(no subject)
Title: Breaking Point
Author: Mariana O'Connor
Character: John, Dean
Rating: G
Time frame: preseries, wee!Winchesters
Pairing: none, gen
Disclaimer: If I owned them the season would have ended completely differently. It didn't, so I don't.
Summary: John wasn't watching, and now it's too late for him to change anything
He’s tired and he’s got to go out again tomorrow. The damn ghost got away and went to ground for the night, so it looks like they’re staying a little while longer. He doesn’t want to sleep, but he can’t stay awake, and it is with weary footsteps that he paces the small living area of their current home, trying valiantly to stay awake. His sons are asleep in their tiny bedroom, the door just open enough that he can hear the slightest sound, but not enough for the light on the table to wake them.
He wonders how they can sleep so peacefully in the dark, knowing what is out there, but he pushes the thought away, knowing that once he walks down that road it will take him days to come back again, if he makes it this time, and he needs to be sharp - they need him to be sharp.
His legs are aching and he can feel the pulse in the back of his knees, a sure sign he’s ready to collapse. Despite the warnings however, he carries on his pacing, almost willing his legs to give out underneath him. He’s so tired of this, of killing everything that comes along because he can’t find the thing he’s looking for. He had thought, in the beginning, that it would help, take the edge off, but all it does is make him tired and make him bitter.
He hears the creak of the door and suddenly he’s alert because his boys are asleep and that means there’s something else in there with them.
But there isn’t: it’s just Dean, watching him calmly and looking at him with eyes that seem as weary as he feels.
“It’s late.” He says, and his son’s only twelve, but he thinks maybe he can hear a double meaning in his tone. “No luck?” he asks, matter of fact, still watching his father carefully, and making him feel every second of his age.
“Yeah, you should be asleep.” Not an order, he’s too tired for orders. Dean does not reply, but comes further into the room, closing the door over to the exact same amount as before behind him. He moves silently and goes over to the small bag of medical supplies, taking out an aspirin, which he hands over.
He watches as his son walks calmly over to the sink and gets a glass of water before bringing it back, and he wonders how he knew he had a headache. He smiles in gratitude, but as he reaches out for the glass their eyes meet and the smile freezes.
It takes him a second to recover and in that moment the glass falls, spilling water on the dirty carpet. Dean tries to catch it, nearly succeeds, but loses his grip on the slippery surface. The soft thud resounds around the room, and Dean turns to the door he just came through, obviously listening for his brother, but he can’t take his eyes off him because he’s trying to work out just when it happened.
When no sound comes after a second, Dean’s eyes return to his father, before looking down at the mess on the floor and the, luckily, still intact cup. He goes to pick it up, but a hand round his wrist stops him and then it is his turn to be frozen as his father examines his face carefully.
What he sees unnerves him, because it’s too soon, and he may have hoped for this, he may have actively pursued it, but now he knows it’s here he just wants it to go away again.
He had thought, perhaps it had happened after the striga, but he can see now that that was only the beginning and what he is looking at now is the final result: the culmination of his clumsy attempts at fatherhood.
Dean is back again, looking at him in puzzlement until his father shakes it off for a moment and, with a mischievous grin swallows the aspirin whole.
“Don’t worry about the carpet, the water’ll probably clean it up a bit,” he jokes, hoping maybe that will remove the curse of adulthood which is lying heavily on his elder son’s shoulders.
But he just looks back at him, asking silently if he’s okay, and his father sighs, letting him go.
“Go to bed, kiddo...” he tells him, patting him on the shoulder, and even as his son nods he knows that those eyes are telling him to take his own advice, because it’s late, in so many different ways, it’s late.
Dean shoots him one final look as he walks silently back to his room and slips in, barely opening the door far enough to get in, just in case the light wakes Sammy up.
Back in the room, he sits down, staring at the glass, unbroken on the dirty floor in a pool of darkened colours. He stares at it and he wonders what the hell he has done. His boy is no longer. Now he stares out at the world through dark eyes, and he knows that no matter what he does now, nothing is ever going to change that. He has cursed his own child, and there’s nothing he can do to stop it.
He wonders why he never noticed before, never stopped to see the toll this life was taking on him, but he knows that somewhere, he knew it was happening, and he never allowed himself to look too carefully because he was afraid of precisely this.
All at once the weariness returns, tenfold, and his headache is back, pounding at his brain and he realises that, while he was out fighting one battle, he lost a war.
He picks the glass up and walks over to the sink; the carpets are worn and thin, and the ground beneath them is hard, but somehow it survived intact. He places it by the side of the sink gently and turns to leave, only noticing too late that it is on the edge of his sleeve and, as he moves, it tips over.
