few intriguing or straight up weird deaths across the North side of the country in his notebook, before deciding he'd done enough book learning for the day. It wasn't his favourite activity - normally Sammy was here to take the brunt of that but.. you know. It still felt odd to him - they'd spent so long attached at the hip, doing everything together that this past year of Sam being away... It still felt like he was missing a piece of himself, in a way. He visibly grimaced at the thought as it crossed his mind. Christ, how girly am I? Sam's absence was clearly getting to him.
Scrubbing the thought from his mind he checked his watch, deciding to swing by the diner for dinner before heading back to the motel his dad had told him they'd be staying at tonight. He considered staying for a while, maybe bar hopping before heading back, but in all honesty he was just beat. As crappy as the motels were, they were at least a solid place to rest, and that was exactly what he wanted right now. The sun was starting to go down as he headed to the local motel, and was all but gone when he eventually arrived. The severely uninterested lady at the front desk told him what room "Saul Hudson" was in when he presented a credit card with the same surname, barely giving him a second glance. Yeah sure, it helped him more often than not, but he had to wonder how shady these places were willing to get sometimes.
He knocked on the room door, but got no answer. He could see the low orange lamp through the cracks in the blinds though, so after a second knock and a short wait, he tried the door. It opened. Weird, he thought as he opened it, slowly moving his hand to rest on the hilt of his knife. It was unlike his dad to leave the door unlocked so carelessly, and his hackles were up, hairs at the back of his neck prickling as he stepped through the doorway.
Dean scanned the room quickly, spotting a figure in the chair by the table in the lowlight. As his eyes adjusted, he could clearly see it was John - was he awake? Passed out? He could see what looked like an empty bottle of Jack knocked over on the table, and his hands loosely held a glass that still contained some liquid in it. So it looked like he'd been drinking again. Heavily. He internally sighed, some tension leaving his shoulders (but not all), and started to mentally prep himself for a long night as he shut the door behind him. He had to tread carefully on a good day to not set off the landmines that were John Winchester, but when he'd been drinking, it just got all the more harder.
"What th'fuck is this, Dean?" John's voice was slurred. The tone in his dad's voice gripped him like a vice, a cold chill settling over him, all tiredness from before gone in a sudden spark of adrenaline. He could see now, eyes properly adjusted in the room, that John was staring right at him - staring right through him, it almost felt like. He looked where John pointed with the glass before he knocked back the last of the whiskey in it, eyes settling on an open envelope packet on the table. Fuck.
His stomach felt like a black, empty pit had opened up in it. The chill gripped him tighter, chest constricting and his eyes widening in recognition. Dean could see the letter was addressed to him - actually to him, not whatever bullshit alias he'd used last - and there was only one real reason he'd gotten any mail. His GED results must have come back; he hadn't been expecting them for another week or so (though he'd been trying to avoid thinking about it much at all, if he was being honest), but he had planned to pick it up himself, or hell, at least hadn't thought John would open his mail himself. He should've known better. What was his was his, and what was yours was his too, he thought bitterly in the back of his mind. Dean cautiously moved his eyeline back to meet his dad's gaze - the rest of his body frozen - and saw that he was looking directly at him again. As he looked closer, he could see the dark rings around his eyes, the bloodshot whites, and the blown pupils. Something shot through him (fear, a voice told him inside) as he said nothing in response to his dad's question from before.
"Well!?" John snarled, spittle flying in abandon as he stumbled to his feet.
"Listen, dad, just-" Dean started, but was cut off before he could continue, "Don't you 'dad' me you little shit, I know what you're up to."
This threw Dean for a moment - what was he up to? He'd barely planned past this, and he didn't even know if he'd passed or not. It clicked, though, what his dad had assumed this was. "Sir, please, it's not what you think." His hands were in front of him, palms open and facing John, and he tried to move - not closer, but to a different area of the room, away from the door and away from John too. "I just-" He dragged a hand over his face, and through his hair before continuing, "I just wanted to see if I could. With.. with everything that happened recently, I never finished high school, and I thought this could help us." He veered last second to avoid mentioning Sam directly, knowing it surely wouldn't do him any good.
"Help us?" John scoffed, poison dripping from his tone, "I was born at night boy, but I wasn't born last night. I know exactly what this is." A cold, unseeing glare fell over him. "You're planning on leaving. Leaving me, your mother, alone. Just like Sam did." The last sentence felt like it knocked the wind out of him, a sharp exhale leaving his body. As if to punctuate his point, John stepped forward, finger jabbing towards his chest, barely avoiding tripping over his own feet as he did. Dean stepped back in response, but felt the motel bed at the back of his knees - nowhere to run.
