SPN Fic: The Father I Should Be
Title: The Father I Should Be
Author:
dodger_winslow
Challenge: Firsts Chart: First Time Sammy Asked About God
Genre: Gen, pre-series
Rating: PG for language
Word Count: 3200-ish
Parings/Warnings: None.
Disclaimer: I don't own the boys, I'm just stalking them for a little while.
Summary: Sometimes believing in someone isn't as important as letting them believe in you.
The Father I Should Be
"Dad?"
John didn’t answer immediately, ticking off a full ten seconds in his heart before deciding Mary would kick his ass if she saw him indulging the temptation to let his son think he’d already fallen asleep. Or at least, she would if she was watching … something he considered less likely every day of his fucking life.
"Yeah, Sammy. What is it?"
"Do you believe in God?"
John closed his eyes. He’d been lying on the motel bed staring at the ceiling in the dark for almost an hour now, thinking Sammy asleep, thinking himself alone. He should have known better. Just as he should have known better than to answer when Sammy called his name.
Dad. His name wasn’t Dad. It was John. Yet still, he’d answered.
"Of course I do, son," John lied. "Why?"
"I don’t know. I just wondered."
"Just wondered, huh? Any particular reason for wondering? Or is it just one of those kinds of question that hits you right out of the blue?"
He wished Dean was here. Dean was a champ at fielding this kind of thing. He’d know exactly what to say, and how to say it in a way that comforted Sammy rather than hurting him, or letting him down.
Mary would so kick his ass for thinking that.
"No particular reason," Sammy lied.
"Mmmm." He should pursue it. He knew he should pursue it. But he didn’t. Let Mary come kick his ass if she wanted. He didn’t care any more. Didn’t care that he wasn’t the father he promised her he’d be. Didn’t care that he wasn’t even the father he promised himself he’d be, which was so much less than what he promised her, because he loved her, and because she deserved everything he could offer, even if the offer had never been as realistic as it was idealistic.
She’d loved his idealism once. Loved it before it betrayed her to the father he was now, rather than the father they both hoped he’d turn out to be.
Sometimes he wondered what she thought of him, if she was watching, which he sometimes hoped she wasn’t. Wondered what she thought of the man he’d become, of the father he’d become. No particular reason to wonder, he just did. One of those things that hits a man right out of the blue for no particular reason.
Just like wondering if - and this was a pretty generous if - he was a poor enough excuse for a father, she’d come back and haunt him for it, so he could at least see her again, if not touch her, hold her, love her.
"Dad?"
"Yeah, Sammy."
"How come you believe in God?"
John sighed. It was an exhausted sound, even to his own ears.
"It’s okay," Sammy said quickly. "We can talk about this in the morning."
"You want to come over here and sleep with me tonight, bud?" he asked because he felt he had to.
"No. That’s okay. Dean says I kick sometimes, so I’ll stay here."
"Pretty big bed over there, all by yourself," John noted.
"Yeah."
John opened his eyes again, stared at the ceiling for a three beat, then turned a smile he had to force at Sammy in the darkness. "If Dean can take it, I can take it." He patted the bed beside him with one hand.
Sammy was out of his bed and into John’s before the echo of the invitation died in the dark motel room.
"If I kick you, I don’t mean to," Sammy said.
"Fair enough. If I kick you, I don’t mean to either."
Sammy was lying on his side, hands folded up under his little head, staring at his daddy through the darkness while trying to obey Dean’s "your side, my side" bed rule as if it was John’s rule, too.
"What?" John asked after a beat beneath the weight of his son’s gaze.
"That’s what Dean always says."
Even in the darkness, John could see the glint of tears in his son’s eyes. "Come on over here, you little rug rat," he said.
This time, Sammy didn’t need to be asked twice. Burrowing into his father’s side, he tucked himself up under one of John’s arm, asking in a way only Sammy could ask for his dad to drop that arm down and make the world safe again.
Make the whole world safe.
Pulling both hands out from behind his head, John wrapped one arm around Sammy’s shoulders in a loose, companionable embrace. Just two guys, camping out under the stars in a one star motel room that smelled like musty socks and orange blossom disinfectant spray.
