SPN fic - Banishment, PG13 gen, John, Dean & Sam
I've been skirting the Schwarzchild radius of the workload of despair for the last three weeks. I finally finished the new Pupil Profiles yesterday and handed them in. 20,000 words of edu-speak gobbledegook. I can go back to actually thinking about teaching again.
I've been trying to keep up with the writing too. This fic isn't one of the plot bunnies from Asylum con, but is one of those 'write what you know' stories. I feel for Dean in this one.
TITLE: Banishment
RATING: PG13 (gen)
CHARACTERS: John, Dean and Sam
DISCLAIMER: Not my boys
NOTES: 3200 words. Pre-series. Lying to Dad. Title and quote from “Banishment” by Siegfried Sassoon.
“I am banished from the patient men who fight”
John hears Sammy first, which is weird.
Well, not that weird. His youngest is always fairly vocal when he’s pissed, and pissed is pretty much Sam’s default setting these days. But he’d sent the boys on a five mile run, and Sam’s never yet made it home before his brother.
“Dude.” Sam is standing close to the door, and his voice sounds tight; frustration and worry threaded through his tone. “Seriously.”
John goes to the kitchen window, and he’s just in time to see Dean stumble into the yard. He’s breathing heavily, chest rising and falling in a strange jerky rhythm. John’s seen Dean run ten miles without losing pace. Dean leans over; fists pressed onto his thighs, knuckles clenched so tight that even from here John can see the veins in the backs of his hands.
“Dean,” Sam says, a little louder this time. “Come on, just tell him - or I swear I-“
“You keep your big mouth shut,” Dean hisses.
John opens the door, steps out onto the porch. “Something you want to share, Dean?”
The kid looks up; face chalk-white, bruise-blue smudges inked under his eyes. “No, sir,” he answers quietly.
“Sammy?”
Sam glances mutinously at Dean before echoing his brother’s affirmation.
“You sure, boys?”
It’s obvious Dean’s not doing so hot. His face goes suddenly milky pale, then his shoulders heave, and he’s gagging, spitting thin strings of milky saliva onto the dusty yard. He waits for the spasm to pass, then wipes the back of his hand over his mouth.
“Sorry.” He tries for an apologetic smile, and barely manages a pained grimace. “Guess those whiskey chasers weren’t such a great idea.”
John sighs, shakes his head. Not like he doesn’t know Dean gets wasted, but he’s usually pretty reliable when John’s off on a hunt. He thought he could trust Dean.
“Thought you wanted to come on this hunt tonight?” John says, and Dean looks up, stricken.
“I do, Dad. I’ll be fine, I swear.”
Beside him, Sam huffs his disapproval. “Yeah, right.”
“Sam.” Dean says it quietly, but John hears the command in his voice, and it’s enough to snap Sam’s mouth shut.
“Fine!” Sam snaps, and he’s so frustrated that he starts in on his cool down routine without being reminded.
John turns the corners of his mouth down, valiantly fighting the amused grin that wants to spread over his lips.
“Okay, then.” He nods to Dean, making his voice stern. “You wanna come with tonight? You start sweating it out.”
Dean nods, lowering himself to the ground gingerly, taking position for the first set of crunches.
John feels for the kid, truly he does. But Dean knows that actions have consequences, must have known it last night while he was downing whiskey chasers, for God’s sake.
A couple of hours' workout should sweat out any alcohol left in his system, and that way Dean’ll be ready for hunting tonight. He knows he should ground the kid, make him stay home, but he figures that’s probably the reason Dean got wasted last night. Going stir crazy from Sammy-sitting while John was gone all week.
He looks over at Sam, who’s stretching out his hamstrings. Kid’s shot up this year; right now he’s all gangly arms and legs too long to keep up with. “You finish up there, then go and get showered.”
“Yes, sir.” Sam imbues his reply with as much insolence as he can muster.
Jesus. He can’t blame Dean. A week with Sammy in full-on angry young man mode would drive a saint to drink. John crouches down beside his eldest and pats his shoulder lightly, a gesture of sympathy. Dean’s breath catches, and he bites down on a quiet groan. Kid must be feeling pretty damn rough.
“Best cure for a hangover, son,” he says, ignoring Sam’s derisive snort. John stands up again, his knee joints creaking in protest. “You’ll feel better soon.”
*~*~*~*
John’s just finishing up with the guns when Sam emerges from the bedroom, freshly showered, and still totting the attitude. Dogged, Sam is. He doesn’t just hold grudges, he coddles them, pets them, makes sure they’re properly fed and watered with extra angst.
