Supernatural - Daddy's Boy
Somewhere close to a million bandages. That's what it had to be. Bandages and gauze wrap, finally coming off and tossed into the trash. Dean poked at one of the cuts, still not quite mended completely. His lip curled into a snarl. That one would probably leave a scar.
"You're up."
The voice came from the door. Dean didn't even have to look, to know who it was.
"Yeah. Couldn't stand just laying around any longer."
John stood in the doorway, leaning against the jamb. "You should rest," he answered, in a tone softer than Dean was used to hearing.
It made the younger man look up, brows raised, and then his expression melted into that same cocky grin as always. "Come on. We got things to do! People to meet! Or kill." He walked past his father, patting him on the shoulder. "Probably both."
Before he could get out the door, he found the man's arm at his midriff.
"Uh...Dad?"
"Dean, you...really should rest."
"Come on." Dean laughed it off, running a hand through his short hair and making it even wilder than it was. "Listen, I can't smell too hot and I've gotta take a wicked piss."
The arm didn't move. A silence passed between them, and then at last, slowly John turned to look Dean in the face. For a while he just gazed into the other man's eyes, then the rest of him: his little rounded nose, his lips -- pretty lips.
"Uh, Dad?" Dean finally broke the wordless quiet passing between them. "You okay?"
It was almost like the gears could be seen turning in John's head from outside. He worked his jaw, breathing in, and then his shoulders slowly fell again as he sighed out. That deepness in his eyes, the contemplation -- Dean had seen it many times in his life. It made his stomach flip around in knots.
"What...what is it?" He had to admit, he was getting nervous. He reached down, placing a hand on the arm over his stomach. Then something occurred to him. "Where's Sam?"
"He's fine. Taking care of Bobby."
"What's wrong with him?"
"Shovel to the hip. Remember?"
Dean frowned. His memory of it all wasn't very good. It had been an especially unpleasant situation, and he didn't really want to recall it. The images he brought up swirled with clouds and no-one spoke with words in them, just ideas.
"Dean, I've done a lot of thinking while you were out."
"How long've I been out?" Dean turned back to the room, to the bed in it. It smelled stale from the moment he stirred.
"About a week."
"A week? Are you kidding me?" Dean's eyes opened wide. He thought it was surely no more than a few hours, maybe a day. But a week!
"Listen, I've done some thinking..."
"Right." Dean started to push against the arm again. "Hold that thought, I just need to--"
But John just reached over and, with both hands, steered Dean in front of him, placing himself squarely in the path. "Dean, I'm a terrible father."
What could he say to that? He pursed his lips. His body had clicked past the "uncomfortable" stage and felt like it was barrelling down the road towards "urgent". "Can't win 'em all?" He steepled his brows and grinned, hopeful that it would be enough.
"I was never there for you, never there for your mother...not when it counted..."
"Okay." Dean held up his hands. "Okay, stop. This is just way too much to get into right now, but we've been through this before. It's the past, it's passed, water under the bridge, and speaking of which..."
"Look, I think you just deserve another chance at being a kid. Being my son."
"Huh?"
"You didn't get much of a chance when you were having to be me, or what I should've been, while I was running around, dragging you around the country, trying to make you follow in my footsteps...that's no kind of life for a boy."
"What are you talking about? Sure, it was rough." Dean found these memories came up quickly and easily. "Didn't really mind much." His brows lowered. "...yeah, kind of sucked, but I mean...what am I gonna do? Don't tell me you want to go outside and throw a football around or take me to get ice cream or something."
"What about pie?"
"Don't bring pie into this!" Dean rolled his eyes, turning his head away. Then slowly he returned his attention to his father. "Yeah, okay. Pie. So we'll go get some. After I get a shower and *relieve* myself, unless you'd like me to *relieve* myself on the floor..."
John just smiled and pulled Dean into a tight hug, sighing and holding him there, arms wrapped firmly around the younger man's back. He didn't mind the scent of unwashed Dean, punctuated by antiseptic and balm. The warmth meant he was there, and right now he just didn't want to be apart from his son.
But after a couple of minutes, it got a little awkward. "Dad?" Dean cleared his throat. "Look, Dad, I wasn't kidding..."
In the next second, one of those arms moved from Dean's back, and a hand swatted his ass sharply. John grinned, laughing as if it were a great joke to him. Even through the jeans, it stung; Dean yelped and stiffened, and in that instant he felt it: a warm rushing between his legs. It tickled over his balls, the moisture pulling his briefs against his crotch. And then the warmth stretched down his inside thighs, and he shivered, leaning against John, clutching at his shirt and making a soft noise like a whimper.