"You having trouble sleeping?" John asked quietly.
"Uh huh."
"Kinda hard to sleep all alone in a bed when you’re used to someone else being there, isn’t it."
"Uh huh."
John patted Sammy’s arm, still watching the ceiling, remembering one not so unlike it bathed in fire, burning his life away as he watched. "Well don’t get used to it, buddy. Your brother will be back in no time, hogging more than his share of the covers and snoring loud enough to wake the dead."
"He can have all the covers if he wants them. I wouldn’t mind."
"I’ll remind you that you said that."
For several minutes, the quiet between them lay undisturbed.
"What are you looking at?" Sammy asked suddenly.
John glanced at his son, realizing only then that Sammy had been staring at the ceiling for the entire stretch of silence, intent on trying to see what he thought his father was seeing.
"A bug, I think. Or maybe just a nostril in the ceiling. See?" John pointed at a small black spot almost directly above them. "Right there."
"That’s just a spot," Sammy told him.
"Maybe. But maybe it’s a ceiling nostril. You just never know."
"Ceilings don’t have nostrils."
"Says you."
"Do you think God is watching us?" Sammy asked quietly.
The jar of his son’s disconnect threw John. He took a moment to re-acclimate himself before saying, "I’m sure he is," not because he believed it, but because he knew it was probably the right thing to say.
"Do you think Mom is watching us, too?"
"Absolutely."
He hoped she was. Right at this moment, he hoped she was.
"How come God didn’t protect Dean?"
Nope. He hoped she wasn’t. God, he hoped she wasn’t watching him right now, watching him fail his sons, watching him drown in Sammy’s questions and Dean’s blood and his own shirked responsibility for keeping them safe instead of dragging them into the middle of a fucking war he had no business fighting with two small boys in tow.
"I don’t know, Sammy. Maybe He wasn’t watching Dean right then."
He knew the second he said it that Mary would hate him for it. She would so hate him for saying that to Sammy. So hate him for letting her son hear those words come out of his father’s mouth.
"Oh."
John sighed. "Yeah, I didn’t really say that the right way, Sammy. What I meant was that God has a whole bunch of people to watch out for, and maybe He was looking after someone else that second, someone who needed Him even more than Dean did."
"Pastor Jim says God can watch everybody at the same time."
John wondered if it was a sin to curse a fucking pastor. Probably not as much of a sin as it was to tell your son God wasn’t watching his brother because He has better things to do.
"Well Pastor Jim would know, wouldn’t he? He’s a pretty smart guy when it comes to God."
"He says God is like a dad, too. That He protects us like you do."
John hoped God was doing a better job of it than Sammy’s daddy was.
"That sounds like the way it probably works."
"Then how come God was watching somebody else instead of Dean?"
For just a moment, John wondered how much damage it would do to his son if he made his daddy cry. In an effort to keep from finding out, he leaned over and kissed the top of Sammy’s head, saying, "Go to sleep, son. We’ll go visit Dean again in the morning."
"What if He isn’t ever watching us?" Sammy asked. His voice was so quiet it sounded like whispers of conscience in the dark. "What if He doesn’t really exist and nobody’s watching out for us at all?"
John didn’t answer that one. He couldn’t answer it. Whatever he said, it was going to be wrong. Whatever he said, it was going to make Mary hate him. Make him hate himself.
"Dad?" Sammy asked after several minutes of silence. "Are you still awake?"
"I’m still awake, Sammy," John said.
"Oh."
His every failure as a father was in that single word. Oh. I guess that makes it true then, that God isn’t watching us, and we’re all out here on our own. How could you let your son think that, John? Even if you believe it yourself, how could you not protect our child from following you down that road?
"I guess I don’t know the answer to that one, Sammy," he said finally.
"That’s okay. Dean says I ask to many questions anyway."
"Yeah? Well the next time he says that to you, you tell him I told you he doesn’t ask enough."
"Is Dean going to die, Dad?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"How do you know?"
"Because God told me."
He had no idea where that one came from. It just came, like somebody put the words on his tongue just as he was starting to speak.
