SPN gen fic - Smoke Damage - PG13 gen - John, Dean and Sam pre-series
So, I've been trying desperately to work on my Asylum con fic - I have an idea, but I'm so exhausted with RL work I can barely string a coherent sentence together. And then the muse decided she wanted some Dean h/c. John POV. With added angst.
TITLE: Smoke Damage
RATING: PG13 gen
CHARACTERS: John, teen Dean and Sam
DISCLAIMER: Not my boys
NOTES: 2215 words. Written for the 50scenes prompt #38 - Raw. Pre-series. John POV. Dean gets injured on hunt.
“Dad?” Sammy’s on his feet and moving before he’s got the door fully open, worry threaded through that single syllable. He’s dressed for bed, but it’s obvious from the dark circles under his eyes that he hadn’t been sleeping. Waiting up. Worrying. Shit.
“Hey, Sam,” he rumbles, making his tone as reassuring as possible. “Go on back to bed. It’s okay.”
It’s not okay. Dean’s on his feet, sure, but John’s supporting most of the kid’s weight. John knows that not a good thing; there’s nothing Dean hates more than being babied, the kid would willingly walk barefoot over broken glass before he’d let himself be carried.
Dean leans into him, his hip digging hard into John’s side, his lips pressed so tightly together there’s a faint bluish tinge to them. Dean’s always been pretty stoic when it comes to injuries, but he tends to get mouthy when he’s hurting, a mask to help him control the pain. There’s no smartass commentary tonight, though. The Vicodin they gave him before they cleaned the wound must be wearing off by now, and his hand must hurt like holy fuck, but Dean is eerily quiet.
“Dean - what - Dad?” Sammy’s eyes widen, his mouth dropping open as he takes in the thick white gauze wrapped tight about his brother’s hand.
“Sam.” John puts a little warning into his tone. Prays that just for once Sam will pick up on it, forego the game of twenty questions, give him peace to get Dean settled. “He’s okay.”
“He’s hurt.” The stubbornness is there, that damn mulish tone he’s been hearing out of his youngest since Sammy became Sam, but the poorly hidden panic in the boy’s protest softens his heart.
John nods, shifts his hip to support Dean’s weight, wrapping his arm around Dean’s shoulders to guide him over to the bed.
“He could use a couple of pills,” John says softly, and Sam nods mechanically; heads for the bathroom cabinet, training kicking in. He’s a good kid, really. They both are.
“Dad.” It’s barely a croak; the smoke has stolen Dean’s voice. Like before, John thinks, only this time the damage is physical.
“S’okay, son.” Maybe if John says it enough times he’ll start believing it himself.
“I need-” Dean breaks off, leans into John as a coughing jag overtakes him. John feels the dry coughs rack through his own ribs and holds Dean firmly until the coughing subsides, the breath rattling in Dean’s chest.
“You need bed,” John instructs, guiding Dean down to sit on the mattress. There’s no resistance, but after a moment Dean raises his head, eyes bleary.
“Dad,” he pleads, his voice raw, shredded. “Need a shower.”
“Dean.” John nods to Dean’s bandaged hand. “Gotta keep it dry, kiddo.” He settles a hand on Dean’s shoulder, presses down lightly.
He should tell him no. Tell him to stop his goddamn whining and get some rest. Tell him to lie down and go to sleep. Odds are if he made it an order Dean would most likely obey. But when he looks down at his son, the years fall away, and Dean is four all over again, smoke smudges decorating his pale cheeks.
Dean’s shoulder sags under his grip, his head bowing in quiet defeat. And that’s what gets John. If Dean had yelled or sassed him in Sammy’s tone, or run his mouth like he usually does when he’s hurt and trying to deny it, he could have stayed strong. But quiet like this, an echo of that silent little boy, John can deny him nothing.
“We could wrap it, I guess. Plastic bag, maybe.”
Dean looks up at him, then, and there’s such blind hope in his eyes that it hurts to see it.
“Dad?” Sam is beside him again, his voice soft, wavering. “Vicodin okay?”
