Character: Dean and Mary
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or the universe they live in.
Summary: AU. What if it was John, not Mary, who had died that night in '83?
The fights had started when Dean was eleven. Up until then there had been arguments, yelling, temper tantrums that mostly ended up with Dean getting sent to his room. However, none of those had been true fights. The true fights almost always ended with Dean slamming the front door and Mary left wondering if this was the time he just wouldn't come back.
Sam would never have these sorts of fights with his mother. In fact, though for loyalty to his brother he never said these thoughts aloud, he often agreed with their mother. Why couldn't Dean just try to be normal?
Dean could never be the perfect son that Mary wanted and he didn't see why she tried to force it on him. Sam was already that son. He never got disappointed looks because he never came home covered in mud and blood. He got straight A's, had a promising future as professional and he didn't think school was useless and boring. He wanted to play soccer, join the drama club and travel Europe.
After Mary had learned what had killed her husband, she had one mission in life: Keep the boys safe. Mary had been the one who taught her boys how to shoot, how to fight, how to ward and exorcise. She taught them how to protect themselves from a dangerous hidden world. However, while she acknowledged such a world existed and that her sons needed to know how to defend themselves, she never searched out the supernatural herself.
Dean wanted more, needed more than that. He didn't want to just to be safe from the things that lurked in the dark. He wanted to hunt bastards down and kill them, kill them all. But, most of all, he wanted to find the thing that killed his father. When Dean was fifteen, he told his mother as much.
When Mary answered with a resounding 'no', Dean rebelled in every possible way a teenager could.
Finding the cigarettes, alcohol and pot had been bad.
Finding the guns, false ids and knives had been worse.
But it was the clothes that had been the last straw. Mary had come into Dean's room to gather dirty clothes for a load of laundry. She'd found the jeans and shirt, bloody and torn, tossed in the corner.
She'd thrown back the bed covers to find her seventeen year old son passed out on his stomach, completely naked save for his boxers and a mottle covering of bruises, looking like something with nasty sharp claws had mistaken Dean's back and thighs for a scratching post.
The fight that followed was gossiped about in the neighborhood for years to come.
"You leave this house, Dean, don't you bother coming back." Mary had said and, to her shame in later years, she meant it.
Dean, for one of the few times in his life, did exactly what his mother told him to.