Chapter Text
Dean was four years old when his daddy came home holding a small bundle of blankets in his hands.
At the time, Dean didn't know that the way he was holding the bundle was careless and cruel, or that it was anything more than a blanket then. That was, until his dad heedlessly placed the bundle on the table, and the four-year-old heard a small cry come from the bundle.
"Shut up!" his father yelled at the bundle, causing the cries to increase.
Dean walked up to the table and climbed on top of a chair for a better view of the mysterious blanket his father had brought home, only to see a tiny baby lying on their table with large bulbous tears rolling down its cheeks. He looked to his dad, confusion evident on his face.
"Why did you get a baby, Daddy?" the boy asked his father. "I thought you were going on a hunt."
Dean figured out about hunting a week after he turned four, when he found his mommy dead in the kitchen; her stomach sliced open in a perfect circle and sloppily bleeding. His daddy then told him all about hunting to explain why they had to move around a lot after her death. That had been six months ago.
"It's not a normal baby, Dean. We are going to keep an eye on it for now. At least, until we learn what it is," he responded in a gruff voice.
John looked to the crying baby, slapping its tiny cheek. "Shut up, Brat!" he yelled at the tiny being before lowering his voice to a near whisper. "You'll soon learn your place."
"Dean." He placed the new baby in his son's arms. "I have to go help a friend on a hunt and hopefully get some information from him. I need you to take care of this thing until I get back."
Dean only nodded in response to his father's request and watched as he left once again.
---SPN---
His father named the creature a few months later, when someone from childcare came because of an anonymous tip. Apparently someone had heard constant crying recently and was concerned. The CPS woman had come to the apartment he was currently staying at and asked if they could talk for a bit while she checked things out.
He had charmed her pretty well and by the end of the visit, he was pretty confident she would let it slide. When Dean entered after coming home from his current kindergarten, she finally got to asking his children's names.
He had choked, but somehow sputtered out an answer.
"Dean and Cain," he said to the lady.
Cain, the murdering brother, it seemed a fitting name for the freak.
---SPN---
Dean knew the thing was evil and all, but he still couldn't watch as his father beat the small five-year-old boy with messy chocolate coloured curls covering his head for breaking a plate, of all things. Especially when broken hazel eyes turned to him, begging him to make it stop.
The thing just looked so human.
The ten-year-old boy entered his room and sat on his bed, ignoring the insults shouted and tiny, tear-filled apologies that could still be heard from the solitude of his room.
---SPN---
Dean sat at the dining table at their motel of the week. His father sat across from him, and Cain was in the kitchen preparing dinner. John had been furious when he came home with Dean from a hunt to see that the wench had not finished making dinner yet and promised him punishment after they had eaten.
The boy was now eight years old and John had decided about a year ago to make use of the creature. It was now Cain's responsibility to keep house, clean the weapons, and make dinner whenever asked of him. John knew these were not hard things to do; in fact, it was much easier that hunting. Why couldn't he just do it right?
The boy eventually entered the kitchen with a pot of delicious looking pasta in tow. He gently set it on the table between the two Winchesters and quickly brought them bowls and forks and served them both large portions. After he brought them each a beer - per command - he stood with his hands behind his back awaiting further instructions.
As John began to eat the food before him, he turned to the obediently waiting creature.
"You know, you are the bane of my life, right?" he asked the thing before him. It was something he said often to the creature when he did something wrong.
The creature merely nodded in response and John scowled at it.
"Go to the closet and stay there until I come to get you tomorrow. I don't want to see you until then, understood?" he asked the creature, his voice cold and hard.
Once again, the creature nodded before scurrying off to do as he was told, limping slightly as each step caused pain to his swollen ankle.
John started calling him Bane more and more often after that.
---SPN---
The boy, Bane, Cain, whatever you want to call him, was more than scared when John retrieved him in the middle of the night one night, but knew not to struggle. Struggling always ended in more pain and punishment. Besides, who was he to fight them? He was only alive because they allow him to live; serving them was the least he could do in return.
When John pulled him outside, into the freezing November night, he instantly began to shiver. His ripped, worn, thin, and much too small t-shirt and jeans not much against the winter's cold. Suddenly, that was the last thing on his mind as he noticed another man approaching them in the motel parking lot.
"This the kid?" the stranger asked.
"What do you think, Walker? Of course it's the goddamned freak," John stated gruffly in a no-nonsense manner as he shoved Cain forward, causing him to fall to his hands and knees on the asphalt, scraping them in the process.
He dared not even hiss at the burning feeling.
The stranger, Walker apparently, grunted in response before handing a couple twenty dollar bills to John.
"This good for the hour?" he asked while eyeing Cain in a way that made him extremely uncomfortable.
"That should do it. Remember, nothing that will end him up dead, useless, or in a hospital. Okay?" John said in his usual stoic voice while giving Cain a disgusted look.
"Yeah, yeah. I understand," the stranger replied, clearly impatient.
"I'll be back here at four o'clock sharp." With those words said, John stalked back to his motel room to catch another hour of sleep.
When John picked Cain up in the same parking lot at four o'clock, his face was completely void of emotion, and his trembling was no longer caused by the cold night.
---SPN---
“Where are we goin’, Dad?” a sleepy, Dean asked on a yawn, stretching his cramped muscles out.
They were currently in the Impala, as they had been for the past eight hours. The space was tight, but there were no complaints in the air. John being the reason for the trip, Dean loving it, and Cain too afraid to mention that he had minimal room in the back with all the luggage.
“We’re heading back to West Virginia, but since we’re quite a bit away, I figured we could stop in at Bobby’s and catch a few hours of sleep,” John answered Dean’s question.
“Been so long. Sound’s great.”
Cain heard none of this. He was to tired, too happy right now. He loved it when they were on the road. Sure, he had minimal room, felt slightly claustrophobic, and didn’t like the too loud music Dean played twenty-four hours a day, but it was also peaceful. He was ignored in the car. No one spoke to him, no one acknowledged him, and no one hit him. He cherished the hours on the road. He was allowed to sleep on the seat, not on the floor or in the closet, and he was so warm, the heater being kept on almost the entire trip.
It was paradise.