Sammy thought about that for a minute. "When did you talk to Him?"
"Just now. That’s why I didn’t answer you right away. I was talking to God, and He doesn’t like it much when you put Him on hold."
"Did you ask Him why He wasn’t watching Dean?"
"He said He got distracted there for a minute. That He was watching, and then something happened that distracted Him from being a Dad first and God second. And that’s how Dean got hurt. Because He forgot to watch out for Dean first and worry about everyone else second."
"I didn’t think God made mistakes," Sammy said quietly.
"Everybody makes mistakes, Sammy. Even God."
"That’s not what Pastor Jim said."
"Pastor Jim doesn’t know everything. He knows most of it, but not everything."
"Because he’s not a Dad?"
"Right."
"Not like you. And God."
"Right." John said again, hoping that when the lightening bolt actually hit him, it wouldn’t fry Sammy, too.
"It’s a good thing you’re a better dad than God is. Otherwise Dean would be dead."
"Whoa there, buddy. Don’t think you ought to take it that far. God’s pretty much perfect at everything. That’s why He’s God."
"You didn’t forget to watch Dean. If you had, Dean would be dead."
Or he wouldn’t be lying in a hospital bed, fighting for his life while his dad sits by his side, holding his hand, praying to a God he no longer believes in to just please, please, please show mercy. Just this one time. Don’t take him, too. Please, God, don’t take him, too.
"Everybody makes mistakes, Sammy," John whispered.
"Not you."
"Yes. Me, too."
"Huh uh. You never make mistakes."
"Everybody makes mistakes," John repeated.
Sammy burrowed deeper into his side. "I miss Dean."
"I do too, buddy."
"Do you think God is watching him right now?"
"Yes. I do."
"Do you think Mom is watching him, too?"
"Yes. I do."
"I’m glad you’re here watching me."
John tightened his arm around Sam’s shoulders. He was so small, so vulnerable. The sweet, gentle purity of him would be so easy to bruise with the wrong words.
How he wished Mary was here to keep him from saying the wrong words.
"I am, too, Sammy. I am, too."
She’d like that answer. She might even love him for it. Not for what he said as much as for what he didn’t say. She’d love him for not telling Sammy how helpless he feels, how much of a failure he knows he is as a father. How much what happened to Dean is his fault, how much he let it happen by not paying enough attention to his son instead of his own pain. She’d love him for not telling Sammy the kind of father he is as compared to the kind of father he should be. She’d love him for knowing that even if it was true, it wasn’t what Sammy needed to hear.
God, he missed her. He missed her so much. Even after all these years, she was still a hole in him that ached with such a bone deep pain he sometimes lost himself to it.
"I think God is probably sorry He forgot to watch Dean," Sammy said.
"I think He probably is, too," John agreed.
"I think we should forgive Him, don’t you?"
"Yeah. We probably should."
"And forgive Him for not watching Mom, too. Because maybe somebody’s brother needed God to watch them that night. And even God can’t do everything right. Even God makes mistakes sometimes, right?"
"Yes, Sammy. Even God makes mistakes sometimes."
"Can you tell Dean that when he gets better?"
"Tell Dean what?"
"That everybody makes mistakes sometimes, even God. And that he should forgive God for not saving Mom."
John closed his eyes again. The ceiling above him seemed irrelevant. The memory of fire that burned in his mind twenty-four/seven seemed irrelevant.
"Did Dean say he blames God for that?"
"Dean says God doesn’t exist. He says God is a lie, and he isn’t going to say prayers to a lie."
"When did he say that, Sammy?"
"He said it to Pastor Jim once."
"What did Jim say?"
"He said Dean didn’t have to believe in God. That God believes in Dean enough for both of them."
"That Pastor Jim’s a pretty smart guy, huh?"
"He doesn’t know everything."
"I think he was right about that though."
"That God believes in Dean?"
"Yup."
"Do you think God believes in me, too?"
"I’m sure of it."
"Do you think He’d listen to me if I asked Him to take care of Dean?"
"Yes, I do."
"Do you think He’d listen to you?"
"I think he already has, son."
