Before I Sleep
Title: Before I Sleep
Characters: John, Dean, Sam, OFC
Rating: PG13
Disclaimer: I don't own anything Supernatural related.
Summary: It's hard being a father, but John does what he has to do. Preseries.
A/N: Written for the comment fic meme on sickdean, in answer to the prompt: "John, Teen!Dean, gen. John gets a call from school when Dean passes out due to a (hidden) injury. John is angry and worried that Dean didn't tell him he was hurt." Thanks to wave_obscura for being my faithful and wonderful beta.
John needs little sleep, always did. It’s a blessing when it comes to hunting, but it also means that he really, really doesn’t like to be disturbed when he can get the sleep he does need ‘cause he’s just human, after all. John Winchester is a tough son of a bitch on a good day; he’s a mean bastard if you wake him up. His boys know it; his friends - the few he’s kept - know it too. Unfortunately, that leaves way too many people who don’t have this precious bit of information.
Maybe he was a bit hard on the poor girl on the phone, John thinks once he’s behind the wheel of the Impala. Maybe he didn’t need to snap at her, she was just doing her job. That’s what Sam would tell him and as much as John doesn’t like the kid criticizing his behavior, he has to admit that his son is sometimes the annoying voice of reason.
But then John only had two hours of sleep, he’s sore everywhere from his last hunt, and the girl told him that his stupid older son passed out in the hallway of his school. He’s understandably pissed. He’s spitting curses and gripping the wheel until his knuckles are white because he’s just. so. fucking. pissed.
He’s probably breaking the speed limit, but who cares? Not John, anyway. Ten minutes later, he storms in the nurse’s office, and surprisingly the first thing he sees is the face of his younger son.
“Sam?”
Sam’s eyes are rimmed with red like he’s been crying, but they’re dry when he looks up to watch his father enter the room. Dry and shining with all their fourteen-year old defiance. John wants to sigh - the boy will be the death of him - but his insides are twisting with unnamed fear. Sam may be a kid, but he usually doesn’t cry so easily. Not without a very good reason.
“What are you crying for?” John asks bluntly, his tone harsh with worry.
“’M not crying,” Sam snaps.
“Sammy’s aiming for an Oscar, Dad,” comes Dean’s voice for a corner of the room, and John feels a wave of relief overwhelm him.
He turns to see his son on a chair, doing his best to sit straight though it’s obviously painful for him. The boy’s face is pale, making his eyes look greener than ever, and he has an arm wrapped around his middle. Ribs, John diagnoses.
“What do you mean?” he says though it’s not what he really wants to ask.
“Sam put a show for the nurse so she would let him stay with me. When she saw him bawling his eyes out, she stopped telling him to get back to class. ‘T was really embarrassing.”
“Shut up!” Sam growls. “You stupid jerk!”
“Enough!” John barks, not in the mood for his boys’ bickering. “Is one of you going to tell me what the fuck happened?”
Sam opens his mouth but Dean’s faster than him.
“Yesterday, I hurt myself a little at school. I… fell.”
“You fell?” John doesn’t bother hiding his skepticism.
“Yeah.”
He watches his sons exchange a series of quick looks, and he knows he won’t get the whole story. He almost never does.
“And today,” Dean goes on, “there was this guy who, like… pushed me. Now I think I have some cracked ribs.”
“Pushed you, huh? And what happened to this guy?”
Dean smirks.
“Sam kicked his ass. Right, Sammy?”
Sam’s cheeks turn pink, and that’s only then that John notices that the boy’s knuckles are bruised.
“It’s Sam,” Sam retorts. “You told me you were fine, that he didn’t hurt you that bad,” he adds, his voice trembling a little, making him sound younger than usual.
“That’s ‘cause I’m fine.”
“Yeah, right, that’s why you…”
The door opens and Sam shuts up immediately. A tall woman comes into the room, dark hair cut short, grey eyes looking John up and down. She doesn’t look like she likes what she sees.
“You’re John Winchester.” She doesn’t ask, she asserts.
“I am.”
“Dean has bruises all over his torso. I think two of his ribs are cracked. He probably fainted from the pain.”
