Fic: Breathe [John, Dean.. no Daddycest, just them being father and son]
Summary: Prompted by Sam's departure for Stanford, John struggles to find the words he should have said long ago. [Rated G, ~600 words]
Author's note: Hi guys. I know I haven't been around in 9 million forevers, but things are pretty ~le suck right now. Anyway I decided to give SPN a shot so I wrote this short little fic. Be gentle, guys. It's my first.
It didn’t hit John until the day after Sam left for Stanford. He knew he was hard on his boys, but he’d always rationalized it to himself as protecting them, caring for them, loving them. He hadn’t realized that somewhere along the way, he’d gotten things so very wrong.
The fight with Sam had been a bad one. He’d been angry and said things he hadn’t meant. He liked to think that Sam hadn’t meant some of the things he’d said either, but his boy was just as stubborn as he was and John knew that even if Sam had just been speaking out of anger, he’d never know.
The sound of the motel door opening and slamming caught John’s attention. He glanced up and caught sight of his eldest son kicking off his boots, frown lines darkening his face. The fight hadn’t been easy on Dean either and sometimes, John forgot just how much that damn kid meant to his big brother. If anything, he supposed that was something; even if their dad was gone more than he was around, at least they had each other.
Had.
Past tense, all because John had told Sam to go and stay gone. He hadn’t stopped for a second to think what that would mean for Dean.
“Hey Deano,” John called, voice rough from disuse. He didn’t have much to say now that Sam wasn’t around to bicker with because Dean, like his dad, was mostly a man of few words. They’d both made awkward attempts at conversation in those first few days following Sam’s departure, but now, they didn’t even bother.
Even though a small piece of John knew that Dean wouldn’t follow in Sammy’s footsteps, wouldn’t leave, part of him felt like Dean already had one foot out the door and he had to do something to stop it.
“C’mere for a second, would you?”
John watched as Dean breathed in deeply, no doubt steeling himself for some criticism or another.
“Yes sir,” he mumbled. He trudged over to where John sat, looking everywhere but at his father. He dropped down into the chair, gaze on the guns John was in the middle of cleaning. Without being told, Dean reached for the nearest gun and began disassembling it.
Perfect son, perfect soldier, John thought almost bitterly, angry at himself for what he’d allowed his son to become.
John reached over and awkwardly patted his son’s hand, stilling his movements. “Hold on a minute there, kiddo,” John said. He didn’t miss Dean’s scowl. The kid hadn’t actually been a kid for years; maybe not since Mary died and Christ, how sad was that? “I just wanted to talk to you for a minute.”
Dean laid the gun down, turning his hazel eyes on John. For a moment, he was taken aback by how much like Mary’s they were and he had to swallow back to overwhelming surge of emotion.
It was the day after Sam left for Stanford that he realized what he’d done; it was this very moment when he knew what he couldn’t lose.
John stood, motioning to the door with his head. “With me for a minute.”
Dean didn’t question, didn’t hesitate. He stood and followed his father out of the motel room. John had been throwing this idea around for awhile, but now, he’d use this opportunity to tell his son all the things he just couldn’t say.
They came to a stop in front of the gleaming Impala. Dean’s mouth was twisted down in a deep frown. “Dad?”
John said nothing as he handed the keys to his son, but at the same time, it said everything: I’m sorry. I love you. Please don’t leave me.
Dean stared down at the key ring in his hand for a moment before he closed his fingers around the cool metal. When he lifted his eyes to meet John’s, John saw everything he needed to reflected back at him through them: It’s okay. I love you too. I won’t.
And for the first time since Sam walked out without a glance back, John could breathe again.
Author's note: Hi guys. I know I haven't been around in 9 million forevers, but things are pretty ~le suck right now. Anyway I decided to give SPN a shot so I wrote this short little fic. Be gentle, guys. It's my first.
It didn’t hit John until the day after Sam left for Stanford. He knew he was hard on his boys, but he’d always rationalized it to himself as protecting them, caring for them, loving them. He hadn’t realized that somewhere along the way, he’d gotten things so very wrong.
The fight with Sam had been a bad one. He’d been angry and said things he hadn’t meant. He liked to think that Sam hadn’t meant some of the things he’d said either, but his boy was just as stubborn as he was and John knew that even if Sam had just been speaking out of anger, he’d never know.
The sound of the motel door opening and slamming caught John’s attention. He glanced up and caught sight of his eldest son kicking off his boots, frown lines darkening his face. The fight hadn’t been easy on Dean either and sometimes, John forgot just how much that damn kid meant to his big brother. If anything, he supposed that was something; even if their dad was gone more than he was around, at least they had each other.
Had.
Past tense, all because John had told Sam to go and stay gone. He hadn’t stopped for a second to think what that would mean for Dean.
“Hey Deano,” John called, voice rough from disuse. He didn’t have much to say now that Sam wasn’t around to bicker with because Dean, like his dad, was mostly a man of few words. They’d both made awkward attempts at conversation in those first few days following Sam’s departure, but now, they didn’t even bother.
Even though a small piece of John knew that Dean wouldn’t follow in Sammy’s footsteps, wouldn’t leave, part of him felt like Dean already had one foot out the door and he had to do something to stop it.
“C’mere for a second, would you?”
John watched as Dean breathed in deeply, no doubt steeling himself for some criticism or another.
“Yes sir,” he mumbled. He trudged over to where John sat, looking everywhere but at his father. He dropped down into the chair, gaze on the guns John was in the middle of cleaning. Without being told, Dean reached for the nearest gun and began disassembling it.
Perfect son, perfect soldier, John thought almost bitterly, angry at himself for what he’d allowed his son to become.
John reached over and awkwardly patted his son’s hand, stilling his movements. “Hold on a minute there, kiddo,” John said. He didn’t miss Dean’s scowl. The kid hadn’t actually been a kid for years; maybe not since Mary died and Christ, how sad was that? “I just wanted to talk to you for a minute.”
Dean laid the gun down, turning his hazel eyes on John. For a moment, he was taken aback by how much like Mary’s they were and he had to swallow back to overwhelming surge of emotion.
It was the day after Sam left for Stanford that he realized what he’d done; it was this very moment when he knew what he couldn’t lose.
John stood, motioning to the door with his head. “With me for a minute.”
Dean didn’t question, didn’t hesitate. He stood and followed his father out of the motel room. John had been throwing this idea around for awhile, but now, he’d use this opportunity to tell his son all the things he just couldn’t say.
They came to a stop in front of the gleaming Impala. Dean’s mouth was twisted down in a deep frown. “Dad?”
John said nothing as he handed the keys to his son, but at the same time, it said everything: I’m sorry. I love you. Please don’t leave me.
Dean stared down at the key ring in his hand for a moment before he closed his fingers around the cool metal. When he lifted his eyes to meet John’s, John saw everything he needed to reflected back at him through them: It’s okay. I love you too. I won’t.
And for the first time since Sam walked out without a glance back, John could breathe again.