Chapter Text
1 MAY
WILTON, CONNECTICUT 09:00 PM
The fluorescent lights in the corner convenience store buzzed faintly overhead in a bright white that made the worn linoleum gleam almost unnaturally. The hum of the soda cooler and the occasional beep of a register filled it, while a tired cashier lazily thumbed through a magazine. Dean Winchester, all of twelve years old, nervously tugged at the frayed edges of the oversized leather jacket and darted a glance at the man behind the counter with a plan in mind.
Back at the motel room, Sam was asleep—or pretending to be. Tomorrow marked Sam's tenth birthday and Dean didn't want him to be disappointed: no cake, no candles and no gifts—only another day of cheap takeout and their father out there on a hunt.
He scanned the bakery ledge under the glare of display lights: rows of plastic clamshell containers held small cakes adorned with thick frosting roses and cheerful "Happy Birthday" messages scribbled in colored icing. Dean's stomach twisted at the thought of theft—it wouldn't be the first time: he had snuck candy bars and chips before, but never a whole cake. Still, Sam deserved something.
Near the cookies aisle, he pretended to study the brightly wrapped bags while tracking the cashier’s moves through the convex security mirror above. When the man leaned back in the chair and let loose a long yawn, Dean seized the moment. Sneakers squeaked against the dull floor when he crouched before the display case.
There was a small chocolate cake with red frosting around the edges—it wasn't pretty, but Sam loved chocolate. He swallowed hard, grabbed the clamshell box and tucked it beneath the jacket, stretching the oversized fabric around it. The plastic edges jabbed against ribs, so he hurried toward the exit.
Almost there—a few more steps until freedom.
“Boy!”
Dean's chest tightened. He turned and attempted to don Sammy's innocent puppy stare, but the cashier was already standing behind the counter.
“What've you got there?”
He hugged the jacket tightly. “N-nothing,” he stammered.
The man's eyes narrowed in skepticism. “Let me see.”
Dean shook the head. “I was leaving—”
He edged toward the door in an attempt to outrun trouble, but a heavy hand clamped onto the shoulder before he could bolt for freedom. The stolen cake tumbled out from under the jacket, flimsy plastic container popping open upon landing on the floor in a dull splat—frosting smeared across the faded tiles like a bruise, like those that would soon appear on him at the hands of John Winchester.
The man let out a low curse in frustration and steered Dean back inside from the collar of the flannel. “That’s stealing, kid.”
“I'm not a—” he tried to protest, but sounded younger than he wanted. Almost annoying.
When Dean heard him speak into the receiver, escape was out of reach. “Got a little thief here,” muttered the man. “You'd better send someone over.”
Minutes stretched uncomfortably long when reflected lights flickered across the glass windows outside. Dean stood stiffly, hands into pockets, and tried not to look scared when the officer stepped inside—he was a tall white man, all black curly hair, brown tired eyes and big nose, with a cowboy beige hat and a walkie-talkie on the belt.
“It's him?” he asked the cashier.
The latter gave him a confirmation nod and let go of the kid's collar. The officer crouched down in front of Dean. “How old are you?”
“Twelve...” he muttered.
“Twelve...” the man repeated in a sigh. He glanced at the mess on the floor, then back at him. “Was that for somebody?”
Dean remained quiet, gaze glued to the ground. He thought of Sam, whose birthday was ruined because of him. He thought of John, who would make sure he paid for the failure he was.
The officer ran a hand over the forehead and let out a tired exhale. “I can’t let you walk out of here like that, son.”
Dean gave a small nod and swallowed the lump in the throat. He tried to firm the tremble of hands when the officer took them to handcuff him.
Quietly, the man led him outside into the crisp night air. The chaotic swirl of red and blue lights flickered across Dean when they approached the patrol car. The door clicked open and the kid climbed into the back seat, then closed with a heavy thud. He pressed the forehead to the cold glass of the window and stared at the inside of the store, where the cashier was mopping the smeared remains of Sam's birthday cake.
Dean wasn’t really scared of the cop—the gruffness didn’t faze him and he’d been through John's punishments enough times to bear them, but the thought of going back empty-handed and letting Sam down terrified him. In the silence of the car, Dean Winchester felt the kind of guilt that would stick with him long after the frosting stains had been wiped clean and forgotten.