Please, Daddy (Don't Get Drunk This Christmas)
Title: Please, Daddy (Don't Get Drunk This Christmas)
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 1400
Disclaimer: Not my boys. Kripke broke them long before I ever got to them.
Summary: John does his best to keep his promise, but that doesn't make their Christmas any better.
So, I'm supposed to be writing a couple of birthday fics, but they're being incredibly stubborn and since I'm not about to spend my holidays studying.....surprise hoodie_time fill! Yay! This went into the exact opposite direction it was supposed to, but whatever. I've stopped arguing with the musie.
Fill for 'Craving' on my new and awesome angst_bingo card and 'Rejection' and 'Grief' on my hc_bingo card.
Just last year when I was only seven
And now I'm almost eight as you can see
You came home at a quarter past eleven
Fell down underneath our Christmas tree
John's hand is shaking when he raises it to knock on the door to their motel room. Three short, two long, two short. He almost messes up on the third knock when his migraine spikes without warning and he barely manages to hold on to the brown take-out bag with clammy fingers.
He tells himself it's not withdrawal; the trembling hands and the sweating and the racing heart. The way his head feels like someone is twisting a rusty knife around behind his right temple. He's so used to telling himself he's not a useless drunk - not exactly like his old man - that he almost believes it.
Doesn't matter what it is anyway, because John is not breaking his promise. The promise he never spoke out loud and Dean never asked for, but that's real nonetheless.
The promise that this Christmas will be different.
The memory of last year is still enough to make John's skin crawl, almost enough to have him dive for the bottle under the front seat of his car. The broken tree and ornaments stuck in his flesh. Sammy crying and Dean fighting back his own tears, quietly asking John if he was gonna die. John wants to dig himself a hole and disappear just thinking about it.
The door opens enough to reveal about half of Dean's face. One hand on the Mossberg leaning against the wall, just out of John's sight. He feels a warm jolt of pride that is quickly overshadowed by guilt.
Dean glares at him, the one eye that isn't hidden behind the door narrowed in suspicion until he's heard the password, just like John taught him.
Then there is a crash, somewhere in the room and John can see Sammy running for the door on unsteady legs.
"Daddy-yy-eee!"
Sammy's excited shout quickly turns into a wail when his brother's hand lands flat on his chest, knocking him back to land on his ass.
"Semper Fi," John says quickly and Dean's scowl breaks into a smile as he hastens to unlock the chain and let John in.
John returns the smile, even though his youngest's howling sends jolts of pain through his skull. Dean smacks his lips in dismay at the chunky bits of melting snow John drags into their room.
"Gimme a hand, will ya."
John blindly holds out the brown paper bag for his son to take before he finally gets to scoop Sammy up in both his arms. Thick baby tears are running down his flushed cheeks as he sucks in huge, exaggerated gulps of air.
"Dee-ean h-hu-hurt meee," the three-year-old wails, burying his face in the crook of John's neck.
John catches a glimpse of Dean's eyes, huge and round, peering up at him from under his long lashes and he tries to ignore the pang of guilt that tells him his boy shouldn't be afraid of him.
"It's okay," he whispers into Sammy's soft baby locks, winking down at Dean. "He didn't mean it, right?"
Dean sighs, his tongue shoots out to wet his lips. The boy isn't one for talking back, but John can see the argument now, just waiting to be thrown in John's face. The You said to always make sure, the I only did what you told me to.
John raises one eyebrow in warning even when he feels his heart sink at the way Dean swallows the words back down with a nervous gulp. They're not talking to Sammy about passwords and shapeshifters and demons pretending to be his daddy. They're just not.
"Right," Dean nods, curling his toes into the thick carpet. "I'm sorry, Sammy."
Sammy sniffles against John's shoulder, wipes his snot-and-tear-streaked face on the thick flannel over shirt. "'kay," he mumbles and John is glad that it seems almost impossible for his boys to stay angry at each other for long. "Hungry."
