Fic: Wrong Choices
Author's Note: I know that this has been done a million times before, but I think my story is a little different. See, I was thinking about how John was hunting the Shtriga and he knew what it was (Dean see’s his research on the table) and yet the Shtriga manages to get into their motel room. I think John would have made sure his boys would be protected first, before going out after the thing so I wondered why it was able to get in. Anyway, enough rambling! Enjoy!
-Marvin
John was angry.
John was fuming.
John really wanted to kill something but, unfortunately, the only living thing nearby was him.
He furiously pounded on the Impala’s steering wheel in an attempt to relieve some of his frustration. It didn’t work. The scene he had walked in on kept replaying in his mind. Dean. His boy, holding a rifle to his shoulder, just like he’d taught him, aiming at the shrtiga feeding on Sammy. Sammy, his baby boy. His heart had almost stopped before he heard his boy’s sleepy voice responding him. And Dean. Dean had left the room, disobeyed direct orders and nearly gotten his brother killed.
John snorted in contempt, who was he kidding, Dean didn’t endanger Sammy, he did. He had been so eager to leave, to hunt, to protect other children that he had neglected to protect his own.
He remembered the day he’d left, they had just arrived and he was itching for a hunt so he had left without salting the window or carving protection sigils on the walls. He had left, knowing what was lurking in the dark and, instead of protecting his children, Mary’s boys, he’d given Dean a gun with orders to “shoot first, ask questions later.” Wow. Fucking Father of the Year he was.
Dean. He tried to stay angry at his son but couldn’t manage it. John knew he was all kinds of messed up when it came to his sons, but even he knew that this did not fall on Dean’s shoulders.
Yeah, Dean had left the room, but John remembered being Dean’s age, he’d spent most of his time running around with his friends outside and would get antsy whenever his mom would keep him in. Yet he’d left his two young boys cooped up in a box of a room, with orders to stay indoors, for three days. Three days. And now he was trying to direct his anger at Dean because he broke and left the room for a few moments?
He should have been there. He should have protected them. But he wasn’t and he hadn’t and now he had another failure to add on to his list of “Ways I’ve Failed My Boys.” Great.
He thought about Dean. Dean who hadn’t spoken for almost six months after he watched his mother burn. Dean who mastered every weapon handed to him, every fighting skill he was taught. Dean who cared for his younger brother without complaint and did everything John asked of him without question. Dean who, instead of running around outside with friends, was cooped up in some nowhere town, in some noname motel with his younger brother to take care of while his dad was out hunting evil. Yup. Father of the Year.
He didn’t even know his sons’ faveorite animals - let alone their dreams for the future. John snorted again, like Dean could become a hockey player, or Sammy could grow up to be an astronaut. His boys were condemned to this life, he had condemned them the day he went to see Missouri Mosley. It didn’t matter if Dean wanted to teach or it Sammy wanted to be a vet, his boys would always be hunters, at least that way he could keep an eye on them, protect them.
John turned the keys in the Impala and pulled out of the deserted lot he’d been sitting in. Remembering the abuse he’d inflicted on the faithful car, he patted the steering wheel gently, “sorry baby,” he whispered. Leaning back in the worn leather seat he turned towards Blue Earth and his boys.
* * * * * *
In the weeks that followed, John found he couldn’t stand to the haunted look in Dean’s eyes so he masked the guilt his son’s gaze brought him with anger, a choice that weighed heavily on his son’s already overburdened shoulders. A choice that brought back a familiar, unwanted sense of failure to Dean when, sixteen years later, his father sent him after the shtriga once again.
“…he ah…he looked at me different…you know, which was worse…”
-Marvin
John was angry.
John was fuming.
John really wanted to kill something but, unfortunately, the only living thing nearby was him.
He furiously pounded on the Impala’s steering wheel in an attempt to relieve some of his frustration. It didn’t work. The scene he had walked in on kept replaying in his mind. Dean. His boy, holding a rifle to his shoulder, just like he’d taught him, aiming at the shrtiga feeding on Sammy. Sammy, his baby boy. His heart had almost stopped before he heard his boy’s sleepy voice responding him. And Dean. Dean had left the room, disobeyed direct orders and nearly gotten his brother killed.
John snorted in contempt, who was he kidding, Dean didn’t endanger Sammy, he did. He had been so eager to leave, to hunt, to protect other children that he had neglected to protect his own.
He remembered the day he’d left, they had just arrived and he was itching for a hunt so he had left without salting the window or carving protection sigils on the walls. He had left, knowing what was lurking in the dark and, instead of protecting his children, Mary’s boys, he’d given Dean a gun with orders to “shoot first, ask questions later.” Wow. Fucking Father of the Year he was.
Dean. He tried to stay angry at his son but couldn’t manage it. John knew he was all kinds of messed up when it came to his sons, but even he knew that this did not fall on Dean’s shoulders.
Yeah, Dean had left the room, but John remembered being Dean’s age, he’d spent most of his time running around with his friends outside and would get antsy whenever his mom would keep him in. Yet he’d left his two young boys cooped up in a box of a room, with orders to stay indoors, for three days. Three days. And now he was trying to direct his anger at Dean because he broke and left the room for a few moments?
He should have been there. He should have protected them. But he wasn’t and he hadn’t and now he had another failure to add on to his list of “Ways I’ve Failed My Boys.” Great.
He thought about Dean. Dean who hadn’t spoken for almost six months after he watched his mother burn. Dean who mastered every weapon handed to him, every fighting skill he was taught. Dean who cared for his younger brother without complaint and did everything John asked of him without question. Dean who, instead of running around outside with friends, was cooped up in some nowhere town, in some noname motel with his younger brother to take care of while his dad was out hunting evil. Yup. Father of the Year.
He didn’t even know his sons’ faveorite animals - let alone their dreams for the future. John snorted again, like Dean could become a hockey player, or Sammy could grow up to be an astronaut. His boys were condemned to this life, he had condemned them the day he went to see Missouri Mosley. It didn’t matter if Dean wanted to teach or it Sammy wanted to be a vet, his boys would always be hunters, at least that way he could keep an eye on them, protect them.
John turned the keys in the Impala and pulled out of the deserted lot he’d been sitting in. Remembering the abuse he’d inflicted on the faithful car, he patted the steering wheel gently, “sorry baby,” he whispered. Leaning back in the worn leather seat he turned towards Blue Earth and his boys.
* * * * * *
In the weeks that followed, John found he couldn’t stand to the haunted look in Dean’s eyes so he masked the guilt his son’s gaze brought him with anger, a choice that weighed heavily on his son’s already overburdened shoulders. A choice that brought back a familiar, unwanted sense of failure to Dean when, sixteen years later, his father sent him after the shtriga once again.
“…he ah…he looked at me different…you know, which was worse…”