“Good job, Sammy,” he says, and Sam’s too preoccupied to launch into the usual nickname protest. He’s already broken the pill in half for Dean, but John shakes his head, figures he’s going to need a full pill this time.
“Big guns, huh?” Dean tries to smile, mostly for Sammy’s benefit, but it’s fairly unconvincing. Sam chews on the edge of his bottom lip, then drops the two halves into Dean’s good hand, passes him a water bottle.
“Go get a plastic bag,” John orders softly. Sam’s brow furrows, like he’s trying to figure out what the hell they need a bag for. Jesus. God forbid the kid could ever just follow a simple order; always has to know the whys and wherefores. “Just do it, Sam,’ he snaps, instantly regretting his tone.
Dean lifts his bandaged hand, waves it a little. “Dude, I need a shower.”
‘Huh?” Sam stares at Dean’s hand for a moment, then comprehension dawns. “Right.” He steps back, heads for the kitchenette.
“You sure about this, Dean?” John watches his son carefully, looking for the first signs of the drugs in his system. “I don’t want you passing out on me halfway through.”
He waits for a Dean to object, for a mortified ‘hell, no’ at the very thought of needing help in the shower, but there’s nothing. Dean just nods, his weary acceptance telling John more than he wants to know about how badly Dean’s hurt.
John wraps Dean’s hand carefully, sealing the bag well above the edge of the bandage. Sam sits down on the other bed and watches them so quietly that in the end John feels compelled to fill up the silence. He gives a commentary on exactly what he’s doing; explaining basic burn wound care to Sam. For once in his life, Sam doesn’t interrupt, just sits and listens.
Dean’s eyes are glassy now, pupils dilating as the Vicodin starts to kick in. John gets him into the bathroom, then turns his back, ostensibly to get the shower running, but mostly to give Dean the illusion of privacy as he undresses. It becomes clear, though, after a few minutes, that Dean is going to need his help; his damaged hand making the relatively simple task impossible to accomplish alone. Dean submits to the indignity of it with quiet resignation, bends his head to allow John to pull his t-shirt off. Dean doesn’t say much, but his ears burn pink and John can feel the heat rising off the back of his neck. There’s a fine layer of soot covering his forearm, a stark contrast to the crisp white bandage edging his wrist.
He adjusts the shower thermostat as Dean struggles with his jeans, losing his balance as he finally kicks them off. He staggers sideways and cracks his hip hard against the sink, the sharp click of bone clearly audible over Dean’s hissed profanities. John would usually get after him for his mouth, but right now he’s just relieved to hear Dean actually sounding like himself.
“You okay, son?” he asks, and Dean sucks a breath through his teeth, nods fiercely, denying the pain. John sighs. “Shower’s ready.”
Dean looks over at him. “Give me a minute, okay?”
John gets it. Living like this, out of motels half the year, they’re always in close quarters; more often than not all three of them end up sharing a room. Once the boys hit their teens, and privacy became an issue, the bathroom became a retreat, a sanctuary not to be intruded upon.
So John nods and goes to the door, turning his back to the tub. He fights the urge to help Dean, instead lets him struggle out of his shorts, listens to the swish of the shower curtain as he climbs into the tub.
“Okay.” Dean’s voice is hoarse, cracking on the second syllable. “You got shampoo?”
John swallows, his own throat tight, knowing how much it costs Dean to ask for help, to allow himself to be vulnerable. “Sure,” he says, casual as he can manage, then turns and strides over to the shower.
Dean’s back is curved away from him, the tight line of his spine in sharp relief, his head bowed under the fine needle spray. His good hand is braced against the tile, fingers splayed wide in support. The injured hand hangs uselessly at his side, his elbow bent a little as if to guard it.
“You keep that dry, you hear?” John chides needlessly, guiding Dean’s bandaged hand away from his body. Water runs down John’s arm, trickles down the back of his neck, seeping through his shirt.