John hears Dean mumble “I didn’t faint,” and Sam chuckles. The woman presses her lips together in a tight line, obviously not finding anything funny. She has this look John recognizes for having seen it on a lot of teachers, nurses, doctors over the years. You’re not a good father, it says. Or even, Are you abusing your kids, you fucking asshole?
Well, fuck this judgmental bitch.
“Can I take my boy home?” he asks, refraining from growling.
“Of course.”
“Come on, Dean.”
Dean stands up, moving slow and careful. Sam stands up too, following his brother, but John stops him in the move.
“You go back to class, Sam.”
“What? But I wanna go with Dean!”
“Your brother will be fine. Go back to class.”
“But it’s because of me that…”
Dean interrupts him.
“Sam, I’m okay. Go back to class; we’ll see each other later. Aren’t you the one always whining because you want to go to school? And now you don’t want to?”
Sam glares at him, then sighs.
“Alright,” he grumbles reluctantly.
Sam leaves the office with a “Bye, Mrs. Carlson” at the nurse, and a last worried look at his brother.
It’s obvious that Mrs. Carlson wants to say something when John leaves in his turn with Dean, but fortunately for her she keeps her mouth shut because John isn’t sure he would have been able to stay civil. He can feel her eyes on his back all the way to his car, though.
Once they’re in the Impala, John looks at his boy who is slumped against the door, eyes closed, lines of pain showing at the corner of his mouth.
“So,” he says, “when I saw you this morning, you were already hurt, weren’t you?”
Dean’s eyes snap open. He opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again:
“It was just bruises, Dad.”
“Yeah, and look in what state you are now. You gotta tell me things like this. What if I had needed you for a hunt this weekend? You couldn’t make it through one day in high school; you wouldn’t have been able to hunt. Would you have told me you were hurt?”
“I… I’m sorry, Dad.”
Dean lowers his head in guilt. Good, John thinks. Maybe next time the boy will take better care of himself.
“I have to know that I can count on you,” he adds for good measure, before he turns the key in the ignition.
Dean’s eyes are closed again, and he looks so young and vulnerable that for a fleeting moment John feels a little like an asshole.
The moment passes, though. It always does.
Characters: John, Dean, Sam, OFC
Rating: PG13
Disclaimer: I don't own anything Supernatural related.
Summary: It's hard being a father, but John does what he has to do. Preseries.
A/N: Written for the comment fic meme on sickdean, in answer to the prompt: "John, Teen!Dean, gen. John gets a call from school when Dean passes out due to a (hidden) injury. John is angry and worried that Dean didn't tell him he was hurt." Thanks to wave_obscura for being my faithful and wonderful beta.
John needs little sleep, always did. It’s a blessing when it comes to hunting, but it also means that he really, really doesn’t like to be disturbed when he can get the sleep he does need ‘cause he’s just human, after all. John Winchester is a tough son of a bitch on a good day; he’s a mean bastard if you wake him up. His boys know it; his friends - the few he’s kept - know it too. Unfortunately, that leaves way too many people who don’t have this precious bit of information.
Maybe he was a bit hard on the poor girl on the phone, John thinks once he’s behind the wheel of the Impala. Maybe he didn’t need to snap at her, she was just doing her job. That’s what Sam would tell him and as much as John doesn’t like the kid criticizing his behavior, he has to admit that his son is sometimes the annoying voice of reason.
But then John only had two hours of sleep, he’s sore everywhere from his last hunt, and the girl told him that his stupid older son passed out in the hallway of his school. He’s understandably pissed. He’s spitting curses and gripping the wheel until his knuckles are white because he’s just. so. fucking. pissed.
He’s probably breaking the speed limit, but who cares? Not John, anyway. Ten minutes later, he storms in the nurse’s office, and surprisingly the first thing he sees is the face of his younger son.
“Sam?”
Sam’s eyes are rimmed with red like he’s been crying, but they’re dry when he looks up to watch his father enter the room. Dry and shining with all their fourteen-year old defiance. John wants to sigh - the boy will be the death of him - but his insides are twisting with unnamed fear. Sam may be a kid, but he usually doesn’t cry so easily. Not without a very good reason.
