Asylum_spnfic - In God's Eyes - PG13. John POV
Fic! This was written for asylum_spnfics. I am attempting to write other fic, but my body is demanding sleep. Stupid body. *grumbles*
TITLE: In God’s Eyes
RATING: PG13 gen
CHARACTERS: John, Dean, Sam and Bobby
DISCLAIMER: Not my boys
NOTES: 1640 words. Written for mara_sho’s prompt: ‘Dean gets the Impala. How?’ Beta magic worked by yasminke. Title and quote from ‘Rusty Cage’ by Chris Cornell - as sung by Cash.
When the forest burns
Along the road
Like God's eyes
In my headlights
Bobby pushes his cap back, scratches at the scraggly mop of hair hiding underneath. He slides the cap down again and grabs hold of his beer bottle, tilting it towards the yard. “Boys got big.”
“Mm.” John makes a noncommittal sound, takes a swig of his own beer. It’s been sitting open too long, warmed almost to room temperature by the sultry evening heat. He can barely feel it slide down his throat, but it settles heavily in his stomach, flat and stale.
“Sammy, ‘specially.” Bobby nods his head over to where Sam’s struggling to complete his last set of push-ups. “Boy’s growing like a weed.”
“Tell me about it. Can hardly keep the kid in clothes.”
“Getting too big for his britches, right?” A broad grin breaks over Bobby’s face, like he’s just cracked the funniest joke in the history of ever.
John grimaces and takes another pull of beer. It was just another thing for Sam to bitch about. Like the kid needed more ammo for his already well-stocked arsenal of “why my life sucks out loud.”
Last week the kid had pitched a full-blown hissy fit over a pair of goddamn dress pants that he’d tore the knee out of. All John had done was suggest that Sam had a perfectly good pair of jeans he could wear to school instead, and Sam had thrown his hands up, started in on whining about some damn dress code.
“Your brother wears jeans,” John had pointed out, which hadn’t helped his case any.
Sam had rolled his eyes and stomped out of the room, muttering darkly under his breath. “Of course. Dean does it, so it must be right.” In that tone, that nerve-jangling, teeth-gritting tone that the kid’s been perfecting since Sammy became Sam, thank you very much.
John had been all for going after him and hauling his ass back out of his room, because he’d be damned if his kid, his thirteen-year-old snot-nosed little punk-ass kid was going to speak to him like that. But Dean had talked him out of it. “Let him cool off, Dad. He’ll come around.”
Next morning Sam went to school in those same dress pants, and John couldn’t see where the hole in the knee had been.
Dean had shrugged when John questioned him about it, ducked his head shyly. “S’just like the time you busted your shoulder in Wichita. Couple of stitches was all it needed.” Then he’d grinned impishly. “Only the pants didn’t bitch and moan quite as loud as you, dude.”
John rubs his shoulder, fingertips tracing the fine line that curves over his collar bone. It’s almost invisible. Dean’s stitches are as good as any ER doc’s. Better, maybe.
“Boy’s almost as tall as Dean, now.” Bobby knocks back the rest of his beer, swipes the back of his hand across his mouth. “Gonna be taller than you, Johnny.”
“You ever had a thought you didn’t share, Singer?” John growls in warning, but Bobby just snorts and slaps his hand down onto his knee, cackling loudly. The mutt curled at his feet startles, then stretches, whining in its sleep.
Bobby’s right, though. Sammy started stretching up a couple of years ago, and so far he’s showed no signs of stopping. He’s all out of proportion right now, legs growing too fast for the rest of his body to keep up with. It’s like watching a newborn colt trying to find its feet, limbs all odd angles and sharp corners. Half the time when he lands on his ass, it looks like he’s tripped over thin air.
Dean - well, it wasn’t like that with Dean. Boy’s always been comfortable in his own skin, since the day he let go of the couch in their first apartment and tottered all the way over to Mary, solid and sturdy-legged. Since he caught his first baseball at age four. Since he fired his first shotgun at age six. Since he beat John’s best mile time at age thirteen. Since he knocked John flat on his ass during a horribly memorable sparring session at age sixteen.
Since he won the 1600 and 3200 meters at the state meet in Huntsville a couple of months back. Not that Dean had told him or anything. First John knew about it was when Dean was laid up with a broken ankle, after a too close for comfort encounter with a rickety staircase and pretty pissed-off poltergeist. John had gotten a phone call from Dean’s high school coach, reminding him about the deadline for scholarship applications.