Dean doesn’t speak, keeps his head down, ducked away from John. Steam rises quickly, as the fine spray hits the cooler air, and rivulets of grimy water swirl at Dean’s feet, ash-gray against the dirty white of the tub. John squeezes a dollop of shampoo into his palm, lathers it into Dean’s hair. The clean citrus tang doesn’t quite cover up the smell of smoke.
He works the lather into Dean’s hair gently, then pushes his son’s head under the spray, rinsing until the water runs clear. John reaches in and turns the shower off, then grabs a towel and wraps it around Dean. It’s only then that he realises that Dean’s shoulders are shaking. Silently. It’s barely perceptible, but Dean is crying.
“Hey,” John says. “Hey, now.” He pats Dean’s arm awkwardly, and the kid jerks away in horrified shame. “It’s okay, son.”
Dean’s head comes up then, and he fights to square his shoulders. “Sorry.” He swipes the towel over his face, rubs roughly at his red-rimmed eyes. “Got soap in my eyes, I guess.”
“Guess so.” If that’s how Dean needs to play it, John’s willing to go along with the lie. “My fault,” John adds. “Never was much good at washing your hair, even when you were a little kid.”
There’s relief in Dean’s face, gratitude that John doesn’t deserve. Dean’s hand is fucked up because of him, because he dragged Dean out on a hunt that was too dangerous. Too dangerous for a seasoned hunter, never mind a kid who’s desperate to prove that he’s ready to hunt. Dean’s utter faith in him is terrifying. John has done nothing to warrant such devotion, doesn’t deserve the unquestioning obedience which his son offers.
He helps Dean out of the tub, bracing the injured arm on his own, supporting its full weight. “Pills kicking in yet?” he asks, and Dean rocks on his feet, head tipping back to fall against John’s cupped hand.
“Guess so,” he mumbles, swaying lightly.
John cradles the back of his head in his palm and waves his other hand in front of Dean's face, snapping his fingers . “Dean? You with me, son?”
Dean snaps to, blinking quickly. He pulls away from John, steadies himself. “Yeah. Right. Sorry. I’m just - you know - kinda wasted.”
“I’m not surprised. Hell of a night.” John makes his voice light. He looks over to the clean clothes neatly folded next to the sink. Sammy’s doing, without a doubt.
“You need some help?” He nods over to the clothes.
“Dude.” Dean manages to imbue the word with exasperated pleading. “M’okay.”
John steps back. Turns to the bathroom door, reluctantly, but he knows that Dean needs this, needs to feel like he’s in control.
“Dean. You did good. You know, tonight.” It’s all John can offer, and it’s not enough, not from the way Dean looks over at him in bewildered confusion.
“Huh?” Dean says, a puzzled frown creasing his brow.
John sighs, shakes his head. “Nothing. It’s - it’s okay. Out in five, or I’m coming in to dress you myself.”
Dean relaxes at the more familiar threatening tone, and attempts a half-hearted grin. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Dude, I’m not four.”
He’s not. Not the little boy who watched his home burn, smoking in the chill night air.
For days - weeks - after, John could smell the fire. He’d scrub his skin raw in the shower, water as hot as he could take it, but the obscene scent of charred flesh clung to him. It was layered through his hair, under his nails; so strong that when he inhaled, he could almost taste the sharp acrid tang of smoke. It surrounded him, thick and cloying, filling his nostrils when he kissed the top of Sammy’s head or ruffled his hand through Dean’s soft hair.
John doesn’t know if Dean suffered the same way. He was silent for so long after the fire, that when he finally did speak, John simply avoided talking about that night. He figured that Dean was starting to recover; no good could come of opening old wounds. Of picking at scars.
Dean’s never shown any fear of fire; he’s salted and burned enough bones for that not to be an issue. He walked into that building tonight, faced that fire demon without flinching. He drove the silver blade deep into the demon’s heart, pressed down while flames licked around the hilt of the dagger, held on until the creature collapsed in a shower of ash, a flurry of sparks showering Dean’s hand and wrist.
