Listen to the Wind Blow
Title: Listen to the Wind Blow
Author: lies_unfurl
Summary: After a hunt, John blames himself for Dean's condition. Gen.
Notes: Written for a prompt from hoodie_time's latest h/c commentfic meme; prompt is at the end. SPN is not mine, and the title is taken from Fleetwood Mac's "The Chain."
The room wasn’t silent, and John was thankful for that.
By all means, it should have been -it was a backwater place, a twenty-minute drive from the cemetery that he and Dean had been in. It was away from all of the main roads, and there was only a handful of other people staying there. He hadn’t heard a car pull in since he’d parked the Impala, and the walls were either absorbing sound like towels did blood, or else his neighbors slept like the dead -the really dead, not the fucker he and Dean had been chasing.
But it was raining out, and hard now; it had only been a drizzle when they’d left the cemetery, him manhandling Dean back to the car. He was thankful for that, too, because Dean, at twenty-three years old, wasn’t a small man, and he didn’t know if he could have accomplished the task while contending with mud slicking the steep hills of the Valley Side Cemetery.
The wind and the rain attacked the windows, sounding almost sentient with their howls, like they were trying to get in, get him and Dean. John shifted uncomfortably in the chair he had opted for over the room’s other bed. It was still better than silence. If it had been silent, he would be able to hear every sound that Dean made in his fitful sleep; every harsh intake of breath, every creak of the mattress as he flinched away from some dream-made monster.
And wasn’t he just Father of the Year for thinking that? His son was sick, had fucking collapsed in the middle of a hunt, and he was glad that he didn’t need to look that in the face?
He hid it from you, a voice whispered inside his head. He didn’t want you to find out, and he’s so good at hiding things, it isn’t your fault that you didn’t notice…
That was true, though, that really was true. How many things had Dean hidden from him over the years? There was the time in sophomore year that he’d failed math, history, and biology because he’d been sneaking out of school to get a few extra hours of work in before he needed to come home and watch Sam. Before that, in eighth grade, broke his ribs, and John didn’t know until he actually walked in on him changing the messy, self-applied bindings. And all the times that hadn't involved him and some sort of needless sacrifice, like when he and Sam raised the rabbit that they found in the abandoned house they were staying in as a pet. Or when he managed to distract John for a few hours when they were staying in that two-room apartment in Tulsa -that had involved a few drinks and some very vivid tales so that he wouldn't notice that Sam was out on his first date and not just sleeping in the other room (until, of course, Sam walked in when Dean was halfway through telling him about the legend of the Tulsa Terrier Terror, or some other bullshit creature that he insisted was real).
And those were only the things that he had found out about. Dean probably -no, definitely- had a hell of a lot more that he wasn’t telling him.
That’s not an excuse, snarled the less-forgiving part of his mind. What the hell kind of a father are you?
He passed a hand over his unshaven face and sighed. That was true, too, and that was right. He knew it was. He should have seen it before, especially since he didn’t even have Sammy to watch out for anymore. He should have been keeping a closer eye on the son that he was still supposed to be looking out for.
In a moment of sentiment, he reached out and took Dean's hand, held it between his own. There wasn't much that he could do; even keeping this vigil was pointless, and it would do him more good to just go to bed now and wait until Dean woke up on his own and decided what he needed. But even he wasn't that much of a selfish bastard yet, and besides, if nothing else, he did draw comfort from holding onto his son, as though he could pull him away from whatever dreams he was having, take him away from whatever illness was currently working its way through him. A father was supposed to protect his son, and at the moment, John had more or less failed completely on that account. At least he could pretend to be doing something effective now, even if all that was was maintaining physical contact.
Of course, now he was looking back at how he could've been doing something before, something that wouldn't have led up to his oldest son lying feverishly in bed, sleeping despite the double attack of the rain and the wind outside.
And really, in retrospect, the signs were clearer than the ones he was used to looking for when he didn't know what he was hunting. He should have seen the crumpled grease-stained bags that Dean had tossed into the trash earlier, with their burgers and fries uneaten. And he had even observed how bloodshot his eyes were that morning; had passed it off as the aftereffects of a night spent drinking, even though he should have remembered that Dean had spent most of the night going over the pages that he’d copied from the obituaries he’d obtained from the town’s library (hell, had the kid even slept? John’d stayed out pretty late himself, patrolling the area where the gruesome murders had been taking place). And Dean had been coughing earlier, right? He could swear that he had been, even during the drive to the graveyard.
John hadn’t thought anything of it, hadn’t seen the reason to. He squeezed Dean's hand tighter, as though his ignorance would be absolved if he only kept a stronger grip on his son.
At least, he hadn’t thought about it until Dean had dropped his gun and collapsed to his knees, and wretched onto the graveyard dirt, throwing up what little he had in his stomach. And not even after that had concern been in the forefront of his mind, when Dean's stomach was emptied, and he had resorted to just coughing, sounding like he was about to hack up a lung as John tossed the match onto Phillip Cooper’s remains. Not until he hadn't gotten up even at John’s demands while he shot the still-struggling spirit. He had just remained there, braced on his hands and knees, drawing in slow, harsh breaths.