Dean was never like that. The kid doesn’t piss and moan and bitch about shit. He just knuckles under and follows orders, accepts discipline when he fucks up. Which isn’t all that often, anyway. Dean’s not kicking up about the extra training, but that doesn’t mean shit to Sammy. Kid’s always got to have something to complain about.
“You got a problem, Sammy?” John asks, setting the Mossberg down on the table, and wiping his fingers on the rag.
Sam stomps over to the toaster and shoves in a slice of bread, slams it down like it’s his mortal enemy. “You mean apart from having a fanatic for a father and an idiot for a brother?”
One thing he’ll say for Sammy, he’s got courage. Foolhardy and possibly slightly suicidal, but courageous nonetheless.
“Yeah.” John decides to go with it; leans back in the chair and fixes Sam with a steady gaze. “I mean apart from the fanatic and the idiot. Not like that’s anything new, right?” Sam has the decency to blush at that. “I’m thinking there’s something else that’s got your panties in a bunch.”
Sam stares at the toaster, eyes narrowed, shoulders tensed, as he’s expecting some kind of counter maneuver for his earlier violence.
“There some kind of history between you and that goddamn toaster, son?” Sometimes kidding around with Sammy will work where stern words won’t.
“He’s not hungover.” Sam doesn’t turn round, just keeps his shoulders hunched, his face hidden from view.
“Sam, your brother doesn’t need you to cover for him. He’s man enough to admit to his own mistakes.”
Sam laughs, but it’s not a happy sound. “Jesus, Dad, you’re so fu-reaking gullible. Dean knew you would-” he breaks off, realizing he’s said too much.
“Dean knew I would what?” John sits up straighter, and leans forward, folding his hands on the table. “Sam.” He makes his voice stern, and Sam straightens instantly, then turns to face John, his teeth snagging on his lip.
“He knew you’d buy it. Knew you’d believe the worst of him.” There’s resignation in Sam’s tone, a weariness that doesn’t belong in a fifteen-year-old kid’s voice. “He wasn’t drinking last night. He’s hurt.”
John’s head swims. It makes no sense. Dean would have told him if he was hurt. John would never have made him train like that if he’d known Dean was hurt. “He’s hurt? How’d he get hurt?”
Sam glances over at the door into the hallway, and they both hear the sound of the shower running. “He’s gonna kill me if I tell.”
“Son,” John says evenly, “You don’t tell, and I can promise you that the prospect of death at Dean’s hands will seem like a mercy.” John raises his eyebrows, puts just enough threat into his tone to convince Sam to spill.
It works. Sam ducks his head, breaks eye contact. “Remember a couple of weeks ago, when Dean put his shoulder out?”
John remembers. Last hunt the three of them were on, a poltergeist had tossed Sammy against an ancient stair rail, nothing more than tinder held together by woodworm and dry rot. The wood had splintered and Sam had toppled backwards, and suddenly Dean was there, grabbing Sam before he could fall. He’d hung on grimly, hauled Sam bodily back onto the landing, but he’d dislocated his shoulder joint doing it.
John had popped his shoulder back into place, and told Dean to take it easy. No hunting and no shooting for a while. That was why he’d left Dean home with Sammy this week, to give the kid a chance to rest, give his shoulder some time to heal.
“He was doing yardwork.” Sam’s face is pale now, eyes bright with inexplicable guilt. “He does that sometimes, when money’s tight.”
“I left enough.” John is sure of that. “I was only gone a week.”
Sam nods, and his gaze slides away from John’s. “There’s this field trip coming up next month.”
And that explains the guilt. “And you figured if it was all paid up by the time I got back it was a done deal, right?”
Sam nods miserably, and John feels a tiny twinge of guilt then, that Sam feels he has to sneak around behind his back about something as normal as a fieldtrip.
“He put his shoulder out again?” John keeps his voice low and even.
Sam shakes his head, chews a little harder on his lip. “Not exactly. It kind of froze up,” Sam demonstrates by lifting one shoulder and dropping the other. “Maybe Thursday, and it’s just got worse since then.”
It sounds pretty plausible, John has to admit, but there’s one problem. “Why didn’t he tell me?” Is he that much of a hardass, then, that Dean would rather do push-ups in stoic silence rather than admit he was in pain?
Sam’s chin lifts, his remorse fading, his face assuming the familiar mask of wounded defiance. “Come on, Dad. Even you must be able to figure that one out.”