Second degree burn. John had known as soon as Dean opened his hand to drop the dagger. His palm shining deep red, blistered skin splitting like an overripe cherry along the cruciform brand from the searing hilt.
Deep enough to scar.
TITLE: Smoke Damage
RATING: PG13 gen
CHARACTERS: John, teen Dean and Sam
DISCLAIMER: Not my boys
NOTES: 2215 words. Written for the 50scenes prompt #38 - Raw. Pre-series. John POV. Dean gets injured on hunt.
“Dad?” Sammy’s on his feet and moving before he’s got the door fully open, worry threaded through that single syllable. He’s dressed for bed, but it’s obvious from the dark circles under his eyes that he hadn’t been sleeping. Waiting up. Worrying. Shit.
“Hey, Sam,” he rumbles, making his tone as reassuring as possible. “Go on back to bed. It’s okay.”
It’s not okay. Dean’s on his feet, sure, but John’s supporting most of the kid’s weight. John knows that not a good thing; there’s nothing Dean hates more than being babied, the kid would willingly walk barefoot over broken glass before he’d let himself be carried.
Dean leans into him, his hip digging hard into John’s side, his lips pressed so tightly together there’s a faint bluish tinge to them. Dean’s always been pretty stoic when it comes to injuries, but he tends to get mouthy when he’s hurting, a mask to help him control the pain. There’s no smartass commentary tonight, though. The Vicodin they gave him before they cleaned the wound must be wearing off by now, and his hand must hurt like holy fuck, but Dean is eerily quiet.
“Dean - what - Dad?” Sammy’s eyes widen, his mouth dropping open as he takes in the thick white gauze wrapped tight about his brother’s hand.
“Sam.” John puts a little warning into his tone. Prays that just for once Sam will pick up on it, forego the game of twenty questions, give him peace to get Dean settled. “He’s okay.”
“He’s hurt.” The stubbornness is there, that damn mulish tone he’s been hearing out of his youngest since Sammy became Sam, but the poorly hidden panic in the boy’s protest softens his heart.
John nods, shifts his hip to support Dean’s weight, wrapping his arm around Dean’s shoulders to guide him over to the bed.
“He could use a couple of pills,” John says softly, and Sam nods mechanically; heads for the bathroom cabinet, training kicking in. He’s a good kid, really. They both are.
“Dad.” It’s barely a croak; the smoke has stolen Dean’s voice. Like before, John thinks, only this time the damage is physical.
“S’okay, son.” Maybe if John says it enough times he’ll start believing it himself.
“I need-” Dean breaks off, leans into John as a coughing jag overtakes him. John feels the dry coughs rack through his own ribs and holds Dean firmly until the coughing subsides, the breath rattling in Dean’s chest.
“You need bed,” John instructs, guiding Dean down to sit on the mattress. There’s no resistance, but after a moment Dean raises his head, eyes bleary.
“Dad,” he pleads, his voice raw, shredded. “Need a shower.”
“Dean.” John nods to Dean’s bandaged hand. “Gotta keep it dry, kiddo.” He settles a hand on Dean’s shoulder, presses down lightly.
He should tell him no. Tell him to stop his goddamn whining and get some rest. Tell him to lie down and go to sleep. Odds are if he made it an order Dean would most likely obey. But when he looks down at his son, the years fall away, and Dean is four all over again, smoke smudges decorating his pale cheeks.
Dean’s shoulder sags under his grip, his head bowing in quiet defeat. And that’s what gets John. If Dean had yelled or sassed him in Sammy’s tone, or run his mouth like he usually does when he’s hurt and trying to deny it, he could have stayed strong. But quiet like this, an echo of that silent little boy, John can deny him nothing.
“We could wrap it, I guess. Plastic bag, maybe.”
Dean looks up at him, then, and there’s such blind hope in his eyes that it hurts to see it.
“Dad?” Sam is beside him again, his voice soft, wavering. “Vicodin okay?”
“Good job, Sammy,” he says, and Sam’s too preoccupied to launch into the usual nickname protest. He’s already broken the pill in half for Dean, but John shakes his head, figures he’s going to need a full pill this time.
