Echoes, Supernatural, John and Dean, daddyeloise_brightApril 10 2007, 22:26:55 UTC
“Your momma send you, boy?” “No, sir.” John leans forward, brushes away the desiccated petals. “She doing okay? Her hip bothering her again?” “No. Mom’s-Mom’s good.” The sun is high, and John feels it on the back of his neck. “I’m only asking, ‘cos she comes most Sundays. Been a while, Johnny.” “Yes, sir.” John sits back on his heels, squinting in the glare off the gleaming stone. “It’s been busy.” “You still working at that auto shop?” “Dad. Don’t start.” “Not real keen on your tone there, Johnny-boy. Just asking, is all.” “Sorry, sir. We’re saving up to buy out the owner. He’s ready to retire, cutting us a good deal.” “That’s fine, son. Just fine.” John swipes his hand across his forehead, through his sweat-damp hair. “Dad. Mary and me, we got some news.” “Old news, son. Your momma was here chewing my ear off the minute she heard you were expecting.” John can’t help grinning. “Yeah, figures.” “Dean; right?” “Yes, sir.” “Well, least it wasn’t Frank. Or Sammy.” “Dad.” “Well, bring him on over, Johnny; let a man get a look at his grandson.” John rocks back on his heels and then steps over to the stroller. Dean gurgles softly as John’s shadow falls over him, and he raises chubby arms to be picked up. “Hey there, buddy,” John whispers, and he unsnaps the harness, scooping Dean up against his chest. Dean wriggles around some, drawing his legs up and squirming as he tries to find a comfortable position. He stiffens, and John presses his hand against his son’s tiny frame, rubbing firmly till Dean produces an impressively loud burp, then nestles against his shoulder. “He’s a fine looking boy, Johnny.” “Yes, sir, he is.” John hefts Dean up, cups his hand behind his son’s tiny head. Dean watches him intently, his lips first framing a silent ‘o’, then broadening into a huge gummy grin. “Got his daddy’s smile, then. You wanna watch that, Johnny. Your momma could never hold firm against the Winchester smile.” “Yeah, I’ll watch out for that, Dad.” Dean already has Mary wrapped around his-very-little finger. Hell, who’s he kidding? The kid’s got the both of them under his spell. “You raise him right, Johnny. Make sure he minds his manners, respects his momma.” “Dad-” “John.” Dean yawns, a full body stretch that arches his back, then rubs his head sleepily into John’s broad palm. John’s fingers stretch over the back of Dean’s soft skull, cradling the little bald patch where the downy hair’s been worn away. “Yes, sir,” he whispers, and Dean’s eyes flutter closed, roll back under the lids. He flops loosely in John’s arms, vulnerable and trusting. “You give him a kiss from his grand-daddy, Johnny. You make sure and tell him how proud he is of him.” “Yes, sir. I will.” John lifts Dean gently, presses his father’s kiss to his son’s smooth velvet cheek. Mary’s hand on his arm is a cool surprise. “Hey, Daddy.” “Hey.” “Did he behave himself?” “He was perfect.” John pats Dean’s diapered butt, rocks him gently. Mary grins. “Winchester charm, right?” “You got it.” Dean snuffles quietly, then turns his face and burrows against John’s collarbone. The damp warmth of fresh drool seeps through John’s shirt. “You want a minute, John?” Mary’s voice is soft, and she touches his shoulder lightly, then rests her hand on Dean’s back. John nods and relinquishes his son. Mary settles the baby back in the stroller, drops the back down so Dean’s shaded from the sun. She kisses John’s cheek. “We’ll meet you back at the car when you’re ready.” John watches his wife and son make their way down the gravel path. “Gotta go, Dad.” “I figured that. Pretty as a rose in summer, your Mary.” “She sure is.” “You look after them, Johnny. Family, that’s what counts.” “Dad.” John leans forward runs his hand over the sun-warmed marble. Jack Winchester, loving husband, loving father. “I didn’t mean-“ “You hush now, Johnny. Both said things we didn’t mean, but what’s past is past. You did what you thought was right. A man has to stand up for what he believes in.” “I’m sorry.” The breeze picks up, ruffling his hair lightly, a gentle admonishment. “Get on with you. Don’t leave it so long next time.” John steps back from his father’s grave. “No, sir, I won't,” he whispers to the breeze.
