Random Drabbles. Supernatural. 100 words each.
Random canon drabbles. They're pretty sad. *shrugs*
His eldest son is just sleeping. John keeps telling himself that. Even with the plastic stuff exploding over Dean and his bed, he can fool himself that much. His weary eyes follow one plastic tube up to a machine sitting up against the wall - accompanied, weirdly, by a cross. It galls him, somehow, and he turns his eyes back to Dean.
Sam doesn't understand. John supposes his younger son had done his best to forget everything once he'd gone off to Stanford. How can he think John won't do anything to save Dean? He can't forget accusing pairs of eyes.
Sometimes the people he's seen die do come back to him. In dreams, not even visions. Normal old nightmares that make him jerk upright in a cold sweat. He's almost thankful for them. Nightmares don't take pieces of his sanity with them as they dissipate. Sure, they're strong, but they don't play out like pieces of film on the surface of his eyelids.
He wakes, with the sharp intake of breath and the jolt into the stillness of the room. It's still weird. Dean's not snoring, and Sam can't breathe, even after the nightmare has receded back into the dark.
After they leave the clinic, they don't talk about it.
Dean just knows that he meant what he said. That if anyone made a move on Sam, they'd have been dead before they hit the floor.
Dean also knows Sam's still full of quiet, stupid self-sacrifice - he'd been able to hear between the lines in there. Listening while idly palming his gun. Wishing for a life for Dean that he knows he'll never have. Going to work, traveling for fun, having a family. All that. For a second, he fucking hates Sam for shoving that in his face again.
His eldest son is just sleeping. John keeps telling himself that. Even with the plastic stuff exploding over Dean and his bed, he can fool himself that much. His weary eyes follow one plastic tube up to a machine sitting up against the wall - accompanied, weirdly, by a cross. It galls him, somehow, and he turns his eyes back to Dean.
Sam doesn't understand. John supposes his younger son had done his best to forget everything once he'd gone off to Stanford. How can he think John won't do anything to save Dean? He can't forget accusing pairs of eyes.
Sometimes the people he's seen die do come back to him. In dreams, not even visions. Normal old nightmares that make him jerk upright in a cold sweat. He's almost thankful for them. Nightmares don't take pieces of his sanity with them as they dissipate. Sure, they're strong, but they don't play out like pieces of film on the surface of his eyelids.
He wakes, with the sharp intake of breath and the jolt into the stillness of the room. It's still weird. Dean's not snoring, and Sam can't breathe, even after the nightmare has receded back into the dark.
After they leave the clinic, they don't talk about it.
Dean just knows that he meant what he said. That if anyone made a move on Sam, they'd have been dead before they hit the floor.
Dean also knows Sam's still full of quiet, stupid self-sacrifice - he'd been able to hear between the lines in there. Listening while idly palming his gun. Wishing for a life for Dean that he knows he'll never have. Going to work, traveling for fun, having a family. All that. For a second, he fucking hates Sam for shoving that in his face again.