And it’s not as lucky the second time.
Author: Mariana O'Connor
Character: John, Dean
Rating: G
Time frame: preseries, wee!Winchesters
Pairing: none, gen
Disclaimer: If I owned them the season would have ended completely differently. It didn't, so I don't.
Summary: John wasn't watching, and now it's too late for him to change anything
He’s tired and he’s got to go out again tomorrow. The damn ghost got away and went to ground for the night, so it looks like they’re staying a little while longer. He doesn’t want to sleep, but he can’t stay awake, and it is with weary footsteps that he paces the small living area of their current home, trying valiantly to stay awake. His sons are asleep in their tiny bedroom, the door just open enough that he can hear the slightest sound, but not enough for the light on the table to wake them.
He wonders how they can sleep so peacefully in the dark, knowing what is out there, but he pushes the thought away, knowing that once he walks down that road it will take him days to come back again, if he makes it this time, and he needs to be sharp - they need him to be sharp.
His legs are aching and he can feel the pulse in the back of his knees, a sure sign he’s ready to collapse. Despite the warnings however, he carries on his pacing, almost willing his legs to give out underneath him. He’s so tired of this, of killing everything that comes along because he can’t find the thing he’s looking for. He had thought, in the beginning, that it would help, take the edge off, but all it does is make him tired and make him bitter.
He hears the creak of the door and suddenly he’s alert because his boys are asleep and that means there’s something else in there with them.
But there isn’t: it’s just Dean, watching him calmly and looking at him with eyes that seem as weary as he feels.
“It’s late.” He says, and his son’s only twelve, but he thinks maybe he can hear a double meaning in his tone. “No luck?” he asks, matter of fact, still watching his father carefully, and making him feel every second of his age.
“Yeah, you should be asleep.” Not an order, he’s too tired for orders. Dean does not reply, but comes further into the room, closing the door over to the exact same amount as before behind him. He moves silently and goes over to the small bag of medical supplies, taking out an aspirin, which he hands over.
He watches as his son walks calmly over to the sink and gets a glass of water before bringing it back, and he wonders how he knew he had a headache. He smiles in gratitude, but as he reaches out for the glass their eyes meet and the smile freezes.
It takes him a second to recover and in that moment the glass falls, spilling water on the dirty carpet. Dean tries to catch it, nearly succeeds, but loses his grip on the slippery surface. The soft thud resounds around the room, and Dean turns to the door he just came through, obviously listening for his brother, but he can’t take his eyes off him because he’s trying to work out just when it happened.
When no sound comes after a second, Dean’s eyes return to his father, before looking down at the mess on the floor and the, luckily, still intact cup. He goes to pick it up, but a hand round his wrist stops him and then it is his turn to be frozen as his father examines his face carefully.
What he sees unnerves him, because it’s too soon, and he may have hoped for this, he may have actively pursued it, but now he knows it’s here he just wants it to go away again.
He had thought, perhaps it had happened after the striga, but he can see now that that was only the beginning and what he is looking at now is the final result: the culmination of his clumsy attempts at fatherhood.
Dean is back again, looking at him in puzzlement until his father shakes it off for a moment and, with a mischievous grin swallows the aspirin whole.
“Don’t worry about the carpet, the water’ll probably clean it up a bit,” he jokes, hoping maybe that will remove the curse of adulthood which is lying heavily on his elder son’s shoulders.
But he just looks back at him, asking silently if he’s okay, and his father sighs, letting him go.
“Go to bed, kiddo...” he tells him, patting him on the shoulder, and even as his son nods he knows that those eyes are telling him to take his own advice, because it’s late, in so many different ways, it’s late.
Dean shoots him one final look as he walks silently back to his room and slips in, barely opening the door far enough to get in, just in case the light wakes Sammy up.
Back in the room, he sits down, staring at the glass, unbroken on the dirty floor in a pool of darkened colours. He stares at it and he wonders what the hell he has done. His boy is no longer. Now he stares out at the world through dark eyes, and he knows that no matter what he does now, nothing is ever going to change that. He has cursed his own child, and there’s nothing he can do to stop it.
He wonders why he never noticed before, never stopped to see the toll this life was taking on him, but he knows that somewhere, he knew it was happening, and he never allowed himself to look too carefully because he was afraid of precisely this.
All at once the weariness returns, tenfold, and his headache is back, pounding at his brain and he realises that, while he was out fighting one battle, he lost a war.
He picks the glass up and walks over to the sink; the carpets are worn and thin, and the ground beneath them is hard, but somehow it survived intact. He places it by the side of the sink gently and turns to leave, only noticing too late that it is on the edge of his sleeve and, as he moves, it tips over.
And it’s not as lucky the second time.