And when John had the decency to be worried, to go over to his son and see if he was okay, and Dean hadn’t answered, just shaken his head, and continued to breathe raggedly, then he had really noticed how flushed his skin was under the dim glow emanating from the flashlight, how it was hot to the touch, despite how he was shivering in the then-light drizzle. Then all of those things that he hadn’t really noticed had flashed through his mind.
Dean had fallen into the uneasy sleep on the drive back to the motel. John hadn't had the heart to wake him when they'd gotten there, had just carried him in and put him down on the bed, taken off his shoes, and covered him with a blanket. Dean had slept through it all -uneasily, sometimes flinching at John's touches, but still entirely in the Sandman's graso.
He should have gotten him up, though; Dean needed to take something: Advil or Tylenol, at the very least, and maybe something stronger. Hell, not only that, but he needed to get something to drink. John needed to take his temperature. It was probably something minor, just a bug that he'd picked up on their last assignment, but he should be taking precautions.
Outside, the wind rustled the few leaves that hadn't fallen yet, and the rain continued to pelt downwards. He sighed and let go of Dean's hand, reached out to wake him. Dean didn't need to be sleeping with his old man keeping watch. He needed to be awake, changing into clean clothes, taking a few pills.
"Dean." He didn't know where his logic was; if the kid could sleep through the storm outside, there wasn't any reason why his dad's voice should pull him back, but he trusted that he was heard. "Dean, you gotta get up now." He gently shook his shoulder. "Wake up."
At first he didn't get any response, which was probably predictable -Dean was a light sleeper, but John knew that fever dreams dragged you down deeper than normal- but after a moment, John felt him stir under his hand. "That's it. Come on, Dean. Up and at 'em."
Dean began to cough as soon as his eyes were open, heavy hacks that wracked his body as he struggled up into a sitting position. John reached down and propped him up against the bed's headboard, keeping one hand steady over his son's trembling shoulders. For whatever reason, he found himself grasping Dean's hand again with the other.
He felt Dean's flex briefly around his, acknowledging, but not refusing, the touch. Gently, he rubbed his thumb over one of the softer areas of Dean's rough skin, offering what comfort he could.
"It's gonna be all right," he murmured. He knew that his words would probably be lost in the pounding rain and shrieking wind that had yet to cease their assault upon the motel, but he felt Dean tighten his grasp, and he knew that he'd be okay anyway.
Prompt: John holds Dean's hand. Reason is up to you.
Author: lies_unfurl
Summary: After a hunt, John blames himself for Dean's condition. Gen.
Notes: Written for a prompt from hoodie_time's latest h/c commentfic meme; prompt is at the end. SPN is not mine, and the title is taken from Fleetwood Mac's "The Chain."
The room wasn’t silent, and John was thankful for that.
By all means, it should have been -it was a backwater place, a twenty-minute drive from the cemetery that he and Dean had been in. It was away from all of the main roads, and there was only a handful of other people staying there. He hadn’t heard a car pull in since he’d parked the Impala, and the walls were either absorbing sound like towels did blood, or else his neighbors slept like the dead -the really dead, not the fucker he and Dean had been chasing.
But it was raining out, and hard now; it had only been a drizzle when they’d left the cemetery, him manhandling Dean back to the car. He was thankful for that, too, because Dean, at twenty-three years old, wasn’t a small man, and he didn’t know if he could have accomplished the task while contending with mud slicking the steep hills of the Valley Side Cemetery.
The wind and the rain attacked the windows, sounding almost sentient with their howls, like they were trying to get in, get him and Dean. John shifted uncomfortably in the chair he had opted for over the room’s other bed. It was still better than silence. If it had been silent, he would be able to hear every sound that Dean made in his fitful sleep; every harsh intake of breath, every creak of the mattress as he flinched away from some dream-made monster.
And wasn’t he just Father of the Year for thinking that? His son was sick, had fucking collapsed in the middle of a hunt, and he was glad that he didn’t need to look that in the face?
He hid it from you, a voice whispered inside his head. He didn’t want you to find out, and he’s so good at hiding things, it isn’t your fault that you didn’t notice…
That was true, though, that really was true. How many things had Dean hidden from him over the years? There was the time in sophomore year that he’d failed math, history, and biology because he’d been sneaking out of school to get a few extra hours of work in before he needed to come home and watch Sam. Before that, in eighth grade, broke his ribs, and John didn’t know until he actually walked in on him changing the messy, self-applied bindings. And all the times that hadn't involved him and some sort of needless sacrifice, like when he and Sam raised the rabbit that they found in the abandoned house they were staying in as a pet. Or when he managed to distract John for a few hours when they were staying in that two-room apartment in Tulsa -that had involved a few drinks and some very vivid tales so that he wouldn't notice that Sam was out on his first date and not just sleeping in the other room (until, of course, Sam walked in when Dean was halfway through telling him about the legend of the Tulsa Terrier Terror, or some other bullshit creature that he insisted was real).