Okay, there’s a limit to the lip he’ll take from the kid, and Sam’s just about reached it. “You want to watch your tone with me, son.” His voice is mild, but Sam reads the warning in it and straightens his shoulders involuntarily, swallows nervously. Good.
“He wants to go hunting with you tonight. Figured if you knew he was hurt, you’d leave him home again.”
There’s no hint of triumph in Sam’s voice, he’s simply stating the facts. And he’s not wrong. It’s exactly what Dean would do. And it’s exactly what John would do, too.
John pushes the chair back and Sam starts, shifts uneasily. “Don’t-Dad. Come on, I promised I wouldn’t-”
“Don’t worry, son. I’ll tell him I beat it out of you.” He cracks his knuckles lightly. “You want a few bruises for effect, I’d be more than happy to oblige.”
“Gee, thanks, Dad. But I think I’ll pass.” A momentary flash of sarcasm, then Sam’s face twists, and he nips at the edge of his lip with his teeth again. “Don’t-don’t, you know, be too mad at him. He can’t help being an idiot.”
John has to grin at the kid’s lame-ass attempt to defend his brother. “Yeah.” He nods sagely. “Apparently it’s genetic.”
*~*~*~*
John stands just inside his own bedroom, tossing a tennis ball gently in one hand. Across the hallway, the shower’s still running; Dean’s been in there almost twenty minutes. Using the hot water to pound his aching shoulder into submission. Been there, done that, John thinks.
He waits there until Dean shuts the water off, gives him time to dry off. He hears the soft pad of bare feet on the creaking floorboards, the protesting squeak of the boys’ bedroom door. John steps out into the hallway, and Dean’s left the door open at an angle. He’s standing with his back to the door, dressed in boxer shorts, towel draped around his shoulders. He rubs the towel over his damp hair, making it stand up in odd little tufts and spikes. He looks so desperately young.
John grips the tennis ball tightly, and pushes the door open with one hand. “Think fast,” he says, and pitches a splitter. Dean whirls, but the muscles in his shoulder tense at the sudden movement. He’s barely able to move his arm forward, never mind reach down to catch the ball.
“Pretty poor reflexes, son.” John comments, and Dean just looks down, nods his head in unspoken acquiescence.
“You’re moving kinda slow.” John raises his eyebrows in encouragement, gives Dean the chance to admit his lie. “That’s some hangover.”
“I guess.” Dean half-shrugs, his face coloring up, the red flush rising from his cheeks all the way to the tips of his ears.
“Maybe you need a couple more sets of push-ups. Really work up a sweat.”
“Okay.” Dean looks up at him, and there’s such raw pain in his eyes that it hurts to see it. It frightens John a little, the lengths Dean’s willing to go to.
“Christ, Dean.” He shakes his head in disbelief. “What’s it gonna take?” He figures it’s the quiet disappointment that breaks the boy.
Dean slumps visibly, lowers himself onto the bed. “The brat squealed, right?”
“Sorry, kiddo. When it comes to threats of torture, Dad always wins out over big brother.”
Dean attempts a smile, but manages only a grimace, the corners of his eyes crinkling in pain. “It’s not as bad as he’s making out.”
“So, how bad should he be making it out to be?”
Dean realizes his mistake then, and John feels a tiny twinge of sympathy for him. He suppresses it pretty quick when he sees the stiffness in Dean’s arm as he reaches for his shirt.
“Leave that.” Terse and clipped, enough command in his tone to halt the movement instantly. John steps over to the bed, plants himself in front of his son, purposely looming over Dean. “Let me see.”
He can almost feel the heat that rises from Dean’s face. “Dad - come on.”
John ignores the protest, and puts his hand onto Dean’s shoulder. There’s only a faint yellowish tinge to the skin now, the residual bruising from the dislocation fading into the shadow of his collar bone. John runs his fingers carefully over the damaged area and Dean swallows, stills under his hand.
The muscles at the back of his shoulder are knotted up under the skin, and John presses down lightly, finding a tight lump of gristle. It rolls sickening under his thumb.
“You take anything?” John asks, working his thumb along the side of the knot.
Dean’s head rolls back, then snaps forward again, as the knot pops out from under John’s thumb. “A bunch of Tylenol.”
John frowns. “You run out of Advil?” Dean’s had enough experience with muscle pain to know that Tylenol wasn’t going to cut it.”
Dean tries to shrug, and John feels the muscles twitch and flinch under his fingers. The kid’s shoulder is tense, skin stretched too tight over the rigid flesh.
