Whipping Boy
Title: Whipping Boy
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 1400
Disclaimer: Not my boys. Kripke broke them long before I even got to them.
Summary: Dean just can't help being a martyr.
Written as a birthday present for the ever-awesome marlowe78 . I'm almost sure this is exactly the kind of fic she didn't want and I'm sorry, I really, really am. *crawls under rock*
Fill for 'Manipulation and Control' on my angst_bingo card.
They're ruining his summer. Dad and Sammy and their ridiculous, never-ending fighting over everything.
It's mostly Sam, Dean thinks. Always pushing and asking and demanding and yelling, like he's actually got a shot at butting heads with John Winchester and walking away without a shattered skull.
"Because I don't want to. Why can't you just get that?"
"Sam, I swear to God, one more word out of your mouth and I'll..."
Even Bobby looks uncomfortable now, the way he's sitting on his side of the table, quietly shoveling lasagna into his mouth with that weird little frown around his fork.
"I. Don't. Want. To."
Dean kicks Sam's shin under the table. Steel-capped boots against bare skin.
"Fuck! What the..?"
And suddenly Dad is on his feet and Sam is staring at Dean and Dean shoves his plate across the table.
"Geez, Bobby, what the hell'd you put in that lasagna, anyway? Fuck, I can't eat this crap."
:: :: ::
“You doin’ okay in here?”
John starts at the sound of his own voice. Rough and hard. Too loud even over the angry buzzing in his ears.
He feels himself tilt to the right, shoulder bouncing against the hard door jamb, the room in front of him blurring around the edges.
But damn, Singer’s got some strong shit in his liquor cabinet.
Dean's back straightens, even while he's sitting on the floor. “’ssir,” he says with a hasty nod. Looks confused by the question, like all he knows is no sir would’ve been the wrong answer.
John grunts and shifts his weight until he has to hold onto the door frame to keep from stumbling into the room. He focuses his blurry gaze on a spot just above the boy’s shoulders, tries not to look at the angry pink hand print that's marring the pale face.
"You do a half-assed job on these, you're gonna be sorry."
Dean's breath hitches like he's trying to work up the nerve to say something he already knows won't win him any favors. It's barely there, blink and you'll miss it, but for a moment his eyes look haunted and scared. John doesn't want to see, so he stares ahead, finds the stained legal pad to focus on.
The Origin of the Letter EOH and it's its Use in Ancient Rituals is scrawled in big, capital letters across the first three lines.
Like this is some damn homework assignment he's trying to cut short.
"You better hope that's the biggest headline you got," John growls. His voice hurts in his throat, sharp edges digging into the thick layer of tequila.
"Yeah, uh..."
Dean holds the pad up for John to inspect, quickly flips through the yellow sheets of paper. Two pages per rune, just like Bobby asked and most of the captions are just this side of acceptable.
John grunts his okay and silently congratulates himself when a small flash of relief twitches across Dean's face. Even if Sammy has taken to challenging him on every turn, he's still got it in him to slap his eldest back in line. Can be downright intimidating when he sets his mind to it, even if all he's handing out these days are half-assed cuffs and punishment essays.
John snorts at the thought. Fuckin' ridiculous 's what it is, but hey, Singer's house, Singer's call...or something.
“IapologizedtoBobby,” Dean pushes out in one quick, hushed mumble, the pen dancing up and down between his fingers, blurring into a blue line in John's head. He closes his eyes against the sudden sense of vertigo.
Singer means well, but it’s enough if one of them keeps cuddling the boys. John isn’t as generous with his forgiveness.
“Bobby?” he asks pointedly, quietly raises one eyebrow, daring the kid to step out of line further.
“Uncle Bobby,” Dean amends quickly, sucking his lips between his teeth in dismay.
“Uh-huh."
John shakes his head as he quietly repeats Dean's words from earlier under his breath. "Fuck, I can't eat this crap." Like they aren't guests under Bobby's roof. Like John didn't spend the last twelve years teaching his boys to eat whatever's been put in front of them and be goddamn grateful.
His fingers were itching to take a belt to the kid. Still are, under the heavy, warm tingling that’s pulling them down.
He forces himself to remember last time that happened. When he lost control and Dean had to cover up the welts and bruises with long, sweat soaked flannels all summer. When for well over a week, Dean’d flinch every time he tried to sit back in a chair and blind panic flickered over his face every time Sam left the motel without him.
"Ain't old enough to call him Bobby."
John's tongue has trouble moving around the words and he rubs to fingers over the bridge of his nose in a pointless attempt to stop the rhythmic pounding behind his eyes.
Dean's mouth tightens around the corners, as close to his brother's ever-present frown as he'll ever get, but he ducks his head and nods again, so John lets it slide for now.
"I am sorry, y'know."
John grunts again in response. Wonders why he even bothered to come in here and check up on his boy in the first place. It's always too easy with Dean. He fucks up, he owns his mistake and takes his licks. Sometimes all John wants to do is take another deep gulp of tequila and get right up in the kid's face until he fights back.
Except he wouldn't. Fight back that is. Not ever and it makes John's blood boil for reasons he can't even begin to understand.
Dean shifts uncomfortably again, his shoulders drawn up ever so slightly, as out of place in the dusty library as any of Bobby's damn mutts. His tongue shoots out to nervously wet his slightly parted lips. "I only have three left," he says, giving the legal pad a quick jerk. "The ones that look like F's? Then I'll be done."
John watches him point at the page of one of the open books. The ink blurs together around the edges and John closes his eyes for a minute to force down the tequila that's trying to fight its way back up again.
"You go on to bed as soon as you're finished," he rasps when the room stops spinning and settles on a comfortable, familiar sway. "Drills start at 0630."
Dean's eyes flicker to the grandfather's clock, ticking away on the wall above the door. John swears he can see the bruises under the boy's eyes darken. Yessir, his lips silently move around the words. "I'll make sure Sammy's up and ready."
John sighs heavily, feels his lip curl up in a sad, drunken sneer. He knows when he's being played - or at least he does after his temper's burned out, when it's already too late.
It's probably time to hit the rack if he wants to be up and join his boys in the morning with nothing at hand stronger than Aspirin.
"Hey, Dad?" The voice sounds small, with not a single trace of the annoying, cocky drawl that's there more often than not these days. "uh...when I'm done, can I..?" Dean's ears flush bright pink, when his stomach starts rumbling in complaint.
John's shoulder slides forward until he's completely leaning into the door jamb. He swipes a sweaty hand over the thickening stubble around his chin when something starts pulling at the corners of his mouth.
"Bobby already tried the growing boy routine," he says, but his voice sounds better now. Smooth and almost-soft, like snow melting over hard rocks. "Finish up and hit the rack. You can eat again when you fuckin' appreciate it.
Dean chuckles slightly, offers a small, contrite smile when John turns towards the dark hallway (always too easy. Too good at buckling under).
John starts stumbling along the wall towards his warm bed. He decides he doesn't hear the floor boards screaming under the weight of small bare feet making their way from the kitchen to the library.