Chapter Text
prologue
may 27th, 1996
00:00:00
It was starting to become routine—ending up like this. Sitting on Bobby’s porch, knuckles raw, shoulder throbbing, waiting to hear the distant grumble of his dad’s truck turning up the drive. Dean still sometimes caught himself listening for the Impala, even with the keys resting warm in his pocket. The sleek black hood winked at him from where she was parked out front, a ghost of the past and a promise for the future, all in one.
He came out here whenever the silence inside got too loud. Whenever the voices in his head—his dad’s, his own, maybe even Sam’s—started fighting for space. The ache in his shoulder helped drown it out some, especially when he rolled it just right. Damn. He couldn’t even remember who’d thrown that punch. But whoever it was, credit where it was due—it stung like a bitch.
The screen door creaked open and slammed shut behind him, same way it always did. Bobby refused to fix it. Wouldn’t replace the spring, wouldn’t grease the hinges, no matter how many times someone asked. Dean knew for a fact the parts were in the salvage yard somewhere. When Sam was younger, they’d spent a whole afternoon digging through the piles of scrap, pretending they were treasure hunters. Didn’t find much worth keeping, but it was something to do.
He didn’t have to look to know who’d just joined him. The muddy tips of dark pink Converse crept into his peripheral vision, toes scuffed and scribbled on in permanent marker. Bunny. She didn’t say anything, just cleared her throat softly and handed him a cold beer and a bag of frozen peas.
Dean took them without a word. That was how it usually went between them.
He pressed the peas to his shoulder with a hiss and took a slow sip from the bottle. The beer was cheap, probably warm by now, but it helped.
Bunny sat beside him without asking. That was the other thing about her—she never asked. Her long braid was draped over one shoulder, ends fraying, and she had a smudge of dried blood on her cheekbone she hadn’t bothered to wipe off. Probably didn’t even know it was there.
Her mouth had written a check her fists couldn’t cash today. Dean had to give it to her, though—she got a few good hits in before things went sideways. Some asshole from their high school had asked if she wanted to see his “Big Ben,” then grabbed her ass like he was entitled to it. Next thing Dean knew, the guy was on his back, blood pouring from his nose, and Bunny was standing over him like she was daring someone else to try.
Dean and Sam had been laughing their asses off in the parking lot—until two of the guy’s buddies showed up.
“Thanks,” Bunny said eventually, voice low. Neither of them looked at each other. The only thing cutting through the quiet was TOTO’s Hold the Line drifting from the kitchen window. Bobby had a thing for classic rock with soul. Dean would never admit it, but he liked it too.
So did Bunny. Not that either of them would ever say it out loud. Their relationship wasn’t exactly the kind built on hair-braiding and heartfelt confessions. More like bruises, barbs, and whoever could steal the last beer without getting caught.
Dean nodded toward the field stretching out ahead of them. “Wasn’t a fair fight.” Not quite a you’re welcome, but it was close enough. He still hadn’t forgiven her for ratting him out to Bobby about the girl he’d snuck into the house last weekend. His boots scraped against the porch as he shifted. “Shouldn’t have grabbed your ass.”
He didn’t like Bunny. He loathed her, actually. But even he had a line. And that was one thing John had drilled into him early: respect. No one touches a girl like that without her say-so.
“Bet he regrets it now,” Bunny murmured, reaching down to scoop a barn cat into her lap. It was a scraggly, one-eared thing that purred like an engine the second her hand met its fur. Bobby claimed to hate the cats, claimed he hated her feeding them even more, but she still spent her evenings in the garage with at least two of them curled around her feet.
This one—Buster? Bandit?—kneaded its claws into her jeans like it owned the place.
“You see the one in the yellow shirt?” she asked.
Dean snorted. Yeah, he remembered that one. Acne raised on his arms like welts, a pig nose, and a swing like a blindfolded toddler at a piñata. “Yeah.”
“I’ve seen cheerleaders hit harder.”