“You answer me when I ask you a question, son,” Soft voice, but not gentle. Dean doesn’t need gentle. “You take any Advil?”
“No, sir.”
Dean keeps his eyes down, and John sees that he’s guarding his right arm a little. Holding it against his side, elbow crooked, hand curved loosely in his lap. Referred pain, most likely, radiating through the muscles and joints in steady waves. Hurts like a bitch, John knows. Bone-deep, like a toothache.
“You’re gonna take some now.” He makes it an order, and waits for Dean’s compliance. Waits for longer than it should take.
“I’m okay.” Dean’s gaze remains stubbornly fixed on the floor.
“You know, you’re in enough trouble already, kiddo. Just take the goddamn pills.”
“Dad -” Dean looks up, face forlorn, acutely embarrassed. “They make me throw up.”
Aw, Christ. Poor kid. John remembers last time he’d had to take Ibuprofen; the waves of nausea that had washed over him as he’d swallowed down the urge to hurl. He stills his hand, rests it on Dean’s damaged shoulder.
“Okay. No pills.” He sees the relief in his son’s face, feels the tension in his shoulder ease a fraction. “But we’re not done with this. Lie down on the bed.”
Dean blinks, then eyes him warily.
“You need some help with that?”
Dean shrinks back a little. “No, sir.”
“Good. I want you face down on that bed when I come back, you understand me?”
Dean nods, face burning. “Yes, sir.”
John gives a curt nod, and heads into his own room to get the first aid kit. He waits for a moment, allowing enough time for Dean to get into position. When he returns to the boys’ room, Dean’s still perched on the edge of the bed, in the early stages of freaking the fuck out.
“I blame Metallica.” John folds his arms and glares at Dean.
Dean just looks even more bewildered. “Huh?”
“Figure something’s gotta have damaged either your hearing or your brain. Because the face down on the bed thing?” He raises his eyebrows significantly. “Wasn’t a suggestion.”
Dean swallows convulsively, his throat working like he’s trying to choke down a golf ball. Then he sighs shakily and obeys the order, settles himself into position, his body tense, strung tight as wire.
He’s expecting punishment, and although John’s got no intention of beating the kid’s ass, he’s not going to put him at ease just yet.
“You lied to me, boy.” John sits down beside Dean on the bed, but he doesn’t touch him.
A shudder runs the length of Dean’s spine. “I’m sorry-”
“Not good enough, Dean.” John cuts him off, voice sharp. “I need to know I can trust you, need to know you’ll tell me when you’re hurt.”
Dean turns his head, looks up at John, eyes bright. “I will, Dad. I swear.”
“I seem to recall you swearing you’d be fine tonight. So forgive me if I don’t put much stock in your promises.”
Dean flinches, blinks as if he’d been slapped. John feels a momentary twinge of guilt at the misery in Dean’s eyes when his words hit home. Words far more painful than any beating John could ever deliver.
“You don’t lie to me again. We clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay, then.” John waits a moment, then smacks his hand down on the back of Dean’s leg. He hits him hard enough to leave the outline of his palm on Dean’s thigh, hard enough that he can see the separation between each finger, slivers of pale skin splitting the faint red imprints.
Dean doesn’t flinch this time, but he makes a soft noise in the back of his throat, not quite a whimper.
“That’s enough,” John tells him calmly, and Dean quiets then, visibly relaxes.
John grabs the Ketoprofen gel, squeezes a dollop onto his fingers. “This should help ease your shoulder.” He swipes the gel over the knotted flesh, pressing deep until the knot yields under his thumb.
Dean groans, fingers twisting in the sheet, but he stays in position, allows John to work the gel deep into the muscle. John eases up a little on the pressure, massages the surrounding tissue carefully. Another muffled groan, this time accompanied by some muted swearing.
John finishes up, pulls the comforter up over Dean’s back, covering his shoulder. “Got to keep it warm, son.”
Dean tries for ‘yes sir’, but he’s already yawning, wildly distorting his reply.
“Try and get some sleep.” John says. “I’ll check on you later.”
“What about the hunt?”
“Have to wait, I guess.”
Dean opens his eyes again, and it’s hard to look at the abject gratitude that’s reflected in his son’s gaze. John rests his hand on Dean’s leg, where he hit him, pats it lightly, rubbing out the sting.
“Sleep, Dean,” he orders gently, and Dean closes his eyes and does as he’s told.