"Warned you," he mumbled, daring to look down. He saw the streams stretch over his feet and puddle under his toes. So warm, such a relief...he almost felt like crying for joy. He almost felt like he could.
Then something occurred to him. "Wait...a week?" Suddenly he became acutely aware of the fact that in that time, he must have been...taken care of? How could he put it, to reconcile with his mind and, moreover, his ego?
He pursed his lips and pushed back, looking down at himself and making a face. "Well. This is certainly a morning to remember. Maybe I'll be lucky and wake up in a minute and have a good laugh."
John clicked his tongue and clapped his hand on Dean's shoulder. "Come on. Let's get you cleaned up."
"Huh?" Dean's eyes widened. "Look, I know you're feeling like Superdad right now, but..." He couldn't say he didn't want to be taken care of. He knew that was a big part of the experience, at least to the young. He always tried to be there for Sam when there was an accident. But Dean never had that luxury himself. Maybe his father was right. Maybe... "Look, what if Sam comes back?"
"Unless he plans on knocking the door down and kicking his way into the bathroom, I'm not seeing much to worry about from Sam." John ushered Dean by the arm, down the hall and towards the bathroom. "Anyway, Bobby's got him busy for at least another week. I've had a lot of time to think."
"I can see that." Dean half-waddled. The wet denim made walking difficult.
Once they were in the bathroom, John reached over to tug Dean's shirt up and over his head, then tossed it onto the floor. "I know I can't replace the days we've lost. Years we've lost. Just...humour this old man and give him a little happiness. I swear to you, this isn't going any further than the two of us."
Dean rolled his eyes again, smirking and scratching his shoulder. "Yeah, it better not." Then he became aware of his father's hands at the button of his jeans. "I can do that!"
But the pause, and the way John slowly moved his hands back, made Dean melt a little inside. He sighed and shook his head. "Uh, no, second thought, knock yourself out."
"You sure?" His father hesitated, then he reached out with the nod of Dean's head.
The button stuck with the wet fabric, and the zipper growled as it worked its way down. First the jeans slid over Dean's legs, and John urged one foot up and the pants off, then the other, and set them aside. Reaching up again, he gripped the waistband of the bright red briefs, now darker in the middle, and slid them down too.
Dean's cheeks burned, and he looked away, trying to distract himself from the state of his undress. John stood and walked to the tub, turning the faucets and feeling for it to heat up. Then he plugged the bath and turned, waving over his shoulder. "Come on in! The water's fine."
Suddenly Dean felt much younger. He reached down to cup his crotch, hiding himself a little bit, his wet, soft hairs tickling the backs of his wrists. He carefully stepped into the tub and then, very slowly, eased himself down into the warm water.
He settled back against the porcelain, hissing as the cold hit his sensitive skin and then slowly warmed against it.
A pleasant scent filled the air. Dean felt something tickling his toes and looked down.
"Bubbles?"
"Yeah, why not?" John rolled his sleeve to above his elbow and reached down to mix the soap in with the water.
Dean had to admit, he was feeling a bit more himself. Scooping up handfuls of suds, he spread one hand's contents on his face and shaped it into a goatee, and the other he made a pair of horns on his head. Spreading his hands expectantly, he grinned down to the other man.
"Careful." John laughed and splashed lightly at him, upending the bottle of shampoo. "Okay, now lean forward. Okay?"
It was so different to see this side of his father. Even the tone struck him as something Dean had rarely ever experienced before in his life. He leaned forward, and almost immediately his eyes closed as he felt the water poured over his head.
Then the greatest pleasure hit him, and despite himself he let a moan escape from his lips; his father was kneading his scalp, working up the lather of the shampoo. The calloused fingers moved over his hair, over his skin, and he slumped against his knees. So good...better than just about anything. He sighed again, deep in his chest.
Then the man put a hand over Dean's forehead and poured water over his head, rinsing the shampoo off. At last, he ruffled the short hair back into its haphazard style and patted a hand onto the younger man's shoulder.
Rivulets beaded and rolled down Dean's chest as he breathed slower, deeper, and settled back against the tub again.
For the first time, as long as John could remember, there was that smile that he thought had withered well over two decades before. Dean looked genuinely happy, at peace, content with the world, or at least the immediate microcosm that was this bathroom.