John puts Sammy down on his chair by the rickety kitchen table. It has the comforters from both their beds folded up and stacked on top of each other, because as much as he may have cursed at the thing, the high chair Jim and Bobby guilt tripped him into buying did not fit into his car.
John barely manages to keep from cursing when he turns back around to get their dinner.
The burgers and fries have left the paper bag dark with grease, the stains already spreading to the white sheets of the boys' bed and John just knows those are gonna show up on his bill.
Fuckin' asshole manager.
John screws his eyes shut and counts in his head. The skin over his right temple grows tight with the effort, but he's so goddamn tired of teachers complaining about Dean's language, he bites down on the inside of his cheeks and swallows the words down along with the coppery blood.
:: :: ::
"Eat up," John tells his boys, pointing one soggy French fry at Dean's plate, then Sam's.
Dean shoots him a forlorn look, but knows better than to voice his opinion on their Christmas Eve dinner with more than a tired sigh. Sammy on the other hand? Sammy's got his little fists balled up next to his cold burger and the fries he barely touched, lower lip protruding in a pout that John didn't find cute two years ago when the kid first tried it on.
"I don't wannit!" he declares. "I want Santa!"
Dean groans and rolls his eyes, quickly stuffs another four fries into his mouth when John turns to glare at him.
"Santa's not gonna come unless he sees clean plates." John forces his voice to stay calm. The cold fry slips from his shaky grip and his heart speeds up in sudden inexplicable panic.
Mary would have made them turkey, he thinks. Or a roast. Or anything that isn't cold junk food. John wants nothing more than to scoop up their plates and flush the stuff down the toilet, but with the life they lead, he can't afford for this boys to be picky eaters and whatever he puts on the table damn well better gets eaten.
Which is a nice theory and all, but all Sammy's heard is Santa's not gonna come and now the crocodile tears are back, along with the wails and screeching and fists beating down on the cheap table and it sends John's headache through the fuckin' roof.
"Sammy," he snaps, feeling his eyes water and who knew? Who ever knew how much John would miss those beers?
"Noo-o-oo," Sammy screams, hiccuping his way through the word, face flushing red, well on the way to purple. "Noo, Iwansant-a-a-ha."
The Terrible Twos, Mary called it when Dean started screaming and throwing food and no became the only word he'd ever say. They read a book or two, talked to the couple down the street and Dean grew out of it. With Sammy, the Terrible Twos turned into the Terrible Threes and will probably turn into the Terrible Fours and Fives and Fifteens if he keeps it up.
John shoots Dean a pleading look, ignores the uncomfortable tightness around his throat that reminds him he's being a selfish bastard for relying on his seven-year-old to deal with his little brother's tantrums. Dean makes it easy to take him for granted. Some days it feels like John can do nothing right with Sammy; makes him cry by just being in the same room with him, when all Dean has to do is smile and poke his brother's chubby baby belly and whatever John did to upset the kid will be forgotten.
Dean makes it so goddamn easy to forget he's still a kid, only four years older than Sammy, barely making due with running through the fading memories he has of his mom's gentle touches.
Not tonight though.
Tonight Dean's eyes shine bright and huge and watery-green before he drops his head on top of his folded arms on the table, whispering "just shut up" and John has never needed a drink more in his life.
"Sammy," he says, quiet this time, pleading with his boy to calm down. Sammy's wails pierce deep into the thundering headache behind John's eyes. His heart is suddenly all the way up in his throat, beating too fast and too hard and his hands are balled into tight fists to keep them from shaking. "Sammy please, Santa's gonna come, okay? Santa's gonna come first thing in the morning."
That stops the screaming. Sammy stares at him, panting heavily and John finds himself staring back at the thick tears, trembling on the boy's wet lashes before they fall and with one huge gulp of air Sammy's crying again.
"Noo-ho-he's noo-o-ot!"
It's as much the cry of a wounded animal as it's discernible words and John presses the palms of his hands into his throbbing temples, dimly aware of Dean banging his head rhythmically on the table top.