“No, sir.” John leans forward, brushes away the desiccated petals.
“She doing okay? Her hip bothering her again?”
“No. Mom’s-Mom’s good.” The sun is high, and John feels it on the back of his neck.
“I’m only asking, ‘cos she comes most Sundays. Been a while, Johnny.”
“Yes, sir.” John sits back on his heels, squinting in the glare off the gleaming stone. “It’s been busy.”
“You still working at that auto shop?”
“Dad. Don’t start.”
“Not real keen on your tone there, Johnny-boy. Just asking, is all.”
“Sorry, sir. We’re saving up to buy out the owner. He’s ready to retire, cutting us a good deal.”
“That’s fine, son. Just fine.”
John swipes his hand across his forehead, through his sweat-damp hair. “Dad. Mary and me, we got some news.”
“Old news, son. Your momma was here chewing my ear off the minute she heard you were expecting.”
John can’t help grinning. “Yeah, figures.”
“Dean; right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, least it wasn’t Frank. Or Sammy.”
“Dad.”
“Well, bring him on over, Johnny; let a man get a look at his grandson.”
John rocks back on his heels and then steps over to the stroller. Dean gurgles softly as John’s shadow falls over him, and he raises chubby arms to be picked up.
“Hey there, buddy,” John whispers, and he unsnaps the harness, scooping Dean up against his chest. Dean wriggles around some, drawing his legs up and squirming as he tries to find a comfortable position. He stiffens, and John presses his hand against his son’s tiny frame, rubbing firmly till Dean produces an impressively loud burp, then nestles against his shoulder.
“He’s a fine looking boy, Johnny.”
“Yes, sir, he is.” John hefts Dean up, cups his hand behind his son’s tiny head. Dean watches him intently, his lips first framing a silent ‘o’, then broadening into a huge gummy grin.
“Got his daddy’s smile, then. You wanna watch that, Johnny. Your momma could never hold firm against the Winchester smile.”
“Yeah, I’ll watch out for that, Dad.” Dean already has Mary wrapped around his-very-little finger. Hell, who’s he kidding? The kid’s got the both of them under his spell.
“You raise him right, Johnny. Make sure he minds his manners, respects his momma.”
“Dad-”
“John.”
Dean yawns, a full body stretch that arches his back, then rubs his head sleepily into John’s broad palm. John’s fingers stretch over the back of Dean’s soft skull, cradling the little bald patch where the downy hair’s been worn away.
“Yes, sir,” he whispers, and Dean’s eyes flutter closed, roll back under the lids. He flops loosely in John’s arms, vulnerable and trusting.
“You give him a kiss from his grand-daddy, Johnny. You make sure and tell him how proud he is of him.”
“Yes, sir. I will.” John lifts Dean gently, presses his father’s kiss to his son’s smooth velvet cheek.
Mary’s hand on his arm is a cool surprise. “Hey, Daddy.”
“Hey.”
“Did he behave himself?”
“He was perfect.” John pats Dean’s diapered butt, rocks him gently.
Mary grins. “Winchester charm, right?”
“You got it.” Dean snuffles quietly, then turns his face and burrows against John’s collarbone. The damp warmth of fresh drool seeps through John’s shirt.
“You want a minute, John?” Mary’s voice is soft, and she touches his shoulder lightly, then rests her hand on Dean’s back. John nods and relinquishes his son.
Mary settles the baby back in the stroller, drops the back down so Dean’s shaded from the sun. She kisses John’s cheek. “We’ll meet you back at the car when you’re ready.”
John watches his wife and son make their way down the gravel path.
“Gotta go, Dad.”
“I figured that. Pretty as a rose in summer, your Mary.”
“She sure is.”
“You look after them, Johnny. Family, that’s what counts.”
“Dad.” John leans forward runs his hand over the sun-warmed marble. Jack Winchester, loving husband, loving father. “I didn’t mean-“
“You hush now, Johnny. Both said things we didn’t mean, but what’s past is past. You did what you thought was right. A man has to stand up for what he believes in.”
“I’m sorry.”
The breeze picks up, ruffling his hair lightly, a gentle admonishment.
“Get on with you. Don’t leave it so long next time.”
John steps back from his father’s grave. “No, sir, I won't,” he whispers to the breeze.
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