SPN fic - In the Bleak Midwinter - PG13 - Dean & John
It's been a while since I updated. RL has been horribly hectic, and I'm so glad to be off on holiday for a couple of weeks. I've been around on LJ, but not as regularly, so I feel like I've been out of the loop.
I did manage to see A Very Supernatural Christmas, which I adored, and I've been reading the Supernatural Offical Companion avidly. I was particularly interested in this quote from JDM about John:
I think... there was always a lot more going on in his head than he was going to show anybody, including his sons
I love that. I love that Jeff put that into the character, and that we can play with it in fics. Oh, John.
TITLE: In the Bleak Midwinter
RATING: PG13
CHARACTERS: Dean and John
DISCLAIMER: Not my boys
NOTES: 2100 words. Set pre-series; the first Christmas without Sammy.
The heat is unbearable, stifling; hanging thick as smoke in the still midwinter night. The A/C is busted; looks like someone put their fist through it, most likely trying to get it to work. Dean’s back is slick with sweat, it pools at the base of his spine, saturating the sheet beneath him. He debates opening the window, but one brief moment of reckless abandon stands no chance against eighteen years of strict indoctrination.
Dad would kick his ass into the middle of next week for even thinking about opening it. Dean closes his eyes, tries not to hear Sam’s voice, dripping with scorn.
You’re more scared of Dad than you are of a damn demon. Open the fucking window, Dean.
Except Sam’s not here to say it. Not any more.
That’s not a place to go. Not tonight, with a fucked-up hunt, and the two of them not talking, the silence between them screaming louder than all the things they don’t say to each other.
They don’t talk about it. Dean tried, just the once; one night two months ago, when he’d chugged down enough Jack to finally steel his nerve, but Dad had upped and walked out on him. Just walked right past Dean as if he hadn’t been there at all, slammed the door before Dean could get anywhere near the ‘We could swing by Palo Alto’ part. Dean had heard the Impala growl impatiently, and then Dad was gone for the rest of the night.
He came back next morning, stone cold sober, and didn’t speak to Dean all day. Ignored him, just the same way he ignored his absent son, ignored the hole in their lives that Sam’s leaving had left.
Dean wasn’t sure if his father realized how effective a punishment that had been. He’d thought he’d hated it when Sam and Dad yelled at each other, going round after round head to head, accusations and recriminations and arguments that circled endlessly until neither of them was sure what the hell they were fighting about. But as each silent hour of that day had crawled by, he’d begun to ache for the comforting familiarity of a good old-fashioned Winchester family throwdown. Anything would’ve been better than the leaden weight of his father’s silent disapproval.
He’d learned his lesson though. Learned not to mention Sammy in Dad’s earshot, even if the omission earned him the ‘you let yourself down’ speech. It’s always been easier to accept his father’s blame than his silence.
He’d tried, of course. Left his research out in plain view, six or seven pretty viable hunts in the SoCal area, so of course Dad found a demon cult/human sacrifice gig in the Florida Keys. Literally the other side of the continent. Way to make a point, Dad. And it would have to be Florida, and the hottest December on record. Dad couldn’t possibly have picked Vermont, so at least they could have a little snow to accompany Dad’s little hissy fit.
It’s pretty obvious where Sammy gets his drama queen tendencies from.
Dean rolls over; the damp sheet clinging to his back, sucking against clammy skin. Even that small movement saps the energy from his body, and he sighs wearily, purposely loud.
He waits for his father to stir, but there’s no reaction. The room is silent, still. And that in itself is weird, because normally Dad snores like a frigging freight train, so loud the windows rattle with the vibration. And the one night that Dean would pay good money to have the glass shatter, let in a little fresh air, the old man’s found his mute button.
Dean looks over his shoulder at the other bed. It’s empty, the covers folded back carefully, deliberately, not like Dad just got up to go to the bathroom. Like he got up to go out.
He wonders how the hell he missed that, because yeah, Dad’s pretty stealthy, but Dean’s been sleeping with one eye open since the first night Dad left him in charge of Sammy. Then he remembers the pain pills Dad had handed over earlier, telling him to quit his bitching and take his medicine.
So, not Junior Aspirin, then. Real nice, Dad, drugging your kid and then fucking off on Christmas Eve without so much as a 'so long and thanks for the memories.'