"You already asked Him to take care of Dean?"
"I sure did."
"Then I’m going to ask Him, too."
"I think you should do that."
"Can I ask Him about Mom, too?"
"What about your mother?"
"Can I ask Him if she watches me, too, even though she never met me?"
John shifted in the bed, taking his arm out from around Sammy’s shoulders so he could twist to his side, head on pillow, and meet the boy’s eyes, face to face.
"Don’t be mad," Sammy said. "I don’t have to ask Him that."
"I’m not mad at you, Sammy."
"Dean gets mad."
"He does?"
Sammy nodded seriously. He bit at his lip as if he thought he might be confessing something he shouldn’t be confessing.
John smiled. He reached out to brush the mop of Sammy’s hair away from his eyes. "Well, I’m not mad. I just want you to pay attention to what I’m going to tell you."
"Okay."
"Because it’s really important you pay attention to this, and that you remember it. Can you do that for me? Promise to always remember what I’m about to tell you, no matter what?"
"Cross my heart and hope to die," Sammy said, crossing his heart with one finger.
"You may not remember your mother, Sammy," John said. "But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t remember you. She not only met you, she loved you so much that sometimes it made both your brother and me jealous. She loved you that much, Sammy. That much and a whole lot more."
Sam studied his eyes, looking for a lie. There was none there to find because this time, he wasn’t lying.
"Are you sure?" Sammy whispered finally.
"I’m absolutely sure, son. Completely. Totally. Cross my heart and hope to die."
Sam watched him for a moment longer before saying, "Okay. I’ll just ask Him to take care of Dean then."
"And you know what else, Sammy?" John said.
"What?"
"I love you that much, too."
Sammy smiled. His whole face lit up like a glowstick in the dark. "I know that, Dad."
"Do you?"
"Sure. Dean says all the time that he’s your favorite, but he’s crazy. I know you like me best."
"Really."
"Uh huh."
"And how do you know that?"
"Cause Dean can’t do the Sammy dance."
"And that’s why I love you more? Because you can do the Sammy dance?"
Sam laughed at that. Guffawed at it in that little-boy way he had that lit up not only his face, but the whole room. For one, single moment in time, Sammy laughed the darkness to an incandescent glow.
Wriggling across the small distance between them, Sammy tucked himself back against his father’s body. His head butted up under John’s chin, his arms and legs rolled into a compact ball and wedged against John’s chest, he said, "Nooooooo. You just love me best because you do."
Wrapping his arms around the small bundle of his child, John listened to the comforting sound of little Sammy breathing. He remembered holding Dean this way when Dean was young, wrapping him up and tucking him in close when Dean crawled up between he and Mary like a little soldier on night maneuvers, knowing he wasn’t supposed to be there and knowing his dad would tuck him in tight anyway.
Mary always pretended to sleep through it, but he knew she didn’t. He knew she was lying there, listening to them talk about silly things, listening to Dean tell him all sorts of outrageous lies about all the many obstacles he’d overcome to get there; and listening to John tell his son equally outrageous lies about all the things John would overcome to get him back to his own bed before mom woke up and scalped them both to dopey-looking Army Ranger buzz cuts.
But most nights Dean went on night maneuvers, he didn’t get back to his own bed by daybreak because they fell asleep like that, John pushed so far to his side of the bed he’d wake up with a back ache from sleeping balanced on the knife-edge between on-the-bed and off-the-bed-on-his-ass-on-the-floor, and Dean snoring his little-boy snore, a little ball of warmth against his chest, head tucked under his chin, body wedged so tight to him that it felt as if that child could be the heart beating inside his chest.
"Dean said you don’t believe in God," Sammy said long after John thought he’d fallen asleep. "I told him he was wrong, but he didn’t believe me."
"I believe in you, Sammy," John said. "You and your brother. The two of you are what I believe in."
"And God, too," Sammy added helpfully.
"Yes," John whispered, breathing the smell of his child’s hair, remembering the love in Mary’s eyes that one night he woke up to find her watching him across the distance of Dean rolled up like a ball of little boy between them. "And God, too."
Somewhere, Mary smiled.