John dipped a cloth in the water and took Dean's nearest arm in his hands, washing along it. Really, how silly he felt for ever having hesitated. Dean deserved this. How many times had he missed this, when the boys were younger?
He carefully washed each finger, but before he could draw away, Dean grabbed his hand and squeezed. Slowly he looked to his father, eyes opening, smile widening still.
"Yeah, so...a week? I could get used to this."
John grinned back, feeling warm, feeling happy. Maybe he couldn't go back and fix things that he had failed to do in the past. But in a way, this felt like it might repair his failures, or at least atone for them in a way. His regrets began to lighten. Dean needed this. Maybe Sam, too.
He washed the other arm, then Dean's chest, then pulled him up to wash his back, his shoulders, under his arms. By the time he got over his stomach and down between his legs, there was a little fullness. Just a little. Dean didn't squirm much as the cloth glided over it, over him, and then in back too. A part of him craved the attention.
His legs, his feet, his toes, Dean giggled and then caught himself and cleared his throat, looking down, looking anywhere but at his father, who just laughed and reached down to dance his fingers along the sole of Dean's foot. The other man squirmed, splashing all around.
"Cut it out!" Dean couldn't help but laugh. "I'll fudging--stoppit!"
"Oh, fudge! Watch your mouth, boy!" John finally slowed his fingers and set Dean's foot down, still chuckling before rinsing out and wringing the cloth, draping it over the bar on the side wall.
He sat there in the floor, at the side of the tub, for a while. Dean looked like he might nod off at any moment. After a few minutes, he sat more upright and rolled his shoulders back.
"I wanna have some pie."
"All right." John reached down into the water and pulled the plug up, reaching for the large towel and wiping first his hand and arm dry, then helping Dean to stand and beginning to dry him. Although he had stood on his own, John pulled his son to lean forward, to lean against him. The towels rubbed briskly all over.
Instead of wrapping the towel around Dean, he tossed it over the curtain rod and just put his arm around the man, leading him out of the bathroom and carefully around his wet footprints. This time, their destination was John's room, and he eased Dean down to sit on the bed.
The older man stepped away and rummaged for a moment in the closet, returning to present Dean with a pair of briefs, thicker than normal at the crotch, with cartoon characters emblazoned across them. Almost in disbelief, Dean reached out to bring them closer and started to laugh.
"You can't be serious. Dad! You can't be serious!" He let his hands drop to his lap. "Where did you get something like that in my size?"
"Come on, Dean. The internet, what'd you think!"
Well, that figures, Dean thought. "And I guess the extra padding is in case of accidents, right?" He couldn't help laughing again, his cheeks taking on a pinker tint. "Fine. What else you got for me?"
Next came a t-shirt, brighter than pretty much anything Dean ever wore. And then some shorts. All of it looked comfortable, but none of it reflected Dean...at least, not Dean as an adult. He pulled it all on anyway, stretching and flopping back on the bed. The springs protested, the slats creaked, but it all held together.
"So! Pie?"
John nodded hurriedly and shuffled out of the room, into the kitchen, and rifled around for a plate. Typical Dean, he thought. But sweet as he imagined. The tough exterior, all the posturing, he knew it too well. It covered up tenderness. He could see little hints of it all morning.
His hands stopped, as it hit him. He took in a breath, suddenly, thoughts rolling around like a storm. But then the corners of his mouth stretched and curled upwards, and he felt...well, it worked, somehow. Dean was happier. He was enjoying himself, and John...he had to admit, he felt almost as if he needed it. He had gone without any such loving connection for years, substituting, deluding himself into other placeholders, and here it was.
He placed the scoop of ice cream on the heated pie and set the fork on the plate, turning to take it back into his bedroom. Maybe he could get used to this. Maybe...
John's eyes met Dean's, and then Dean's met pie, and he held out his hands with a bright, broad smile. John sat on the bed beside his son, placing the plate in his hands, then reaching over to take the fork. He cut off the tip of the wedge and some ice cream, blowing on it carefully before he lifted it to Dean's lips.
At first Dean looked with surprise, but he soon eased his shoulder against his father's, leaning up to take the bite and licking his lips. "Mm mm! Tasty." Then he bounced in place. "More, more!"
John started laughing. Typical Dean, more than ready to fill the role of the charmer, whatever's expected of him. Dean laughed too, and in that moment it was clear to see how much he was enjoying himself. It wasn't so much an act, he had begun to settle into the role, letting his mind slip into it and not minding so much. His needs were met, nothing else was pressing, so why not?