He doesn’t feel quite so bad now for palming the second pill. He remembers how Dad used to check under his tongue when he was a kid; how Sammy would fold his lips tight, and Dad would have to pinch his nose to get him to open up. And how Sammy would end up yelling blue murder, and Dad’s temper would snap, and then he’d be yelling right back at Sammy. Dean had pointed out that they should just coat it in sugar and hide it in his cereal, like he was one of Bobby Singer’s dumb pups, but Dad hadn’t gone for that. My way or the high way, son.
Yeah, because that always went so well, Dad.
His wrist itches like a bitch, blood beating in a steady rhythm, the stitched skin trapped too tight under the gauze. He wants to rip off the bandage and scratch at the healing stitches, tear open the raw edges with his fingernails. Three stitches that he should never have needed, if he’d been paying attention. If he’d remembered to watch his back. If he’d remembered he needed to watch his own back.
It was embarrassing how easily they’d overpowered him, a simple blow to the back of his head. He feels the heat rise in his face now at the memory of his stupidity. The sacrificial bloodletting had been oddly merciful, though. They’d cut vertically, the blade so sharp he’d barely registered the knife slicing through the vein, sending him sliding into the welcoming warmth of oblivion. It hadn’t hurt at all.
“They meant business” was all Dad had said, and he’d tended the wound with calm efficiency, suppressing the urge to lecture until he’d finished taping the dressing.
“You let your guard down, son. Let them get the drop on you.” Then the slow deliberate headshake, radiating disbelief and disappointment. “Christ Almighty, Dean, where’s your head?”
Where yours is, Dad. 2000 miles away, in Palo fucking Alto. Dean had bitten his lip to stop himself from saying it out loud. He can still taste the faint tang of iron and salt.
He’d shrugged instead, faking indifference, and Dad had gripped his arm, shaking him in frustration. Dean looks down, sees the faint fingerprint shadows, inky smudges printed into the flesh above his elbow.
He’d thought Dad was going to hit him. His fingers had twitched reflexively, curling into his palm, tightening into a fist, just like when Sammy used to piss him off. The sudden familiarity of the movement had put an ache in Dean’s throat. Maybe Dad had made the same connections, because he pulled back, dropped Dean’s arm. Stepped away from him.
The clock on the nightstand blinks steadily, in time with the heartbeat in his wrist. Dean shoves the covers back, and swings his feet onto the floor. He moves to the window, past the empty bed. The blinds are angled open enough for him to peer through, and he breathes out when he sees Dad leaning against the Impala.
He’s smoking; the cigarette held loosely between his fingers. You have to look real hard to see that his hand is shaking. Dean remembers being small, and the first time he saw Dad smoking. Pretty much like right now, on the flipside of a hunt, peering out through the blinds of some crappy-assed motel room, waiting for Dad to come home safe.
Dad never knew that Dean saw him, tried to keep it a secret from them, so Dean never told him he knew. It was something private, something Dad needed that Dean couldn’t find a way to give him.
It was always after a hunt, but not after every hunt. It took Dean a while to figure out it was only after the ones that went bad. And yeah, tonight’s hunt pretty much qualifies as a Grade A fuck-up. And Dean’s got no one but himself to blame for that.
Dad finishes up, moves away from the Impala before he grinds the butt under his heel. He digs in his pocket and comes up with his cell. Stares at it for so long that Dean wonders if he’s trying to speed dial by the power of his mind. Dean doesn’t need to see the screen to know who he’s calling; there’s only one number that requires that level of deliberation.
It’ll be midnight in Palo Alto now. Not that it makes any difference. There’s always some reason why he can’t make it to the phone. Between Sam’s voicemail and Dad’s silent treatment, Dean’s become something of an expert in one-sided conversations.
He can’t hear what Dad’s saying to Sammy. In his imagination, his little brother picks up, and Dad tells him he’s proud of him, and Sammy tells Dad he’s sorry, and why, yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.
Dumb. Sam’s not gonna answer; he didn’t earlier, so why would he now? Only, it’s the first time he’s ever been on his own at Christmas. Then again, knowing Sammy, he’s not alone. Probably spending the holidays with his roommate, or some chick. No matter how often they moved around, Sam always managed to fit in, settle down, put down roots. Make friends. Sammy was good at that.
Dad snaps his phone shut and shoves it into his pocket, checks the Impala is locked. Dean moves quickly, and he’s back in bed before the door opens. The night air isn’t much cooler than inside, but the light breeze carries with it the faint scent of nicotine and gun oil.
Dean keeps his breathing slow and even, one arm crooked behind his back in a pretty good approximation of deep sleep.
“Son.” Dad’s voice is quiet. “Three outta ten. Trying way too hard.”