"Seriously, dad, please." A slight tremor entered his voice, but he tried to ignore it. He could feel the rage falling off of John in waves, he'd never seen him this angry. Not even when Sam left. That night Dean had narrowly avoided a bottle to the face, but he'd still felt the pain in other ways. This was different - though his dad had been angry before, it was hardly ever directed at him in such fervour (a small memory surfaced as he thought this, reminding him painfully of the Shtriga when they were kids, but he pushed it away). "I thought it could make it easier for me to get a few small odd jobs here and there. Bring us more cash in, so we can spend more time on the hunt, not worry so much about how we're getting from A to B." His palms were back out again now, almost placating in their movements. "Please, dad. I'm telling you the truth." His eyes were tracking John's movements, his idle swaying as he stood, and he tried to take stock of his surroundings. How can I diffuse this?
"You know, Dean," His dad spat his name with a grimace, as if it were some horrible blaspheme, before he continued as if he'd said nothing to explain himself. "Sammy, I get. He never seemed like he wanted to be here - always thought he was better than us. Better than his old man." He paused, pondering the glass in his hand. "But you? I never expected you to abandon us."
The second he stopped speaking, John hurled the glass towards Dean full force. He dodged it by instinct more than anything else, but he heard - and felt - the glass shatter on the wall behind him, shards falling to the floor and the empty bed behind him. He turned his wide eyes back to his dad when he recovered, incredulity mixed with fear and guilt on his face. John still looked the perfect image of crazed fury, nostrils flaring. He looked pissed Dean had even managed to avoid the glass, and rounded on him now before Dean could respond, fists grabbing and clutching at the material of his shirt. Up close, he could smell the alcohol on him, and feel how his body shook with barely controlled rage.
"You're a fuckin' disappointment Dean. This is your life. Our life." He dragged his son, slamming his body against the nearest wall. Dean's hands flew out to grab John's wrists, and he tried to push him off and away, but the blow his head took to the wall was still ringing in his ears and he wasn't strong enough. They said nothing for a moment, Dean pinned against the wall under his dad's fists with his eyes screwed shut, John glaring at his son under him. Dean felt the grip on his shirt loosen, only slightly, but it was enough.
He took his chance, surging forward and ducking away from John with speed. He spun, head reeling, to face his drunk father as he turned to follow his movements, anger and bewilderment warring for control on his features. "You son of a bitch.." John muttered, before lunging forward, letting his fist connect with Dean's face with a sickening crack. The force, and the pain, felt like it would split him open, and he could feel the blood dripping down over his lip without needing to see it. He'd stumbled back in the scrum, eyes wide and panting now as he faced his dad. That's definitely broken, his brain told him, if the sound and pain was anything to go by.
This was beyond anything he'd done before - John'd hit him yeah, but never so square as this. And it looked like he was far from done. Usually at this stage, the first real physical connection he made, his dad would have something akin to horror, or regret flickering in his eyes. So they could pretend it was just a one-time thing, not to be repeated, and never brought up again after John helped him tidy himself up. Now though, all Dean could see was the red angry haze, bright as it ever was.
He realised, numbly, that he was scared. How far would this go?
Dean knew how to defend himself obviously, but he'd learnt the lesson early on that fighting back against John only made it all the more worse. Sammy never learnt that lesson - even though he only got the verbal end of the stick. Him and Sam, they both pretended not to know where Dean got his black eyes or bruised wrists from. Just another fucked up truth of their lives that they refused to acknowledge.
He came back to, away from the spiral his thoughts had followed, to see John rounding on him again. This time he was quick enough to duck, and they swapped places in the room, and he watched John stumble and grab the wall before turning to glare at him anew.
He wiped the blood that dribbled down his chin, voice ragged and broken as he begged, "Seriously, I swear I wasn't going to leave!" John stood stock still, panting as they tersely stared at each other in almost silence. Dean vaguely wondered if the other motel occupants gave enough of a shit to do anything, call management or complain or something. "Please, dad. Please, I didn't mean it-"
It didn't matter. His words didn't even seem to register with John, and he watched as he grabbed the empty bottle from the near table and smashed the top half of it, and knew it was his next attack. His body was too tired, his head hurt too much and his bones ached. He watched in empty fear as John threw the squared bottles edge towards him, too slow to dodge or turn in time to avoid the hit.