It's never too late to have a happy childhood, he remembered seeing on a bumper sticker. Maybe there was really something to that.
"You're up."
The voice came from the door. Dean didn't even have to look, to know who it was.
"Yeah. Couldn't stand just laying around any longer."
John stood in the doorway, leaning against the jamb. "You should rest," he answered, in a tone softer than Dean was used to hearing.
It made the younger man look up, brows raised, and then his expression melted into that same cocky grin as always. "Come on. We got things to do! People to meet! Or kill." He walked past his father, patting him on the shoulder. "Probably both."
Before he could get out the door, he found the man's arm at his midriff.
"Uh...Dad?"
"Dean, you...really should rest."
"Come on." Dean laughed it off, running a hand through his short hair and making it even wilder than it was. "Listen, I can't smell too hot and I've gotta take a wicked piss."
The arm didn't move. A silence passed between them, and then at last, slowly John turned to look Dean in the face. For a while he just gazed into the other man's eyes, then the rest of him: his little rounded nose, his lips -- pretty lips.
"Uh, Dad?" Dean finally broke the wordless quiet passing between them. "You okay?"
It was almost like the gears could be seen turning in John's head from outside. He worked his jaw, breathing in, and then his shoulders slowly fell again as he sighed out. That deepness in his eyes, the contemplation -- Dean had seen it many times in his life. It made his stomach flip around in knots.
"What...what is it?" He had to admit, he was getting nervous. He reached down, placing a hand on the arm over his stomach. Then something occurred to him. "Where's Sam?"
"He's fine. Taking care of Bobby."
"What's wrong with him?"
"Shovel to the hip. Remember?"
Dean frowned. His memory of it all wasn't very good. It had been an especially unpleasant situation, and he didn't really want to recall it. The images he brought up swirled with clouds and no-one spoke with words in them, just ideas.
"Dean, I've done a lot of thinking while you were out."
"How long've I been out?" Dean turned back to the room, to the bed in it. It smelled stale from the moment he stirred.
"About a week."
"A week? Are you kidding me?" Dean's eyes opened wide. He thought it was surely no more than a few hours, maybe a day. But a week!
"Listen, I've done some thinking..."
"Right." Dean started to push against the arm again. "Hold that thought, I just need to--"
But John just reached over and, with both hands, steered Dean in front of him, placing himself squarely in the path. "Dean, I'm a terrible father."
What could he say to that? He pursed his lips. His body had clicked past the "uncomfortable" stage and felt like it was barrelling down the road towards "urgent". "Can't win 'em all?" He steepled his brows and grinned, hopeful that it would be enough.
"I was never there for you, never there for your mother...not when it counted..."
"Okay." Dean held up his hands. "Okay, stop. This is just way too much to get into right now, but we've been through this before. It's the past, it's passed, water under the bridge, and speaking of which..."
"Look, I think you just deserve another chance at being a kid. Being my son."
"Huh?"
"You didn't get much of a chance when you were having to be me, or what I should've been, while I was running around, dragging you around the country, trying to make you follow in my footsteps...that's no kind of life for a boy."
"What are you talking about? Sure, it was rough." Dean found these memories came up quickly and easily. "Didn't really mind much." His brows lowered. "...yeah, kind of sucked, but I mean...what am I gonna do? Don't tell me you want to go outside and throw a football around or take me to get ice cream or something."
"What about pie?"
"Don't bring pie into this!" Dean rolled his eyes, turning his head away. Then slowly he returned his attention to his father. "Yeah, okay. Pie. So we'll go get some. After I get a shower and *relieve* myself, unless you'd like me to *relieve* myself on the floor..."
John just smiled and pulled Dean into a tight hug, sighing and holding him there, arms wrapped firmly around the younger man's back. He didn't mind the scent of unwashed Dean, punctuated by antiseptic and balm. The warmth meant he was there, and right now he just didn't want to be apart from his son.
But after a couple of minutes, it got a little awkward. "Dad?" Dean cleared his throat. "Look, Dad, I wasn't kidding..."
In the next second, one of those arms moved from Dean's back, and a hand swatted his ass sharply. John grinned, laughing as if it were a great joke to him. Even through the jeans, it stung; Dean yelped and stiffened, and in that instant he felt it: a warm rushing between his legs. It tickled over his balls, the moisture pulling his briefs against his crotch. And then the warmth stretched down his inside thighs, and he shivered, leaning against John, clutching at his shirt and making a soft noise like a whimper.