Dean rolls onto his back, snorts softly. “How’s a guy s’posed to sleep with you stomping around like a goddamn elephant?”
“Well, if a guy took the pills I gave him earlier, then a guy should pretty much sleep through a thunderstorm.” There’s no rancor in Dad’s tone, though. He sounds half-amused and half-ashamed at being caught out; admitting that he’d doped Dean up on purpose.
He settles on his bed with an involuntary grunt, reaches down to unlace his boots. His hands are steady now, but he looks tired, the crinkles at the corner of his eyes are deeper than usual. He finishes with the boots, then pulls his shirt over his head. “Jesus, it’s hotter than hell in here.”
Dean grins, nods to the busted air conditioner. “In the bleak midwinter, my frigging ass.”
“Quit your bitching, sunshine. There’s people pay a goddamn fortune to spend the holiday season in the sun.”
“Hate to break it to you, old man, but your Zimmer frame is never gonna fit in the trunk.”
Dad leans forward. “Cruising for a bruising.” He’s smiling, though, as he says it, points his finger at Dean’s head for emphasis.
“Aw, come on, Dad. You wouldn’t hit a hurt kid.”
“You get hit in the head, son, when they strung you up tonight? Or is this just selective memory loss?” Dad lies back against the pillows, grinning so broadly his teeth glint white in the darkness.
Dean can’t help smiling back at him. “Oh, yeah, I forgot. Guess it’s the only way you can be sure of beating me.”
“You know, it breaks a father’s heart to see his son so delusional.” Dad sighs, shakes his head in mock distress.
Outside, the Christmas lights flicker, filtering through the blinds, the thin threads of color swirling on the wall above them.
“Read over that research you did on that haunted hotel in Los Altos.” Dad doesn’t look at him. “Pretty thorough.”
Dean doesn’t answer. He hears his own heartbeat roaring in his ears, feels it thudding under the bandage on his wrist.
“Guess we could check it out,” Dad says. He rolls over and looks at Dean. “You think you’re up to heading out tomorrow?”
“Yes, sir,” Dean answers.
“Okay, then.” Dad nods once, firmly, the matter settled. “Get some sleep. We’ll need to make an early start.”
“Yes, sir,” Dean says, then he rolls onto his side, and waits for his father’s breathing to even out and deepen, before he adds “Merry Christmas, Dad.”
I did manage to see A Very Supernatural Christmas, which I adored, and I've been reading the Supernatural Offical Companion avidly. I was particularly interested in this quote from JDM about John:
I think... there was always a lot more going on in his head than he was going to show anybody, including his sons
I love that. I love that Jeff put that into the character, and that we can play with it in fics. Oh, John.
TITLE: In the Bleak Midwinter
RATING: PG13
CHARACTERS: Dean and John
DISCLAIMER: Not my boys
NOTES: 2100 words. Set pre-series; the first Christmas without Sammy.
The heat is unbearable, stifling; hanging thick as smoke in the still midwinter night. The A/C is busted; looks like someone put their fist through it, most likely trying to get it to work. Dean’s back is slick with sweat, it pools at the base of his spine, saturating the sheet beneath him. He debates opening the window, but one brief moment of reckless abandon stands no chance against eighteen years of strict indoctrination.
Dad would kick his ass into the middle of next week for even thinking about opening it. Dean closes his eyes, tries not to hear Sam’s voice, dripping with scorn.
You’re more scared of Dad than you are of a damn demon. Open the fucking window, Dean.
Except Sam’s not here to say it. Not any more.
That’s not a place to go. Not tonight, with a fucked-up hunt, and the two of them not talking, the silence between them screaming louder than all the things they don’t say to each other.
They don’t talk about it. Dean tried, just the once; one night two months ago, when he’d chugged down enough Jack to finally steel his nerve, but Dad had upped and walked out on him. Just walked right past Dean as if he hadn’t been there at all, slammed the door before Dean could get anywhere near the ‘We could swing by Palo Alto’ part. Dean had heard the Impala growl impatiently, and then Dad was gone for the rest of the night.
He came back next morning, stone cold sober, and didn’t speak to Dean all day. Ignored him, just the same way he ignored his absent son, ignored the hole in their lives that Sam’s leaving had left.