The hunter's son cried out and recoiled as he felt the cold, hollow burn of the sharp edge finding its new home in his skin. The world seemed to move slower - he looked down to his arm, saw the large shard embedded in his skin; the deep red blood sluggishly beginning to flow from the wound. It stung, Dean realized numbly. He turned his gaze to his father now instead, and didn't know if time was still moving slowly, or if it was John's frozen form that made it feel that way. His eyes were wide now, the whites still mostly red, and his mouth hung open. Dean recognised this look - the one he wore in every previous altercation when he'd gone too far. When he'd stepped over the line they redrew after every argument, every fight, constantly changing what 'too far' would mean for them next time. This was a new line.
Nobody said anything. It could've been 15 seconds, or 5 minutes; he wouldn't have known. All he knew was the heat of the blood which he could now feel trailing down his arm, pooling in the crook of his elbow, dripping down to his fingertips and onto the soft carpeted floor. Muffled conversations could be heard outside the room, and the rumble of a car being brought to life and driven away. And just like that, the spell shattered.
"Dean, I- Oh god, son, I didn't mean-" John's voice was trembling and he cut himself off and restarted his sentence, tripping over his own words. He could hear the regret, the guilt, seeping through them, saw his dad stepping forward shakily with an arm out, felt himself flinch away.
He stepped back; unable to verbalise anything but communicating with his gaze plenty well. Dean felt (and probably looked) like a wild, wounded animal - 'come any closer, and he'd bolt, kick, fight, do anything to get out of this' - his gaze said. With a slow, almost languid movement he brought his hand to the glass in his arm and wrenched it free - it dug into his palm as he did so, but he was beyond caring now.
Dean turned, grabbing the first spare clothing item he could find. One of Sam's flannels he'd left behind, he realised distantly, but his focus was elsewhere as he pushed the fabric to his wound which was now bleeding more heavily with the obstruction removed. He was vaguely aware of John on his periphery, sinking into the chair he'd leapt from when Dean arrived, cradling his head in his hands. Quiet, muttered words left his mouth, 'oh god, how could I', 'I didn't mean to' and 'Mary, I'm sorry's drifting from his hunched form. Dean ignored him, tying the flannel around his arm as tight as he could (using his teeth to pull the other end taut) - military precision and necessary aid action took precedence over his emotions. How he was trained. How John had trained him.
He couldn't (didn't want to) stay here. The dull throb of his arm was bad, but he'd dealt with worse. He could survey the extent of the damage later, when he had time. Tremors wrecked his hands, residual adrenaline coursing as he scanned the room, and he saw what he was searching for. The Impala's keys. Grabbing them, hesitating, and then quickly reaching for his letter, he moved to leave the room, stopping only at the threshold.
"This is why Sammy left." Dean's breath came in a heavy exhale, and he rested his uninjured hand against the doorframe as he spoke. "He didn't leave us. He left you."
He wondered if he heard a noise escape his dad behind him, whether it was a sob or a pitiful moan, but he didn't care. For once, he couldn't bring himself to care about his father's state. He felt detached, numb, empty at the prospect, where previously he'd have rushed to John's side, acting the good son, pretending whatever he'd inflicted last hadn't hurt. Not this time.
Dean left the room, letting the door close behind him as he crossed the parking lot, to where he'd seen their car parked when he came in. He slipped into the driver seat, closing his eyes and bracing his hands on the steering wheel for a single moment before he turned the key in the ignition and drove off.
When the adrenaline wore off, when the thrumming pain in his head and arm started to get worse, he pulled off the tarmac into a roadside dirt path. He barely knew where he was, driving on instinct alone and parked the Impala away from the main road - hidden enough at first, but visible if you were looking for it.
He did the obvious things first - grabbing the first aid kit and beginning to clean and mend his wounds first. Blood had soaked Sam's shirt, he felt a light twinge of guilt as he let it drop to the passenger footwell. His eyes stung as he sutured his wound, blinking fiercely as he worked to keep his focus as clear as it could.
He took some tablets for the pain, swallowing it down with a shot of some liquor he'd found in the driver side door compartment. Wrapping his freshly cleaned and stitched arm and applying antiseptic to the cuts on his hand, he moved himself into the backseat of the car; the only steady 'home' he ever really had, and lay back against a blanket he'd balled up for a pillow.
Dean opened the envelope he'd taken with him from the motel room, reading the cover letter;
"To whom it may concern,
Please find enclosed the certification to confirm that Dean Winchester has completed all requirements and earned the high school level equivalency credentials from the Department of State Education. This is considered a..."
He felt his eyes close shut, and the letter drift down onto his chest. A small tear rolled down his cheek, and he felt an overwhelming ache to call his brother.
Instead, exhaustion pulled at him and he drifted into an empty, restless slumber; still clutching the letter to him as he did.