"I HATE YOU!" Sammy screams, just as the motel manager starts banging on their door.
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 1400
Disclaimer: Not my boys. Kripke broke them long before I ever got to them.
Summary: John does his best to keep his promise, but that doesn't make their Christmas any better.
So, I'm supposed to be writing a couple of birthday fics, but they're being incredibly stubborn and since I'm not about to spend my holidays studying.....surprise hoodie_time fill! Yay! This went into the exact opposite direction it was supposed to, but whatever. I've stopped arguing with the musie.
Fill for 'Craving' on my new and awesome angst_bingo card and 'Rejection' and 'Grief' on my hc_bingo card.
Just last year when I was only seven
And now I'm almost eight as you can see
You came home at a quarter past eleven
Fell down underneath our Christmas tree
John's hand is shaking when he raises it to knock on the door to their motel room. Three short, two long, two short. He almost messes up on the third knock when his migraine spikes without warning and he barely manages to hold on to the brown take-out bag with clammy fingers.
He tells himself it's not withdrawal; the trembling hands and the sweating and the racing heart. The way his head feels like someone is twisting a rusty knife around behind his right temple. He's so used to telling himself he's not a useless drunk - not exactly like his old man - that he almost believes it.
Doesn't matter what it is anyway, because John is not breaking his promise. The promise he never spoke out loud and Dean never asked for, but that's real nonetheless.
The promise that this Christmas will be different.
The memory of last year is still enough to make John's skin crawl, almost enough to have him dive for the bottle under the front seat of his car. The broken tree and ornaments stuck in his flesh. Sammy crying and Dean fighting back his own tears, quietly asking John if he was gonna die. John wants to dig himself a hole and disappear just thinking about it.
The door opens enough to reveal about half of Dean's face. One hand on the Mossberg leaning against the wall, just out of John's sight. He feels a warm jolt of pride that is quickly overshadowed by guilt.
Dean glares at him, the one eye that isn't hidden behind the door narrowed in suspicion until he's heard the password, just like John taught him.
Then there is a crash, somewhere in the room and John can see Sammy running for the door on unsteady legs.
"Daddy-yy-eee!"
Sammy's excited shout quickly turns into a wail when his brother's hand lands flat on his chest, knocking him back to land on his ass.
"Semper Fi," John says quickly and Dean's scowl breaks into a smile as he hastens to unlock the chain and let John in.
John returns the smile, even though his youngest's howling sends jolts of pain through his skull. Dean smacks his lips in dismay at the chunky bits of melting snow John drags into their room.
"Gimme a hand, will ya."
John blindly holds out the brown paper bag for his son to take before he finally gets to scoop Sammy up in both his arms. Thick baby tears are running down his flushed cheeks as he sucks in huge, exaggerated gulps of air.
"Dee-ean h-hu-hurt meee," the three-year-old wails, burying his face in the crook of John's neck.
John catches a glimpse of Dean's eyes, huge and round, peering up at him from under his long lashes and he tries to ignore the pang of guilt that tells him his boy shouldn't be afraid of him.
"It's okay," he whispers into Sammy's soft baby locks, winking down at Dean. "He didn't mean it, right?"
Dean sighs, his tongue shoots out to wet his lips. The boy isn't one for talking back, but John can see the argument now, just waiting to be thrown in John's face. The You said to always make sure, the I only did what you told me to.
John raises one eyebrow in warning even when he feels his heart sink at the way Dean swallows the words back down with a nervous gulp. They're not talking to Sammy about passwords and shapeshifters and demons pretending to be his daddy. They're just not.
"Right," Dean nods, curling his toes into the thick carpet. "I'm sorry, Sammy."
Sammy sniffles against John's shoulder, wipes his snot-and-tear-streaked face on the thick flannel over shirt. "'kay," he mumbles and John is glad that it seems almost impossible for his boys to stay angry at each other for long. "Hungry."