Dean wasn’t sure if his father realized how effective a punishment that had been. He’d thought he’d hated it when Sam and Dad yelled at each other, going round after round head to head, accusations and recriminations and arguments that circled endlessly until neither of them was sure what the hell they were fighting about. But as each silent hour of that day had crawled by, he’d begun to ache for the comforting familiarity of a good old-fashioned Winchester family throwdown. Anything would’ve been better than the leaden weight of his father’s silent disapproval.
He’d learned his lesson though. Learned not to mention Sammy in Dad’s earshot, even if the omission earned him the ‘you let yourself down’ speech. It’s always been easier to accept his father’s blame than his silence.
He’d tried, of course. Left his research out in plain view, six or seven pretty viable hunts in the SoCal area, so of course Dad found a demon cult/human sacrifice gig in the Florida Keys. Literally the other side of the continent. Way to make a point, Dad. And it would have to be Florida, and the hottest December on record. Dad couldn’t possibly have picked Vermont, so at least they could have a little snow to accompany Dad’s little hissy fit.
It’s pretty obvious where Sammy gets his drama queen tendencies from.
Dean rolls over; the damp sheet clinging to his back, sucking against clammy skin. Even that small movement saps the energy from his body, and he sighs wearily, purposely loud.
He waits for his father to stir, but there’s no reaction. The room is silent, still. And that in itself is weird, because normally Dad snores like a frigging freight train, so loud the windows rattle with the vibration. And the one night that Dean would pay good money to have the glass shatter, let in a little fresh air, the old man’s found his mute button.
Dean looks over his shoulder at the other bed. It’s empty, the covers folded back carefully, deliberately, not like Dad just got up to go to the bathroom. Like he got up to go out.
He wonders how the hell he missed that, because yeah, Dad’s pretty stealthy, but Dean’s been sleeping with one eye open since the first night Dad left him in charge of Sammy. Then he remembers the pain pills Dad had handed over earlier, telling him to quit his bitching and take his medicine.
So, not Junior Aspirin, then. Real nice, Dad, drugging your kid and then fucking off on Christmas Eve without so much as a 'so long and thanks for the memories.'
He doesn’t feel quite so bad now for palming the second pill. He remembers how Dad used to check under his tongue when he was a kid; how Sammy would fold his lips tight, and Dad would have to pinch his nose to get him to open up. And how Sammy would end up yelling blue murder, and Dad’s temper would snap, and then he’d be yelling right back at Sammy. Dean had pointed out that they should just coat it in sugar and hide it in his cereal, like he was one of Bobby Singer’s dumb pups, but Dad hadn’t gone for that. My way or the high way, son.
Yeah, because that always went so well, Dad.
His wrist itches like a bitch, blood beating in a steady rhythm, the stitched skin trapped too tight under the gauze. He wants to rip off the bandage and scratch at the healing stitches, tear open the raw edges with his fingernails. Three stitches that he should never have needed, if he’d been paying attention. If he’d remembered to watch his back. If he’d remembered he needed to watch his own back.
It was embarrassing how easily they’d overpowered him, a simple blow to the back of his head. He feels the heat rise in his face now at the memory of his stupidity. The sacrificial bloodletting had been oddly merciful, though. They’d cut vertically, the blade so sharp he’d barely registered the knife slicing through the vein, sending him sliding into the welcoming warmth of oblivion. It hadn’t hurt at all.
“They meant business” was all Dad had said, and he’d tended the wound with calm efficiency, suppressing the urge to lecture until he’d finished taping the dressing.
“You let your guard down, son. Let them get the drop on you.” Then the slow deliberate headshake, radiating disbelief and disappointment. “Christ Almighty, Dean, where’s your head?”
Where yours is, Dad. 2000 miles away, in Palo fucking Alto. Dean had bitten his lip to stop himself from saying it out loud. He can still taste the faint tang of iron and salt.
He’d shrugged instead, faking indifference, and Dad had gripped his arm, shaking him in frustration. Dean looks down, sees the faint fingerprint shadows, inky smudges printed into the flesh above his elbow.
He’d thought Dad was going to hit him. His fingers had twitched reflexively, curling into his palm, tightening into a fist, just like when Sammy used to piss him off. The sudden familiarity of the movement had put an ache in Dean’s throat. Maybe Dad had made the same connections, because he pulled back, dropped Dean’s arm. Stepped away from him.
The clock on the nightstand blinks steadily, in time with the heartbeat in his wrist. Dean shoves the covers back, and swings his feet onto the floor. He moves to the window, past the empty bed. The blinds are angled open enough for him to peer through, and he breathes out when he sees Dad leaning against the Impala.
