(no subject)
The first thing he'd done when he got home was go to bed.
He'd crawled between clean sheets and lain there stinking of sweat and jungle and his own sour fear all night, and when the sun rose, Dean rose with it, shaking off the last hope of sleep as he went. He'd fed and bathed Cori, grabbed his books and went to class, thought about cells and membranes and not the second island or the game that'd trapped him there. Thought about photofrigginsynthesis and not the specter of his dead father running him to ground.
He went to chemistry and spent more time thinking he needed to keep an eye on Coraline than he did his lesson, and when it was over, Dean went to the clinic. He changed sheets, he sharpened scalpels, he did his homework, he went home.
He puttered around for nearly an hour before he realized it was his birthday.
It took him ten minutes to find the video camera. He went through Angua's tapes with trembling fingers, and when he found the one he wanted, he stuffed it in his pocket and went outside. He stared at the trees and the empty, darkening sky. He didn't put the tape in for a long time.
He took it with him to the Winchester and drank three beers before setting the camera on the table next to his plate of food, untouched and cooling fast.
She'd taken it two years ago. His friends and his family recorded and congratulating him on reaching thirty years, telling him they loved him, that they were glad he was around, and Dean had been. Ecstatic. He thought, looking back, that it was probably the happiest night of his whole damn life, and now so many on the tape were gone, so many were wounded and made unwhole with grief.
He shouldn't watch it. That was nobody's life anymore, and he shouldn't, but there was one face on the tape that he needed to see.
"Hey there, Dean," said John, and Dean's eyes stung, watching his father stare off camera into its blinking red light. He watched him start, shake his head, and start again. "So, thirty years old. Didn't think I'd live to see the day." The corners of John's mouth tugged up sardonically, then dropped. "Listen. Things were tough. I expected a lot out of you and you never disappointed me, not once. You always did the best you could, takin' care of Sammy for me. Now I want you to do somethin' else for me, Dean. I want you to take care of you. Don't beat yourself up over things you can't change. It doesn't do a damned thing. I know that better'n anyone."
On camera, John took a deep breath, and Dean breathed with him.
"I'm glad you're my boy. I'm proud of you. I love you. Your mother loved you. So damned much. I wish she was alive to see you today. So happy birthday, Dean. From the both of us."
Dean waited for the screen to go black, then he rewound. He watched it again, and then again, got himself a beer and watched it for a fourth time. The camera was still looping when his thumb slid slowly from the play button, resting limp against the table as Dean's eyelids made the same downward journey.
"Hey there, Dean."
With John's voice in his ears, Dean fell asleep.
[ooc: the video playing is this. Your pup can hear John or anyone else on the tape if you so choose.]
He'd crawled between clean sheets and lain there stinking of sweat and jungle and his own sour fear all night, and when the sun rose, Dean rose with it, shaking off the last hope of sleep as he went. He'd fed and bathed Cori, grabbed his books and went to class, thought about cells and membranes and not the second island or the game that'd trapped him there. Thought about photofrigginsynthesis and not the specter of his dead father running him to ground.
He went to chemistry and spent more time thinking he needed to keep an eye on Coraline than he did his lesson, and when it was over, Dean went to the clinic. He changed sheets, he sharpened scalpels, he did his homework, he went home.
He puttered around for nearly an hour before he realized it was his birthday.
It took him ten minutes to find the video camera. He went through Angua's tapes with trembling fingers, and when he found the one he wanted, he stuffed it in his pocket and went outside. He stared at the trees and the empty, darkening sky. He didn't put the tape in for a long time.
He took it with him to the Winchester and drank three beers before setting the camera on the table next to his plate of food, untouched and cooling fast.
She'd taken it two years ago. His friends and his family recorded and congratulating him on reaching thirty years, telling him they loved him, that they were glad he was around, and Dean had been. Ecstatic. He thought, looking back, that it was probably the happiest night of his whole damn life, and now so many on the tape were gone, so many were wounded and made unwhole with grief.
He shouldn't watch it. That was nobody's life anymore, and he shouldn't, but there was one face on the tape that he needed to see.
"Hey there, Dean," said John, and Dean's eyes stung, watching his father stare off camera into its blinking red light. He watched him start, shake his head, and start again. "So, thirty years old. Didn't think I'd live to see the day." The corners of John's mouth tugged up sardonically, then dropped. "Listen. Things were tough. I expected a lot out of you and you never disappointed me, not once. You always did the best you could, takin' care of Sammy for me. Now I want you to do somethin' else for me, Dean. I want you to take care of you. Don't beat yourself up over things you can't change. It doesn't do a damned thing. I know that better'n anyone."
On camera, John took a deep breath, and Dean breathed with him.
"I'm glad you're my boy. I'm proud of you. I love you. Your mother loved you. So damned much. I wish she was alive to see you today. So happy birthday, Dean. From the both of us."
Dean waited for the screen to go black, then he rewound. He watched it again, and then again, got himself a beer and watched it for a fourth time. The camera was still looping when his thumb slid slowly from the play button, resting limp against the table as Dean's eyelids made the same downward journey.
"Hey there, Dean."
With John's voice in his ears, Dean fell asleep.
[ooc: the video playing is this. Your pup can hear John or anyone else on the tape if you so choose.]