“Big guns, huh?” Dean tries to smile, mostly for Sammy’s benefit, but it’s fairly unconvincing. Sam chews on the edge of his bottom lip, then drops the two halves into Dean’s good hand, passes him a water bottle.
“Go get a plastic bag,” John orders softly. Sam’s brow furrows, like he’s trying to figure out what the hell they need a bag for. Jesus. God forbid the kid could ever just follow a simple order; always has to know the whys and wherefores. “Just do it, Sam,’ he snaps, instantly regretting his tone.
Dean lifts his bandaged hand, waves it a little. “Dude, I need a shower.”
‘Huh?” Sam stares at Dean’s hand for a moment, then comprehension dawns. “Right.” He steps back, heads for the kitchenette.
“You sure about this, Dean?” John watches his son carefully, looking for the first signs of the drugs in his system. “I don’t want you passing out on me halfway through.”
He waits for a Dean to object, for a mortified ‘hell, no’ at the very thought of needing help in the shower, but there’s nothing. Dean just nods, his weary acceptance telling John more than he wants to know about how badly Dean’s hurt.
John wraps Dean’s hand carefully, sealing the bag well above the edge of the bandage. Sam sits down on the other bed and watches them so quietly that in the end John feels compelled to fill up the silence. He gives a commentary on exactly what he’s doing; explaining basic burn wound care to Sam. For once in his life, Sam doesn’t interrupt, just sits and listens.
Dean’s eyes are glassy now, pupils dilating as the Vicodin starts to kick in. John gets him into the bathroom, then turns his back, ostensibly to get the shower running, but mostly to give Dean the illusion of privacy as he undresses. It becomes clear, though, after a few minutes, that Dean is going to need his help; his damaged hand making the relatively simple task impossible to accomplish alone. Dean submits to the indignity of it with quiet resignation, bends his head to allow John to pull his t-shirt off. Dean doesn’t say much, but his ears burn pink and John can feel the heat rising off the back of his neck. There’s a fine layer of soot covering his forearm, a stark contrast to the crisp white bandage edging his wrist.
He adjusts the shower thermostat as Dean struggles with his jeans, losing his balance as he finally kicks them off. He staggers sideways and cracks his hip hard against the sink, the sharp click of bone clearly audible over Dean’s hissed profanities. John would usually get after him for his mouth, but right now he’s just relieved to hear Dean actually sounding like himself.
“You okay, son?” he asks, and Dean sucks a breath through his teeth, nods fiercely, denying the pain. John sighs. “Shower’s ready.”
Dean looks over at him. “Give me a minute, okay?”
John gets it. Living like this, out of motels half the year, they’re always in close quarters; more often than not all three of them end up sharing a room. Once the boys hit their teens, and privacy became an issue, the bathroom became a retreat, a sanctuary not to be intruded upon.
So John nods and goes to the door, turning his back to the tub. He fights the urge to help Dean, instead lets him struggle out of his shorts, listens to the swish of the shower curtain as he climbs into the tub.
“Okay.” Dean’s voice is hoarse, cracking on the second syllable. “You got shampoo?”
John swallows, his own throat tight, knowing how much it costs Dean to ask for help, to allow himself to be vulnerable. “Sure,” he says, casual as he can manage, then turns and strides over to the shower.
Dean’s back is curved away from him, the tight line of his spine in sharp relief, his head bowed under the fine needle spray. His good hand is braced against the tile, fingers splayed wide in support. The injured hand hangs uselessly at his side, his elbow bent a little as if to guard it.
“You keep that dry, you hear?” John chides needlessly, guiding Dean’s bandaged hand away from his body. Water runs down John’s arm, trickles down the back of his neck, seeping through his shirt.
Dean doesn’t speak, keeps his head down, ducked away from John. Steam rises quickly, as the fine spray hits the cooler air, and rivulets of grimy water swirl at Dean’s feet, ash-gray against the dirty white of the tub. John squeezes a dollop of shampoo into his palm, lathers it into Dean’s hair. The clean citrus tang doesn’t quite cover up the smell of smoke.