John had understood why Dean kept it quiet, a secret from them. From him. Dean knew his responsibilities, knew where his duty lay. John had made sure of that. But when he’d heard the warmth in that coach’s voice, the pride the man had in Dean, for just a moment John wished desperately that he’d been there to see his boy win.
John looks over at the boys again. Dean finished his last set of push-ups a while back, but he’s still over beside Sammy, faking like he’s got another couple of sets to go. He’s talking Sam through his last set, too low for John to make out, but every now and then, Dean reaches over, adjusting Sam’s position, saying something that makes Sam huff with unwilling laughter.
Dean always did have the knack for getting the best out of Sammy, making their training into a game that Sam wanted to play. Coaxing him into doing whatever exercise John required, in spite of Sam’s endless, pointless protests. Always patient with him, encouraging him instead of yelling at him, like John usually ends up doing.
John remembers the coach’s phone call, his recommendations of sports therapy as a possible college major. “His grades are good enough, Mr. Winchester.” It had stung a little, how well the man knew Dean. How much John didn’t know about his boy.
John had found the scholarship application forms at the bottom of the trash can in the boys’ bedroom. Blank, and crumpled to the shape of Dean’s fist. A prospectus for Cal Tech stuffed in beside them. John didn’t say anything to Dean, just smoothed the forms out, unfolded the prospectus and shoved them down into the bottom of his own duffle, and pretended that he wasn’t hiding them, he was keeping them safe. He’s been lying to himself for so long that he almost believed it.
John looks out into the yard again and sees that Sammy has finished. At last. Dean stretches out, then hauls Sam to his feet. They jog over to the porch, their sneakered feet kicking up tiny puffs of gravel dust into the darkening air.
Sam hunches forward, resting his palms on the tops of his thighs. There’s a thin sheen of sweat on his reddened face. He’s panting heavily, every exaggerated breath an accusation. “See? This is what you did to me. You happy now?”
“Go on inside and get cleaned up,” is all John says, and Sam huffs in frustration, like he wants to bitch, but can’t find the energy to do it. Good.
“Straight to bed after,” John says, nodding at Dean. “Want you up early. Need to take a look at the cylinder heads, maybe replace the timing chain.”
“Yes, sir.” Dean raises his face to John, his smile open and easy, teeth bright-white against his dust-smudged cheeks. He’s happy doing this: training, hunting, watching out for Sammy. Doing his job. He never complains, never bitches.
And that thought doesn’t disturb John as much as it probably should.
The boys head into the house, banging the screen door behind them. Bobby stretches his legs out in front, leans back in his chair. The empty beer bottle dangles loosely from his fingers.
“So.” A beat, then - “You sure about this?”
John nods. Whole reason they’re here, even if the boys don’t know it.
Bobby looks up, squinting into the porch light. “Got a sweet ’70 Camaro out in back. All she needs is a little love and attention.” A wistful smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “Perfect first car for the kid. Cut you a good deal on it - ”
“No.” John cuts him off abruptly. “No deal.”
Bobby makes a soft noise, faintly disapproving. “Boy deserves a car he can work on, something he can make his own. Jesus, John.” He shakes his head, frowning deeply. “Gotta let the kid have something for himself.”
John doesn’t bother defending his choice to Bobby. He knows he should give Dean a chance to leave, a chance to find something else to do with his life. To discover that there is a life beyond the one that John has mapped out for him. Something more than Sam and Dad and hunting
But John needs Dean here with him, because he can’t do this alone, can’t raise Sammy, can’t even begin to figure out how to do it. Dean’s been doing the job too well for too long, and John just can’t bear to let him go.
Worst of it is, Dean will see it as a reward. He loves the Impala almost as much as he loves his family. It’s the nearest thing to a home they have, and John knows Dean will never leave his family without their home. In giving Dean the Impala, he’s effectively locking the cage and throwing away the key.
“You’re a selfish bastard, John Winchester.” Bobby says it calmly, like he’s stating a fact. There’s no anger in his tone, just quiet resignation.
“Yeah.” John doesn’t bother to deny it. “Not like that’s exactly news, Singer.”