"Warned you," he mumbled, daring to look down. He saw the streams stretch over his feet and puddle under his toes. So warm, such a relief...he almost felt like crying for joy. He almost felt like he could.
Then something occurred to him. "Wait...a week?" Suddenly he became acutely aware of the fact that in that time, he must have been...taken care of? How could he put it, to reconcile with his mind and, moreover, his ego?
He pursed his lips and pushed back, looking down at himself and making a face. "Well. This is certainly a morning to remember. Maybe I'll be lucky and wake up in a minute and have a good laugh."
John clicked his tongue and clapped his hand on Dean's shoulder. "Come on. Let's get you cleaned up."
"Huh?" Dean's eyes widened. "Look, I know you're feeling like Superdad right now, but..." He couldn't say he didn't want to be taken care of. He knew that was a big part of the experience, at least to the young. He always tried to be there for Sam when there was an accident. But Dean never had that luxury himself. Maybe his father was right. Maybe... "Look, what if Sam comes back?"
"Unless he plans on knocking the door down and kicking his way into the bathroom, I'm not seeing much to worry about from Sam." John ushered Dean by the arm, down the hall and towards the bathroom. "Anyway, Bobby's got him busy for at least another week. I've had a lot of time to think."
"I can see that." Dean half-waddled. The wet denim made walking difficult.
Once they were in the bathroom, John reached over to tug Dean's shirt up and over his head, then tossed it onto the floor. "I know I can't replace the days we've lost. Years we've lost. Just...humour this old man and give him a little happiness. I swear to you, this isn't going any further than the two of us."
Dean rolled his eyes again, smirking and scratching his shoulder. "Yeah, it better not." Then he became aware of his father's hands at the button of his jeans. "I can do that!"
But the pause, and the way John slowly moved his hands back, made Dean melt a little inside. He sighed and shook his head. "Uh, no, second thought, knock yourself out."
"You sure?" His father hesitated, then he reached out with the nod of Dean's head.
The button stuck with the wet fabric, and the zipper growled as it worked its way down. First the jeans slid over Dean's legs, and John urged one foot up and the pants off, then the other, and set them aside. Reaching up again, he gripped the waistband of the bright red briefs, now darker in the middle, and slid them down too.
Dean's cheeks burned, and he looked away, trying to distract himself from the state of his undress. John stood and walked to the tub, turning the faucets and feeling for it to heat up. Then he plugged the bath and turned, waving over his shoulder. "Come on in! The water's fine."
Suddenly Dean felt much younger. He reached down to cup his crotch, hiding himself a little bit, his wet, soft hairs tickling the backs of his wrists. He carefully stepped into the tub and then, very slowly, eased himself down into the warm water.
He settled back against the porcelain, hissing as the cold hit his sensitive skin and then slowly warmed against it.
A pleasant scent filled the air. Dean felt something tickling his toes and looked down.
"Bubbles?"
"Yeah, why not?" John rolled his sleeve to above his elbow and reached down to mix the soap in with the water.
Dean had to admit, he was feeling a bit more himself. Scooping up handfuls of suds, he spread one hand's contents on his face and shaped it into a goatee, and the other he made a pair of horns on his head. Spreading his hands expectantly, he grinned down to the other man.
"Careful." John laughed and splashed lightly at him, upending the bottle of shampoo. "Okay, now lean forward. Okay?"
It was so different to see this side of his father. Even the tone struck him as something Dean had rarely ever experienced before in his life. He leaned forward, and almost immediately his eyes closed as he felt the water poured over his head.
Then the greatest pleasure hit him, and despite himself he let a moan escape from his lips; his father was kneading his scalp, working up the lather of the shampoo. The calloused fingers moved over his hair, over his skin, and he slumped against his knees. So good...better than just about anything. He sighed again, deep in his chest.
Then the man put a hand over Dean's forehead and poured water over his head, rinsing the shampoo off. At last, he ruffled the short hair back into its haphazard style and patted a hand onto the younger man's shoulder.
Rivulets beaded and rolled down Dean's chest as he breathed slower, deeper, and settled back against the tub again.
For the first time, as long as John could remember, there was that smile that he thought had withered well over two decades before. Dean looked genuinely happy, at peace, content with the world, or at least the immediate microcosm that was this bathroom.
John dipped a cloth in the water and took Dean's nearest arm in his hands, washing along it. Really, how silly he felt for ever having hesitated. Dean deserved this. How many times had he missed this, when the boys were younger?