A/N2 - I've had a frozen shoulder for the last couple of weeks, and every time I took Ibuprofen I threw up. Finally got some Ketoprofen gel, and it was a revelation. Now, if I could possibly organize JDM to give me some trigger point massage...
I've been trying to keep up with the writing too. This fic isn't one of the plot bunnies from Asylum con, but is one of those 'write what you know' stories. I feel for Dean in this one.
TITLE: Banishment
RATING: PG13 (gen)
CHARACTERS: John, Dean and Sam
DISCLAIMER: Not my boys
NOTES: 3200 words. Pre-series. Lying to Dad. Title and quote from “Banishment” by Siegfried Sassoon.
“I am banished from the patient men who fight”
John hears Sammy first, which is weird.
Well, not that weird. His youngest is always fairly vocal when he’s pissed, and pissed is pretty much Sam’s default setting these days. But he’d sent the boys on a five mile run, and Sam’s never yet made it home before his brother.
“Dude.” Sam is standing close to the door, and his voice sounds tight; frustration and worry threaded through his tone. “Seriously.”
John goes to the kitchen window, and he’s just in time to see Dean stumble into the yard. He’s breathing heavily, chest rising and falling in a strange jerky rhythm. John’s seen Dean run ten miles without losing pace. Dean leans over; fists pressed onto his thighs, knuckles clenched so tight that even from here John can see the veins in the backs of his hands.
“Dean,” Sam says, a little louder this time. “Come on, just tell him - or I swear I-“
“You keep your big mouth shut,” Dean hisses.
John opens the door, steps out onto the porch. “Something you want to share, Dean?”
The kid looks up; face chalk-white, bruise-blue smudges inked under his eyes. “No, sir,” he answers quietly.
“Sammy?”
Sam glances mutinously at Dean before echoing his brother’s affirmation.
“You sure, boys?”
It’s obvious Dean’s not doing so hot. His face goes suddenly milky pale, then his shoulders heave, and he’s gagging, spitting thin strings of milky saliva onto the dusty yard. He waits for the spasm to pass, then wipes the back of his hand over his mouth.
“Sorry.” He tries for an apologetic smile, and barely manages a pained grimace. “Guess those whiskey chasers weren’t such a great idea.”
John sighs, shakes his head. Not like he doesn’t know Dean gets wasted, but he’s usually pretty reliable when John’s off on a hunt. He thought he could trust Dean.
“Thought you wanted to come on this hunt tonight?” John says, and Dean looks up, stricken.
“I do, Dad. I’ll be fine, I swear.”
Beside him, Sam huffs his disapproval. “Yeah, right.”
“Sam.” Dean says it quietly, but John hears the command in his voice, and it’s enough to snap Sam’s mouth shut.
“Fine!” Sam snaps, and he’s so frustrated that he starts in on his cool down routine without being reminded.
John turns the corners of his mouth down, valiantly fighting the amused grin that wants to spread over his lips.
“Okay, then.” He nods to Dean, making his voice stern. “You wanna come with tonight? You start sweating it out.”
Dean nods, lowering himself to the ground gingerly, taking position for the first set of crunches.
John feels for the kid, truly he does. But Dean knows that actions have consequences, must have known it last night while he was downing whiskey chasers, for God’s sake.
A couple of hours' workout should sweat out any alcohol left in his system, and that way Dean’ll be ready for hunting tonight. He knows he should ground the kid, make him stay home, but he figures that’s probably the reason Dean got wasted last night. Going stir crazy from Sammy-sitting while John was gone all week.
He looks over at Sam, who’s stretching out his hamstrings. Kid’s shot up this year; right now he’s all gangly arms and legs too long to keep up with. “You finish up there, then go and get showered.”
“Yes, sir.” Sam imbues his reply with as much insolence as he can muster.
Jesus. He can’t blame Dean. A week with Sammy in full-on angry young man mode would drive a saint to drink. John crouches down beside his eldest and pats his shoulder lightly, a gesture of sympathy. Dean’s breath catches, and he bites down on a quiet groan. Kid must be feeling pretty damn rough.
“Best cure for a hangover, son,” he says, ignoring Sam’s derisive snort. John stands up again, his knee joints creaking in protest. “You’ll feel better soon.”
*~*~*~*
John’s just finishing up with the guns when Sam emerges from the bedroom, freshly showered, and still totting the attitude. Dogged, Sam is. He doesn’t just hold grudges, he coddles them, pets them, makes sure they’re properly fed and watered with extra angst.