He works the lather into Dean’s hair gently, then pushes his son’s head under the spray, rinsing until the water runs clear. John reaches in and turns the shower off, then grabs a towel and wraps it around Dean. It’s only then that he realises that Dean’s shoulders are shaking. Silently. It’s barely perceptible, but Dean is crying.
“Hey,” John says. “Hey, now.” He pats Dean’s arm awkwardly, and the kid jerks away in horrified shame. “It’s okay, son.”
Dean’s head comes up then, and he fights to square his shoulders. “Sorry.” He swipes the towel over his face, rubs roughly at his red-rimmed eyes. “Got soap in my eyes, I guess.”
“Guess so.” If that’s how Dean needs to play it, John’s willing to go along with the lie. “My fault,” John adds. “Never was much good at washing your hair, even when you were a little kid.”
There’s relief in Dean’s face, gratitude that John doesn’t deserve. Dean’s hand is fucked up because of him, because he dragged Dean out on a hunt that was too dangerous. Too dangerous for a seasoned hunter, never mind a kid who’s desperate to prove that he’s ready to hunt. Dean’s utter faith in him is terrifying. John has done nothing to warrant such devotion, doesn’t deserve the unquestioning obedience which his son offers.
He helps Dean out of the tub, bracing the injured arm on his own, supporting its full weight. “Pills kicking in yet?” he asks, and Dean rocks on his feet, head tipping back to fall against John’s cupped hand.
“Guess so,” he mumbles, swaying lightly.
John cradles the back of his head in his palm and waves his other hand in front of Dean's face, snapping his fingers . “Dean? You with me, son?”
Dean snaps to, blinking quickly. He pulls away from John, steadies himself. “Yeah. Right. Sorry. I’m just - you know - kinda wasted.”
“I’m not surprised. Hell of a night.” John makes his voice light. He looks over to the clean clothes neatly folded next to the sink. Sammy’s doing, without a doubt.
“You need some help?” He nods over to the clothes.
“Dude.” Dean manages to imbue the word with exasperated pleading. “M’okay.”
John steps back. Turns to the bathroom door, reluctantly, but he knows that Dean needs this, needs to feel like he’s in control.
“Dean. You did good. You know, tonight.” It’s all John can offer, and it’s not enough, not from the way Dean looks over at him in bewildered confusion.
“Huh?” Dean says, a puzzled frown creasing his brow.
John sighs, shakes his head. “Nothing. It’s - it’s okay. Out in five, or I’m coming in to dress you myself.”
Dean relaxes at the more familiar threatening tone, and attempts a half-hearted grin. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Dude, I’m not four.”
He’s not. Not the little boy who watched his home burn, smoking in the chill night air.
For days - weeks - after, John could smell the fire. He’d scrub his skin raw in the shower, water as hot as he could take it, but the obscene scent of charred flesh clung to him. It was layered through his hair, under his nails; so strong that when he inhaled, he could almost taste the sharp acrid tang of smoke. It surrounded him, thick and cloying, filling his nostrils when he kissed the top of Sammy’s head or ruffled his hand through Dean’s soft hair.
John doesn’t know if Dean suffered the same way. He was silent for so long after the fire, that when he finally did speak, John simply avoided talking about that night. He figured that Dean was starting to recover; no good could come of opening old wounds. Of picking at scars.
Dean’s never shown any fear of fire; he’s salted and burned enough bones for that not to be an issue. He walked into that building tonight, faced that fire demon without flinching. He drove the silver blade deep into the demon’s heart, pressed down while flames licked around the hilt of the dagger, held on until the creature collapsed in a shower of ash, a flurry of sparks showering Dean’s hand and wrist.
Second degree burn. John had known as soon as Dean opened his hand to drop the dagger. His palm shining deep red, blistered skin splitting like an overripe cherry along the cruciform brand from the searing hilt.
Deep enough to scar.