He pauses, then drains the last of his beer. It’s sour in the back of his throat, and leaves a bitter aftertaste. “So. You found me a decent truck yet?”
TITLE: In God’s Eyes
RATING: PG13 gen
CHARACTERS: John, Dean, Sam and Bobby
DISCLAIMER: Not my boys
NOTES: 1640 words. Written for mara_sho’s prompt: ‘Dean gets the Impala. How?’ Beta magic worked by yasminke. Title and quote from ‘Rusty Cage’ by Chris Cornell - as sung by Cash.
When the forest burns
Along the road
Like God's eyes
In my headlights
Bobby pushes his cap back, scratches at the scraggly mop of hair hiding underneath. He slides the cap down again and grabs hold of his beer bottle, tilting it towards the yard. “Boys got big.”
“Mm.” John makes a noncommittal sound, takes a swig of his own beer. It’s been sitting open too long, warmed almost to room temperature by the sultry evening heat. He can barely feel it slide down his throat, but it settles heavily in his stomach, flat and stale.
“Sammy, ‘specially.” Bobby nods his head over to where Sam’s struggling to complete his last set of push-ups. “Boy’s growing like a weed.”
“Tell me about it. Can hardly keep the kid in clothes.”
“Getting too big for his britches, right?” A broad grin breaks over Bobby’s face, like he’s just cracked the funniest joke in the history of ever.
John grimaces and takes another pull of beer. It was just another thing for Sam to bitch about. Like the kid needed more ammo for his already well-stocked arsenal of “why my life sucks out loud.”
Last week the kid had pitched a full-blown hissy fit over a pair of goddamn dress pants that he’d tore the knee out of. All John had done was suggest that Sam had a perfectly good pair of jeans he could wear to school instead, and Sam had thrown his hands up, started in on whining about some damn dress code.
“Your brother wears jeans,” John had pointed out, which hadn’t helped his case any.
Sam had rolled his eyes and stomped out of the room, muttering darkly under his breath. “Of course. Dean does it, so it must be right.” In that tone, that nerve-jangling, teeth-gritting tone that the kid’s been perfecting since Sammy became Sam, thank you very much.
John had been all for going after him and hauling his ass back out of his room, because he’d be damned if his kid, his thirteen-year-old snot-nosed little punk-ass kid was going to speak to him like that. But Dean had talked him out of it. “Let him cool off, Dad. He’ll come around.”
Next morning Sam went to school in those same dress pants, and John couldn’t see where the hole in the knee had been.
Dean had shrugged when John questioned him about it, ducked his head shyly. “S’just like the time you busted your shoulder in Wichita. Couple of stitches was all it needed.” Then he’d grinned impishly. “Only the pants didn’t bitch and moan quite as loud as you, dude.”
John rubs his shoulder, fingertips tracing the fine line that curves over his collar bone. It’s almost invisible. Dean’s stitches are as good as any ER doc’s. Better, maybe.
“Boy’s almost as tall as Dean, now.” Bobby knocks back the rest of his beer, swipes the back of his hand across his mouth. “Gonna be taller than you, Johnny.”
“You ever had a thought you didn’t share, Singer?” John growls in warning, but Bobby just snorts and slaps his hand down onto his knee, cackling loudly. The mutt curled at his feet startles, then stretches, whining in its sleep.
Bobby’s right, though. Sammy started stretching up a couple of years ago, and so far he’s showed no signs of stopping. He’s all out of proportion right now, legs growing too fast for the rest of his body to keep up with. It’s like watching a newborn colt trying to find its feet, limbs all odd angles and sharp corners. Half the time when he lands on his ass, it looks like he’s tripped over thin air.
Dean - well, it wasn’t like that with Dean. Boy’s always been comfortable in his own skin, since the day he let go of the couch in their first apartment and tottered all the way over to Mary, solid and sturdy-legged. Since he caught his first baseball at age four. Since he fired his first shotgun at age six. Since he beat John’s best mile time at age thirteen. Since he knocked John flat on his ass during a horribly memorable sparring session at age sixteen.
Since he won the 1600 and 3200 meters at the state meet in Huntsville a couple of months back. Not that Dean had told him or anything. First John knew about it was when Dean was laid up with a broken ankle, after a too close for comfort encounter with a rickety staircase and pretty pissed-off poltergeist. John had gotten a phone call from Dean’s high school coach, reminding him about the deadline for scholarship applications.