Dean was never like that. The kid doesn’t piss and moan and bitch about shit. He just knuckles under and follows orders, accepts discipline when he fucks up. Which isn’t all that often, anyway. Dean’s not kicking up about the extra training, but that doesn’t mean shit to Sammy. Kid’s always got to have something to complain about.
“You got a problem, Sammy?” John asks, setting the Mossberg down on the table, and wiping his fingers on the rag.
Sam stomps over to the toaster and shoves in a slice of bread, slams it down like it’s his mortal enemy. “You mean apart from having a fanatic for a father and an idiot for a brother?”
One thing he’ll say for Sammy, he’s got courage. Foolhardy and possibly slightly suicidal, but courageous nonetheless.
“Yeah.” John decides to go with it; leans back in the chair and fixes Sam with a steady gaze. “I mean apart from the fanatic and the idiot. Not like that’s anything new, right?” Sam has the decency to blush at that. “I’m thinking there’s something else that’s got your panties in a bunch.”
Sam stares at the toaster, eyes narrowed, shoulders tensed, as he’s expecting some kind of counter maneuver for his earlier violence.
“There some kind of history between you and that goddamn toaster, son?” Sometimes kidding around with Sammy will work where stern words won’t.
“He’s not hungover.” Sam doesn’t turn round, just keeps his shoulders hunched, his face hidden from view.
“Sam, your brother doesn’t need you to cover for him. He’s man enough to admit to his own mistakes.”
Sam laughs, but it’s not a happy sound. “Jesus, Dad, you’re so fu-reaking gullible. Dean knew you would-” he breaks off, realizing he’s said too much.
“Dean knew I would what?” John sits up straighter, and leans forward, folding his hands on the table. “Sam.” He makes his voice stern, and Sam straightens instantly, then turns to face John, his teeth snagging on his lip.
“He knew you’d buy it. Knew you’d believe the worst of him.” There’s resignation in Sam’s tone, a weariness that doesn’t belong in a fifteen-year-old kid’s voice. “He wasn’t drinking last night. He’s hurt.”
John’s head swims. It makes no sense. Dean would have told him if he was hurt. John would never have made him train like that if he’d known Dean was hurt. “He’s hurt? How’d he get hurt?”
Sam glances over at the door into the hallway, and they both hear the sound of the shower running. “He’s gonna kill me if I tell.”
“Son,” John says evenly, “You don’t tell, and I can promise you that the prospect of death at Dean’s hands will seem like a mercy.” John raises his eyebrows, puts just enough threat into his tone to convince Sam to spill.
It works. Sam ducks his head, breaks eye contact. “Remember a couple of weeks ago, when Dean put his shoulder out?”
John remembers. Last hunt the three of them were on, a poltergeist had tossed Sammy against an ancient stair rail, nothing more than tinder held together by woodworm and dry rot. The wood had splintered and Sam had toppled backwards, and suddenly Dean was there, grabbing Sam before he could fall. He’d hung on grimly, hauled Sam bodily back onto the landing, but he’d dislocated his shoulder joint doing it.
John had popped his shoulder back into place, and told Dean to take it easy. No hunting and no shooting for a while. That was why he’d left Dean home with Sammy this week, to give the kid a chance to rest, give his shoulder some time to heal.
“He was doing yardwork.” Sam’s face is pale now, eyes bright with inexplicable guilt. “He does that sometimes, when money’s tight.”
“I left enough.” John is sure of that. “I was only gone a week.”
Sam nods, and his gaze slides away from John’s. “There’s this field trip coming up next month.”
And that explains the guilt. “And you figured if it was all paid up by the time I got back it was a done deal, right?”
Sam nods miserably, and John feels a tiny twinge of guilt then, that Sam feels he has to sneak around behind his back about something as normal as a fieldtrip.
“He put his shoulder out again?” John keeps his voice low and even.
Sam shakes his head, chews a little harder on his lip. “Not exactly. It kind of froze up,” Sam demonstrates by lifting one shoulder and dropping the other. “Maybe Thursday, and it’s just got worse since then.”
It sounds pretty plausible, John has to admit, but there’s one problem. “Why didn’t he tell me?” Is he that much of a hardass, then, that Dean would rather do push-ups in stoic silence rather than admit he was in pain?
Sam’s chin lifts, his remorse fading, his face assuming the familiar mask of wounded defiance. “Come on, Dad. Even you must be able to figure that one out.”
Okay, there’s a limit to the lip he’ll take from the kid, and Sam’s just about reached it. “You want to watch your tone with me, son.” His voice is mild, but Sam reads the warning in it and straightens his shoulders involuntarily, swallows nervously. Good.