He’s smoking; the cigarette held loosely between his fingers. You have to look real hard to see that his hand is shaking. Dean remembers being small, and the first time he saw Dad smoking. Pretty much like right now, on the flipside of a hunt, peering out through the blinds of some crappy-assed motel room, waiting for Dad to come home safe.
Dad never knew that Dean saw him, tried to keep it a secret from them, so Dean never told him he knew. It was something private, something Dad needed that Dean couldn’t find a way to give him.
It was always after a hunt, but not after every hunt. It took Dean a while to figure out it was only after the ones that went bad. And yeah, tonight’s hunt pretty much qualifies as a Grade A fuck-up. And Dean’s got no one but himself to blame for that.
Dad finishes up, moves away from the Impala before he grinds the butt under his heel. He digs in his pocket and comes up with his cell. Stares at it for so long that Dean wonders if he’s trying to speed dial by the power of his mind. Dean doesn’t need to see the screen to know who he’s calling; there’s only one number that requires that level of deliberation.
It’ll be midnight in Palo Alto now. Not that it makes any difference. There’s always some reason why he can’t make it to the phone. Between Sam’s voicemail and Dad’s silent treatment, Dean’s become something of an expert in one-sided conversations.
He can’t hear what Dad’s saying to Sammy. In his imagination, his little brother picks up, and Dad tells him he’s proud of him, and Sammy tells Dad he’s sorry, and why, yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.
Dumb. Sam’s not gonna answer; he didn’t earlier, so why would he now? Only, it’s the first time he’s ever been on his own at Christmas. Then again, knowing Sammy, he’s not alone. Probably spending the holidays with his roommate, or some chick. No matter how often they moved around, Sam always managed to fit in, settle down, put down roots. Make friends. Sammy was good at that.
Dad snaps his phone shut and shoves it into his pocket, checks the Impala is locked. Dean moves quickly, and he’s back in bed before the door opens. The night air isn’t much cooler than inside, but the light breeze carries with it the faint scent of nicotine and gun oil.
Dean keeps his breathing slow and even, one arm crooked behind his back in a pretty good approximation of deep sleep.
“Son.” Dad’s voice is quiet. “Three outta ten. Trying way too hard.”
Dean rolls onto his back, snorts softly. “How’s a guy s’posed to sleep with you stomping around like a goddamn elephant?”
“Well, if a guy took the pills I gave him earlier, then a guy should pretty much sleep through a thunderstorm.” There’s no rancor in Dad’s tone, though. He sounds half-amused and half-ashamed at being caught out; admitting that he’d doped Dean up on purpose.
He settles on his bed with an involuntary grunt, reaches down to unlace his boots. His hands are steady now, but he looks tired, the crinkles at the corner of his eyes are deeper than usual. He finishes with the boots, then pulls his shirt over his head. “Jesus, it’s hotter than hell in here.”
Dean grins, nods to the busted air conditioner. “In the bleak midwinter, my frigging ass.”
“Quit your bitching, sunshine. There’s people pay a goddamn fortune to spend the holiday season in the sun.”
“Hate to break it to you, old man, but your Zimmer frame is never gonna fit in the trunk.”
Dad leans forward. “Cruising for a bruising.” He’s smiling, though, as he says it, points his finger at Dean’s head for emphasis.
“Aw, come on, Dad. You wouldn’t hit a hurt kid.”
“You get hit in the head, son, when they strung you up tonight? Or is this just selective memory loss?” Dad lies back against the pillows, grinning so broadly his teeth glint white in the darkness.
Dean can’t help smiling back at him. “Oh, yeah, I forgot. Guess it’s the only way you can be sure of beating me.”
“You know, it breaks a father’s heart to see his son so delusional.” Dad sighs, shakes his head in mock distress.
Outside, the Christmas lights flicker, filtering through the blinds, the thin threads of color swirling on the wall above them.
“Read over that research you did on that haunted hotel in Los Altos.” Dad doesn’t look at him. “Pretty thorough.”
Dean doesn’t answer. He hears his own heartbeat roaring in his ears, feels it thudding under the bandage on his wrist.
“Guess we could check it out,” Dad says. He rolls over and looks at Dean. “You think you’re up to heading out tomorrow?”
“Yes, sir,” Dean answers.
“Okay, then.” Dad nods once, firmly, the matter settled. “Get some sleep. We’ll need to make an early start.”
“Yes, sir,” Dean says, then he rolls onto his side, and waits for his father’s breathing to even out and deepen, before he adds “Merry Christmas, Dad.”