John puts Sammy down on his chair by the rickety kitchen table. It has the comforters from both their beds folded up and stacked on top of each other, because as much as he may have cursed at the thing, the high chair Jim and Bobby guilt tripped him into buying did not fit into his car.
John barely manages to keep from cursing when he turns back around to get their dinner.
The burgers and fries have left the paper bag dark with grease, the stains already spreading to the white sheets of the boys' bed and John just knows those are gonna show up on his bill.
Fuckin' asshole manager.
John screws his eyes shut and counts in his head. The skin over his right temple grows tight with the effort, but he's so goddamn tired of teachers complaining about Dean's language, he bites down on the inside of his cheeks and swallows the words down along with the coppery blood.
:: :: ::
"Eat up," John tells his boys, pointing one soggy French fry at Dean's plate, then Sam's.
Dean shoots him a forlorn look, but knows better than to voice his opinion on their Christmas Eve dinner with more than a tired sigh. Sammy on the other hand? Sammy's got his little fists balled up next to his cold burger and the fries he barely touched, lower lip protruding in a pout that John didn't find cute two years ago when the kid first tried it on.
"I don't wannit!" he declares. "I want Santa!"
Dean groans and rolls his eyes, quickly stuffs another four fries into his mouth when John turns to glare at him.
"Santa's not gonna come unless he sees clean plates." John forces his voice to stay calm. The cold fry slips from his shaky grip and his heart speeds up in sudden inexplicable panic.
Mary would have made them turkey, he thinks. Or a roast. Or anything that isn't cold junk food. John wants nothing more than to scoop up their plates and flush the stuff down the toilet, but with the life they lead, he can't afford for this boys to be picky eaters and whatever he puts on the table damn well better gets eaten.
Which is a nice theory and all, but all Sammy's heard is Santa's not gonna come and now the crocodile tears are back, along with the wails and screeching and fists beating down on the cheap table and it sends John's headache through the fuckin' roof.
"Sammy," he snaps, feeling his eyes water and who knew? Who ever knew how much John would miss those beers?
"Noo-o-oo," Sammy screams, hiccuping his way through the word, face flushing red, well on the way to purple. "Noo, Iwansant-a-a-ha."
The Terrible Twos, Mary called it when Dean started screaming and throwing food and no became the only word he'd ever say. They read a book or two, talked to the couple down the street and Dean grew out of it. With Sammy, the Terrible Twos turned into the Terrible Threes and will probably turn into the Terrible Fours and Fives and Fifteens if he keeps it up.
John shoots Dean a pleading look, ignores the uncomfortable tightness around his throat that reminds him he's being a selfish bastard for relying on his seven-year-old to deal with his little brother's tantrums. Dean makes it easy to take him for granted. Some days it feels like John can do nothing right with Sammy; makes him cry by just being in the same room with him, when all Dean has to do is smile and poke his brother's chubby baby belly and whatever John did to upset the kid will be forgotten.
Dean makes it so goddamn easy to forget he's still a kid, only four years older than Sammy, barely making due with running through the fading memories he has of his mom's gentle touches.
Not tonight though.
Tonight Dean's eyes shine bright and huge and watery-green before he drops his head on top of his folded arms on the table, whispering "just shut up" and John has never needed a drink more in his life.
"Sammy," he says, quiet this time, pleading with his boy to calm down. Sammy's wails pierce deep into the thundering headache behind John's eyes. His heart is suddenly all the way up in his throat, beating too fast and too hard and his hands are balled into tight fists to keep them from shaking. "Sammy please, Santa's gonna come, okay? Santa's gonna come first thing in the morning."
That stops the screaming. Sammy stares at him, panting heavily and John finds himself staring back at the thick tears, trembling on the boy's wet lashes before they fall and with one huge gulp of air Sammy's crying again.
"Noo-ho-he's noo-o-ot!"
It's as much the cry of a wounded animal as it's discernible words and John presses the palms of his hands into his throbbing temples, dimly aware of Dean banging his head rhythmically on the table top.
"I HATE YOU!" Sammy screams, just as the motel manager starts banging on their door.