“He wants to go hunting with you tonight. Figured if you knew he was hurt, you’d leave him home again.”
There’s no hint of triumph in Sam’s voice, he’s simply stating the facts. And he’s not wrong. It’s exactly what Dean would do. And it’s exactly what John would do, too.
John pushes the chair back and Sam starts, shifts uneasily. “Don’t-Dad. Come on, I promised I wouldn’t-”
“Don’t worry, son. I’ll tell him I beat it out of you.” He cracks his knuckles lightly. “You want a few bruises for effect, I’d be more than happy to oblige.”
“Gee, thanks, Dad. But I think I’ll pass.” A momentary flash of sarcasm, then Sam’s face twists, and he nips at the edge of his lip with his teeth again. “Don’t-don’t, you know, be too mad at him. He can’t help being an idiot.”
John has to grin at the kid’s lame-ass attempt to defend his brother. “Yeah.” He nods sagely. “Apparently it’s genetic.”
*~*~*~*
John stands just inside his own bedroom, tossing a tennis ball gently in one hand. Across the hallway, the shower’s still running; Dean’s been in there almost twenty minutes. Using the hot water to pound his aching shoulder into submission. Been there, done that, John thinks.
He waits there until Dean shuts the water off, gives him time to dry off. He hears the soft pad of bare feet on the creaking floorboards, the protesting squeak of the boys’ bedroom door. John steps out into the hallway, and Dean’s left the door open at an angle. He’s standing with his back to the door, dressed in boxer shorts, towel draped around his shoulders. He rubs the towel over his damp hair, making it stand up in odd little tufts and spikes. He looks so desperately young.
John grips the tennis ball tightly, and pushes the door open with one hand. “Think fast,” he says, and pitches a splitter. Dean whirls, but the muscles in his shoulder tense at the sudden movement. He’s barely able to move his arm forward, never mind reach down to catch the ball.
“Pretty poor reflexes, son.” John comments, and Dean just looks down, nods his head in unspoken acquiescence.
“You’re moving kinda slow.” John raises his eyebrows in encouragement, gives Dean the chance to admit his lie. “That’s some hangover.”
“I guess.” Dean half-shrugs, his face coloring up, the red flush rising from his cheeks all the way to the tips of his ears.
“Maybe you need a couple more sets of push-ups. Really work up a sweat.”
“Okay.” Dean looks up at him, and there’s such raw pain in his eyes that it hurts to see it. It frightens John a little, the lengths Dean’s willing to go to.
“Christ, Dean.” He shakes his head in disbelief. “What’s it gonna take?” He figures it’s the quiet disappointment that breaks the boy.
Dean slumps visibly, lowers himself onto the bed. “The brat squealed, right?”
“Sorry, kiddo. When it comes to threats of torture, Dad always wins out over big brother.”
Dean attempts a smile, but manages only a grimace, the corners of his eyes crinkling in pain. “It’s not as bad as he’s making out.”
“So, how bad should he be making it out to be?”
Dean realizes his mistake then, and John feels a tiny twinge of sympathy for him. He suppresses it pretty quick when he sees the stiffness in Dean’s arm as he reaches for his shirt.
“Leave that.” Terse and clipped, enough command in his tone to halt the movement instantly. John steps over to the bed, plants himself in front of his son, purposely looming over Dean. “Let me see.”
He can almost feel the heat that rises from Dean’s face. “Dad - come on.”
John ignores the protest, and puts his hand onto Dean’s shoulder. There’s only a faint yellowish tinge to the skin now, the residual bruising from the dislocation fading into the shadow of his collar bone. John runs his fingers carefully over the damaged area and Dean swallows, stills under his hand.
The muscles at the back of his shoulder are knotted up under the skin, and John presses down lightly, finding a tight lump of gristle. It rolls sickening under his thumb.
“You take anything?” John asks, working his thumb along the side of the knot.
Dean’s head rolls back, then snaps forward again, as the knot pops out from under John’s thumb. “A bunch of Tylenol.”
John frowns. “You run out of Advil?” Dean’s had enough experience with muscle pain to know that Tylenol wasn’t going to cut it.”
Dean tries to shrug, and John feels the muscles twitch and flinch under his fingers. The kid’s shoulder is tense, skin stretched too tight over the rigid flesh.
“You answer me when I ask you a question, son,” Soft voice, but not gentle. Dean doesn’t need gentle. “You take any Advil?”
