SPN: Each The Other's World Entire
Fandom: Supernatural
Main characters: John, Dean, Sam
Referenced characters: Mary
Pairings: None
Contains: Angst
Rating: G
Summary: Dean's face is dirty, and for some reason that feels like the worst thing.
Notes: The title is a quote from Cormac McCarthy's The Road. My brain persists in making John the man and Dean the boy, but this isn't the fic I almost wrote based on that. This is, I think, entirely canon-compliant, and it is not post-apocalyptic, but post-Mary, which for my inner John feels a little like the same thing. There are no spoilers, and I have not caught up with S5.
Dean's face is dirty.
It's strange, but that feels like the worst thing. He's ten years old, and small and skinny for it, and there's a look in his eyes that John's only ever seen in the eyes of adults before, and he's holding a gun, but the dirt on his face seems like the worst thing. Maybe it's because he feels the ache of Mary's absence there, how she'd have noticed before now.
Dean isn't even looking at him. He's standing over his brother's bed, holding the gun, and looking down at him with horrible desperation. "You should go, Dad," he says, without looking up. "I've got Sammy covered."
"You know what to do?"
"Yeah," Dean says, almost impatient. "I've got it, Dad."
"C'mere," John says, putting his bag down, and Dean hesitates for a moment, checking the safety's on before he lays his gun down. He moves over to John hesitantly.
"Dad?" he asks, biting down on his lip as if he expects some rebuke.
"You're a good kid," he says, gripping Dean's shoulders. "You know that I'm proud of you, don't you?"
Dean looks up. "Yeah," he says, uncertainly.
"You're my son, and I love you," John says, his own voice going rough, reluctant, but he needs to say it. "Okay?"
"Okay," Dean says. "Yes."
"Take care of Sammy."
Dean nods, firmly. John finds his handkerchief, dampens it with spit, kneels down in front of Dean and starts to rub at the dark smudge across his cheek.
"I'll see you in two days," he says, when he's done. Dean nods, already going back to the gun, sitting down on the edge of Sammy's bed. It hurts John, a sharp pang to a conscience he spends so much energy keeping still, silent. He wants to say sorry, but he doesn't.
He stops before the door, looks back. Dean's leaning over Sam, whispering something to him, and John can see the bright glitter of Sam's eyes, the easy smile he can never coax forth, the smile that's meant for Dean. He looks for a moment, feeling sick and heavy with guilt, but neither of them look at him, content with the small world of just themselves.
They'll be okay, he thinks. As long as they've got each other, they'll be okay.
The air outside is cold, the wind like a stinging slap to his cheek. He closes the door quickly, leaving them the warmth and the safety.
Main characters: John, Dean, Sam
Referenced characters: Mary
Pairings: None
Contains: Angst
Rating: G
Summary: Dean's face is dirty, and for some reason that feels like the worst thing.
Notes: The title is a quote from Cormac McCarthy's The Road. My brain persists in making John the man and Dean the boy, but this isn't the fic I almost wrote based on that. This is, I think, entirely canon-compliant, and it is not post-apocalyptic, but post-Mary, which for my inner John feels a little like the same thing. There are no spoilers, and I have not caught up with S5.
Dean's face is dirty.
It's strange, but that feels like the worst thing. He's ten years old, and small and skinny for it, and there's a look in his eyes that John's only ever seen in the eyes of adults before, and he's holding a gun, but the dirt on his face seems like the worst thing. Maybe it's because he feels the ache of Mary's absence there, how she'd have noticed before now.
Dean isn't even looking at him. He's standing over his brother's bed, holding the gun, and looking down at him with horrible desperation. "You should go, Dad," he says, without looking up. "I've got Sammy covered."
"You know what to do?"
"Yeah," Dean says, almost impatient. "I've got it, Dad."
"C'mere," John says, putting his bag down, and Dean hesitates for a moment, checking the safety's on before he lays his gun down. He moves over to John hesitantly.
"Dad?" he asks, biting down on his lip as if he expects some rebuke.
"You're a good kid," he says, gripping Dean's shoulders. "You know that I'm proud of you, don't you?"
Dean looks up. "Yeah," he says, uncertainly.
"You're my son, and I love you," John says, his own voice going rough, reluctant, but he needs to say it. "Okay?"
"Okay," Dean says. "Yes."
"Take care of Sammy."
Dean nods, firmly. John finds his handkerchief, dampens it with spit, kneels down in front of Dean and starts to rub at the dark smudge across his cheek.
"I'll see you in two days," he says, when he's done. Dean nods, already going back to the gun, sitting down on the edge of Sammy's bed. It hurts John, a sharp pang to a conscience he spends so much energy keeping still, silent. He wants to say sorry, but he doesn't.
He stops before the door, looks back. Dean's leaning over Sam, whispering something to him, and John can see the bright glitter of Sam's eyes, the easy smile he can never coax forth, the smile that's meant for Dean. He looks for a moment, feeling sick and heavy with guilt, but neither of them look at him, content with the small world of just themselves.
They'll be okay, he thinks. As long as they've got each other, they'll be okay.
The air outside is cold, the wind like a stinging slap to his cheek. He closes the door quickly, leaving them the warmth and the safety.