He carefully washed each finger, but before he could draw away, Dean grabbed his hand and squeezed. Slowly he looked to his father, eyes opening, smile widening still.
"Yeah, so...a week? I could get used to this."
John grinned back, feeling warm, feeling happy. Maybe he couldn't go back and fix things that he had failed to do in the past. But in a way, this felt like it might repair his failures, or at least atone for them in a way. His regrets began to lighten. Dean needed this. Maybe Sam, too.
He washed the other arm, then Dean's chest, then pulled him up to wash his back, his shoulders, under his arms. By the time he got over his stomach and down between his legs, there was a little fullness. Just a little. Dean didn't squirm much as the cloth glided over it, over him, and then in back too. A part of him craved the attention.
His legs, his feet, his toes, Dean giggled and then caught himself and cleared his throat, looking down, looking anywhere but at his father, who just laughed and reached down to dance his fingers along the sole of Dean's foot. The other man squirmed, splashing all around.
"Cut it out!" Dean couldn't help but laugh. "I'll fudging--stoppit!"
"Oh, fudge! Watch your mouth, boy!" John finally slowed his fingers and set Dean's foot down, still chuckling before rinsing out and wringing the cloth, draping it over the bar on the side wall.
He sat there in the floor, at the side of the tub, for a while. Dean looked like he might nod off at any moment. After a few minutes, he sat more upright and rolled his shoulders back.
"I wanna have some pie."
"All right." John reached down into the water and pulled the plug up, reaching for the large towel and wiping first his hand and arm dry, then helping Dean to stand and beginning to dry him. Although he had stood on his own, John pulled his son to lean forward, to lean against him. The towels rubbed briskly all over.
Instead of wrapping the towel around Dean, he tossed it over the curtain rod and just put his arm around the man, leading him out of the bathroom and carefully around his wet footprints. This time, their destination was John's room, and he eased Dean down to sit on the bed.
The older man stepped away and rummaged for a moment in the closet, returning to present Dean with a pair of briefs, thicker than normal at the crotch, with cartoon characters emblazoned across them. Almost in disbelief, Dean reached out to bring them closer and started to laugh.
"You can't be serious. Dad! You can't be serious!" He let his hands drop to his lap. "Where did you get something like that in my size?"
"Come on, Dean. The internet, what'd you think!"
Well, that figures, Dean thought. "And I guess the extra padding is in case of accidents, right?" He couldn't help laughing again, his cheeks taking on a pinker tint. "Fine. What else you got for me?"
Next came a t-shirt, brighter than pretty much anything Dean ever wore. And then some shorts. All of it looked comfortable, but none of it reflected Dean...at least, not Dean as an adult. He pulled it all on anyway, stretching and flopping back on the bed. The springs protested, the slats creaked, but it all held together.
"So! Pie?"
John nodded hurriedly and shuffled out of the room, into the kitchen, and rifled around for a plate. Typical Dean, he thought. But sweet as he imagined. The tough exterior, all the posturing, he knew it too well. It covered up tenderness. He could see little hints of it all morning.
His hands stopped, as it hit him. He took in a breath, suddenly, thoughts rolling around like a storm. But then the corners of his mouth stretched and curled upwards, and he felt...well, it worked, somehow. Dean was happier. He was enjoying himself, and John...he had to admit, he felt almost as if he needed it. He had gone without any such loving connection for years, substituting, deluding himself into other placeholders, and here it was.
He placed the scoop of ice cream on the heated pie and set the fork on the plate, turning to take it back into his bedroom. Maybe he could get used to this. Maybe...
John's eyes met Dean's, and then Dean's met pie, and he held out his hands with a bright, broad smile. John sat on the bed beside his son, placing the plate in his hands, then reaching over to take the fork. He cut off the tip of the wedge and some ice cream, blowing on it carefully before he lifted it to Dean's lips.
At first Dean looked with surprise, but he soon eased his shoulder against his father's, leaning up to take the bite and licking his lips. "Mm mm! Tasty." Then he bounced in place. "More, more!"
John started laughing. Typical Dean, more than ready to fill the role of the charmer, whatever's expected of him. Dean laughed too, and in that moment it was clear to see how much he was enjoying himself. It wasn't so much an act, he had begun to settle into the role, letting his mind slip into it and not minding so much. His needs were met, nothing else was pressing, so why not?
It's never too late to have a happy childhood, he remembered seeing on a bumper sticker. Maybe there was really something to that.