“No, sir.”
Dean keeps his eyes down, and John sees that he’s guarding his right arm a little. Holding it against his side, elbow crooked, hand curved loosely in his lap. Referred pain, most likely, radiating through the muscles and joints in steady waves. Hurts like a bitch, John knows. Bone-deep, like a toothache.
“You’re gonna take some now.” He makes it an order, and waits for Dean’s compliance. Waits for longer than it should take.
“I’m okay.” Dean’s gaze remains stubbornly fixed on the floor.
“You know, you’re in enough trouble already, kiddo. Just take the goddamn pills.”
“Dad -” Dean looks up, face forlorn, acutely embarrassed. “They make me throw up.”
Aw, Christ. Poor kid. John remembers last time he’d had to take Ibuprofen; the waves of nausea that had washed over him as he’d swallowed down the urge to hurl. He stills his hand, rests it on Dean’s damaged shoulder.
“Okay. No pills.” He sees the relief in his son’s face, feels the tension in his shoulder ease a fraction. “But we’re not done with this. Lie down on the bed.”
Dean blinks, then eyes him warily.
“You need some help with that?”
Dean shrinks back a little. “No, sir.”
“Good. I want you face down on that bed when I come back, you understand me?”
Dean nods, face burning. “Yes, sir.”
John gives a curt nod, and heads into his own room to get the first aid kit. He waits for a moment, allowing enough time for Dean to get into position. When he returns to the boys’ room, Dean’s still perched on the edge of the bed, in the early stages of freaking the fuck out.
“I blame Metallica.” John folds his arms and glares at Dean.
Dean just looks even more bewildered. “Huh?”
“Figure something’s gotta have damaged either your hearing or your brain. Because the face down on the bed thing?” He raises his eyebrows significantly. “Wasn’t a suggestion.”
Dean swallows convulsively, his throat working like he’s trying to choke down a golf ball. Then he sighs shakily and obeys the order, settles himself into position, his body tense, strung tight as wire.
He’s expecting punishment, and although John’s got no intention of beating the kid’s ass, he’s not going to put him at ease just yet.
“You lied to me, boy.” John sits down beside Dean on the bed, but he doesn’t touch him.
A shudder runs the length of Dean’s spine. “I’m sorry-”
“Not good enough, Dean.” John cuts him off, voice sharp. “I need to know I can trust you, need to know you’ll tell me when you’re hurt.”
Dean turns his head, looks up at John, eyes bright. “I will, Dad. I swear.”
“I seem to recall you swearing you’d be fine tonight. So forgive me if I don’t put much stock in your promises.”
Dean flinches, blinks as if he’d been slapped. John feels a momentary twinge of guilt at the misery in Dean’s eyes when his words hit home. Words far more painful than any beating John could ever deliver.
“You don’t lie to me again. We clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay, then.” John waits a moment, then smacks his hand down on the back of Dean’s leg. He hits him hard enough to leave the outline of his palm on Dean’s thigh, hard enough that he can see the separation between each finger, slivers of pale skin splitting the faint red imprints.
Dean doesn’t flinch this time, but he makes a soft noise in the back of his throat, not quite a whimper.
“That’s enough,” John tells him calmly, and Dean quiets then, visibly relaxes.
John grabs the Ketoprofen gel, squeezes a dollop onto his fingers. “This should help ease your shoulder.” He swipes the gel over the knotted flesh, pressing deep until the knot yields under his thumb.
Dean groans, fingers twisting in the sheet, but he stays in position, allows John to work the gel deep into the muscle. John eases up a little on the pressure, massages the surrounding tissue carefully. Another muffled groan, this time accompanied by some muted swearing.
John finishes up, pulls the comforter up over Dean’s back, covering his shoulder. “Got to keep it warm, son.”
Dean tries for ‘yes sir’, but he’s already yawning, wildly distorting his reply.
“Try and get some sleep.” John says. “I’ll check on you later.”
“What about the hunt?”
“Have to wait, I guess.”
Dean opens his eyes again, and it’s hard to look at the abject gratitude that’s reflected in his son’s gaze. John rests his hand on Dean’s leg, where he hit him, pats it lightly, rubbing out the sting.
“Sleep, Dean,” he orders gently, and Dean closes his eyes and does as he’s told.
A/N2 - I've had a frozen shoulder for the last couple of weeks, and every time I took Ibuprofen I threw up. Finally got some Ketoprofen gel, and it was a revelation. Now, if I could possibly organize JDM to give me some trigger point massage...