John had understood why Dean kept it quiet, a secret from them. From him. Dean knew his responsibilities, knew where his duty lay. John had made sure of that. But when he’d heard the warmth in that coach’s voice, the pride the man had in Dean, for just a moment John wished desperately that he’d been there to see his boy win.
John looks over at the boys again. Dean finished his last set of push-ups a while back, but he’s still over beside Sammy, faking like he’s got another couple of sets to go. He’s talking Sam through his last set, too low for John to make out, but every now and then, Dean reaches over, adjusting Sam’s position, saying something that makes Sam huff with unwilling laughter.
Dean always did have the knack for getting the best out of Sammy, making their training into a game that Sam wanted to play. Coaxing him into doing whatever exercise John required, in spite of Sam’s endless, pointless protests. Always patient with him, encouraging him instead of yelling at him, like John usually ends up doing.
John remembers the coach’s phone call, his recommendations of sports therapy as a possible college major. “His grades are good enough, Mr. Winchester.” It had stung a little, how well the man knew Dean. How much John didn’t know about his boy.
John had found the scholarship application forms at the bottom of the trash can in the boys’ bedroom. Blank, and crumpled to the shape of Dean’s fist. A prospectus for Cal Tech stuffed in beside them. John didn’t say anything to Dean, just smoothed the forms out, unfolded the prospectus and shoved them down into the bottom of his own duffle, and pretended that he wasn’t hiding them, he was keeping them safe. He’s been lying to himself for so long that he almost believed it.
John looks out into the yard again and sees that Sammy has finished. At last. Dean stretches out, then hauls Sam to his feet. They jog over to the porch, their sneakered feet kicking up tiny puffs of gravel dust into the darkening air.
Sam hunches forward, resting his palms on the tops of his thighs. There’s a thin sheen of sweat on his reddened face. He’s panting heavily, every exaggerated breath an accusation. “See? This is what you did to me. You happy now?”
“Go on inside and get cleaned up,” is all John says, and Sam huffs in frustration, like he wants to bitch, but can’t find the energy to do it. Good.
“Straight to bed after,” John says, nodding at Dean. “Want you up early. Need to take a look at the cylinder heads, maybe replace the timing chain.”
“Yes, sir.” Dean raises his face to John, his smile open and easy, teeth bright-white against his dust-smudged cheeks. He’s happy doing this: training, hunting, watching out for Sammy. Doing his job. He never complains, never bitches.
And that thought doesn’t disturb John as much as it probably should.
The boys head into the house, banging the screen door behind them. Bobby stretches his legs out in front, leans back in his chair. The empty beer bottle dangles loosely from his fingers.
“So.” A beat, then - “You sure about this?”
John nods. Whole reason they’re here, even if the boys don’t know it.
Bobby looks up, squinting into the porch light. “Got a sweet ’70 Camaro out in back. All she needs is a little love and attention.” A wistful smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “Perfect first car for the kid. Cut you a good deal on it - ”
“No.” John cuts him off abruptly. “No deal.”
Bobby makes a soft noise, faintly disapproving. “Boy deserves a car he can work on, something he can make his own. Jesus, John.” He shakes his head, frowning deeply. “Gotta let the kid have something for himself.”
John doesn’t bother defending his choice to Bobby. He knows he should give Dean a chance to leave, a chance to find something else to do with his life. To discover that there is a life beyond the one that John has mapped out for him. Something more than Sam and Dad and hunting
But John needs Dean here with him, because he can’t do this alone, can’t raise Sammy, can’t even begin to figure out how to do it. Dean’s been doing the job too well for too long, and John just can’t bear to let him go.
Worst of it is, Dean will see it as a reward. He loves the Impala almost as much as he loves his family. It’s the nearest thing to a home they have, and John knows Dean will never leave his family without their home. In giving Dean the Impala, he’s effectively locking the cage and throwing away the key.
“You’re a selfish bastard, John Winchester.” Bobby says it calmly, like he’s stating a fact. There’s no anger in his tone, just quiet resignation.
“Yeah.” John doesn’t bother to deny it. “Not like that’s exactly news, Singer.”
He pauses, then drains the last of his beer. It’s sour in the back of his throat, and leaves a bitter aftertaste. “So. You found me a decent truck yet?”