And those were only the things that he had found out about. Dean probably -no, definitely- had a hell of a lot more that he wasn’t telling him.
That’s not an excuse, snarled the less-forgiving part of his mind. What the hell kind of a father are you?
He passed a hand over his unshaven face and sighed. That was true, too, and that was right. He knew it was. He should have seen it before, especially since he didn’t even have Sammy to watch out for anymore. He should have been keeping a closer eye on the son that he was still supposed to be looking out for.
In a moment of sentiment, he reached out and took Dean's hand, held it between his own. There wasn't much that he could do; even keeping this vigil was pointless, and it would do him more good to just go to bed now and wait until Dean woke up on his own and decided what he needed. But even he wasn't that much of a selfish bastard yet, and besides, if nothing else, he did draw comfort from holding onto his son, as though he could pull him away from whatever dreams he was having, take him away from whatever illness was currently working its way through him. A father was supposed to protect his son, and at the moment, John had more or less failed completely on that account. At least he could pretend to be doing something effective now, even if all that was was maintaining physical contact.
Of course, now he was looking back at how he could've been doing something before, something that wouldn't have led up to his oldest son lying feverishly in bed, sleeping despite the double attack of the rain and the wind outside.
And really, in retrospect, the signs were clearer than the ones he was used to looking for when he didn't know what he was hunting. He should have seen the crumpled grease-stained bags that Dean had tossed into the trash earlier, with their burgers and fries uneaten. And he had even observed how bloodshot his eyes were that morning; had passed it off as the aftereffects of a night spent drinking, even though he should have remembered that Dean had spent most of the night going over the pages that he’d copied from the obituaries he’d obtained from the town’s library (hell, had the kid even slept? John’d stayed out pretty late himself, patrolling the area where the gruesome murders had been taking place). And Dean had been coughing earlier, right? He could swear that he had been, even during the drive to the graveyard.
John hadn’t thought anything of it, hadn’t seen the reason to. He squeezed Dean's hand tighter, as though his ignorance would be absolved if he only kept a stronger grip on his son.
At least, he hadn’t thought about it until Dean had dropped his gun and collapsed to his knees, and wretched onto the graveyard dirt, throwing up what little he had in his stomach. And not even after that had concern been in the forefront of his mind, when Dean's stomach was emptied, and he had resorted to just coughing, sounding like he was about to hack up a lung as John tossed the match onto Phillip Cooper’s remains. Not until he hadn't gotten up even at John’s demands while he shot the still-struggling spirit. He had just remained there, braced on his hands and knees, drawing in slow, harsh breaths.
And when John had the decency to be worried, to go over to his son and see if he was okay, and Dean hadn’t answered, just shaken his head, and continued to breathe raggedly, then he had really noticed how flushed his skin was under the dim glow emanating from the flashlight, how it was hot to the touch, despite how he was shivering in the then-light drizzle. Then all of those things that he hadn’t really noticed had flashed through his mind.
Dean had fallen into the uneasy sleep on the drive back to the motel. John hadn't had the heart to wake him when they'd gotten there, had just carried him in and put him down on the bed, taken off his shoes, and covered him with a blanket. Dean had slept through it all -uneasily, sometimes flinching at John's touches, but still entirely in the Sandman's graso.
He should have gotten him up, though; Dean needed to take something: Advil or Tylenol, at the very least, and maybe something stronger. Hell, not only that, but he needed to get something to drink. John needed to take his temperature. It was probably something minor, just a bug that he'd picked up on their last assignment, but he should be taking precautions.
Outside, the wind rustled the few leaves that hadn't fallen yet, and the rain continued to pelt downwards. He sighed and let go of Dean's hand, reached out to wake him. Dean didn't need to be sleeping with his old man keeping watch. He needed to be awake, changing into clean clothes, taking a few pills.
"Dean." He didn't know where his logic was; if the kid could sleep through the storm outside, there wasn't any reason why his dad's voice should pull him back, but he trusted that he was heard. "Dean, you gotta get up now." He gently shook his shoulder. "Wake up."
At first he didn't get any response, which was probably predictable -Dean was a light sleeper, but John knew that fever dreams dragged you down deeper than normal- but after a moment, John felt him stir under his hand. "That's it. Come on, Dean. Up and at 'em."
Dean began to cough as soon as his eyes were open, heavy hacks that wracked his body as he struggled up into a sitting position. John reached down and propped him up against the bed's headboard, keeping one hand steady over his son's trembling shoulders. For whatever reason, he found himself grasping Dean's hand again with the other.
He felt Dean's flex briefly around his, acknowledging, but not refusing, the touch. Gently, he rubbed his thumb over one of the softer areas of Dean's rough skin, offering what comfort he could.
"It's gonna be all right," he murmured. He knew that his words would probably be lost in the pounding rain and shrieking wind that had yet to cease their assault upon the motel, but he felt Dean tighten his grasp, and he knew that he'd be okay anyway.
Prompt: John holds Dean's hand. Reason is up to you.