Dean cracked a grin. “I’ve seen you hit harder than that.”
“Piss off, Winchester.”
They both took lazy sips of their beer, hiding the smallest of smiles behind the bottle lips. Couldn’t let the other one know they were enjoying this.
The rumble of Bobby’s Chevelle turning into the drive snapped their attention to the edge of the property. Bunny muttered a soft, “Fuck,” and quickly tucked her bottle behind her leg. Dean didn’t bother. Bobby wasn’t his dad. John let him drink now—man of the house and all that. Man of the Impala. Whatever.
Still, Dean winced when Bobby’s door slammed shut.
Bobby stood at the bottom of the porch steps, arms crossed, jaw working under his beard. His eyes swept over the two teenagers like he was taking inventory of a busted carburetor he didn’t remember buying.
“Just got off the phone with Officer Mills,” he said flatly.
Dean leaned back a little, beer still in hand. Bunny stared straight ahead, bottle hidden behind her leg, lips pursed like she was trying to hold in a sigh.
Bobby’s gaze didn’t waver. “Wanna tell me why she says you two were involved in a fight outside the old Sinclair bar?”
Neither of them answered. Buster—yeah, Buster, that was it—stretched once in Bunny’s lap before hopping off to chase something rustling in the grass.
Bobby studied them a moment longer. Bunny had a fresh bloom of purple spreading along her jaw, and Dean’s knuckles were swollen and dark. The bag of peas had gone soft against his shoulder. It didn’t look like they’d been fighting each other, which Bobby supposed counted as progress.
He exhaled through his nose and shoved his hands into his coat pockets. “Sam?”
“Homework,” they said at the same time, voices automatic.
Bobby’s expression shifted, just slightly. Relief. Sam was only thirteen. He might’ve been John’s kid, but he was Bobby’s responsibility when he was under this roof—and Bobby didn’t want to picture that sweet boy getting caught in the crossfire of whatever the hell these two got tangled up in.
“Good,” Bobby muttered. “At least someone in this house’s got half a brain.”
The sun was sinking fast behind the trees, bleeding pink and orange through the clouds. Bobby glanced toward it like he was trying to decide whether it was too early for whiskey, then looked back at the bruised-up mess on his porch.
“You’re grounded,” he said. “One week. And you’ll tell Jody everything when she stops by to follow up.”
Bunny’s head snapped toward him. “Bobby—come on, that’s not—”
“Two weeks. Try me,” he said without missing a beat, climbing the porch steps and plucking Dean’s beer out of his hand. Dean scowled but didn’t argue.
“No underage drinking in my house,” Bobby added over his shoulder as he disappeared through the front door. “And stop lettin’ those damn cats inside—I found fur on my damn recliner again.”
The screen door gave its signature creak and bang behind him.
Bunny waited until the door shut fully before tugging the bottle back out from behind her leg.
She held it up proudly and took a slow, taunting sip. Dean narrowed his eyes at her, but didn’t say a word.
She knew two things for sure: Bobby would eventually get tired of having her around every day—and she’d be grounded again before the week was out. And second, she was absolutely going to keep letting the barn cats inside. Winston, one of her favorites, turned into a cuddle pile the second the sun went down, and there was no way in hell she was denying him a warm lap just because Bobby pretended to be annoyed.
Dean caught her mid-sip and raised an eyebrow. She grinned, smug, like she’d just pulled off the heist of the century.
“Gotta be smarter than that, Winches—hey!”
Dean shoved her sideways with one arm, jolting her shoulder hard enough to make her slosh beer down the front of her shirt. She yelped and shoved back on instinct, but he was already snatching the bottle from her hand and knocking back half of it in one long, exaggerated gulp.
Bunny glared, eyes sharp and green and always annoyed with him. “You’re such a fucking dick, you know that?”
Dean leaned away just as she reached for the bottle, holding it out of reach with a shit-eating grin. “Bite me.”