“What are you crying for?” John asks bluntly, his tone harsh with worry.
“’M not crying,” Sam snaps.
“Sammy’s aiming for an Oscar, Dad,” comes Dean’s voice for a corner of the room, and John feels a wave of relief overwhelm him.
He turns to see his son on a chair, doing his best to sit straight though it’s obviously painful for him. The boy’s face is pale, making his eyes look greener than ever, and he has an arm wrapped around his middle. Ribs, John diagnoses.
“What do you mean?” he says though it’s not what he really wants to ask.
“Sam put a show for the nurse so she would let him stay with me. When she saw him bawling his eyes out, she stopped telling him to get back to class. ‘T was really embarrassing.”
“Shut up!” Sam growls. “You stupid jerk!”
“Enough!” John barks, not in the mood for his boys’ bickering. “Is one of you going to tell me what the fuck happened?”
Sam opens his mouth but Dean’s faster than him.
“Yesterday, I hurt myself a little at school. I… fell.”
“You fell?” John doesn’t bother hiding his skepticism.
“Yeah.”
He watches his sons exchange a series of quick looks, and he knows he won’t get the whole story. He almost never does.
“And today,” Dean goes on, “there was this guy who, like… pushed me. Now I think I have some cracked ribs.”
“Pushed you, huh? And what happened to this guy?”
Dean smirks.
“Sam kicked his ass. Right, Sammy?”
Sam’s cheeks turn pink, and that’s only then that John notices that the boy’s knuckles are bruised.
“It’s Sam,” Sam retorts. “You told me you were fine, that he didn’t hurt you that bad,” he adds, his voice trembling a little, making him sound younger than usual.
“That’s ‘cause I’m fine.”
“Yeah, right, that’s why you…”
The door opens and Sam shuts up immediately. A tall woman comes into the room, dark hair cut short, grey eyes looking John up and down. She doesn’t look like she likes what she sees.
“You’re John Winchester.” She doesn’t ask, she asserts.
“I am.”
“Dean has bruises all over his torso. I think two of his ribs are cracked. He probably fainted from the pain.”
John hears Dean mumble “I didn’t faint,” and Sam chuckles. The woman presses her lips together in a tight line, obviously not finding anything funny. She has this look John recognizes for having seen it on a lot of teachers, nurses, doctors over the years. You’re not a good father, it says. Or even, Are you abusing your kids, you fucking asshole?
Well, fuck this judgmental bitch.
“Can I take my boy home?” he asks, refraining from growling.
“Of course.”
“Come on, Dean.”
Dean stands up, moving slow and careful. Sam stands up too, following his brother, but John stops him in the move.
“You go back to class, Sam.”
“What? But I wanna go with Dean!”
“Your brother will be fine. Go back to class.”
“But it’s because of me that…”
Dean interrupts him.
“Sam, I’m okay. Go back to class; we’ll see each other later. Aren’t you the one always whining because you want to go to school? And now you don’t want to?”
Sam glares at him, then sighs.
“Alright,” he grumbles reluctantly.
Sam leaves the office with a “Bye, Mrs. Carlson” at the nurse, and a last worried look at his brother.
It’s obvious that Mrs. Carlson wants to say something when John leaves in his turn with Dean, but fortunately for her she keeps her mouth shut because John isn’t sure he would have been able to stay civil. He can feel her eyes on his back all the way to his car, though.
Once they’re in the Impala, John looks at his boy who is slumped against the door, eyes closed, lines of pain showing at the corner of his mouth.
“So,” he says, “when I saw you this morning, you were already hurt, weren’t you?”
Dean’s eyes snap open. He opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again:
“It was just bruises, Dad.”
“Yeah, and look in what state you are now. You gotta tell me things like this. What if I had needed you for a hunt this weekend? You couldn’t make it through one day in high school; you wouldn’t have been able to hunt. Would you have told me you were hurt?”
“I… I’m sorry, Dad.”
Dean lowers his head in guilt. Good, John thinks. Maybe next time the boy will take better care of himself.
“I have to know that I can count on you,” he adds for good measure, before he turns the key in the ignition.
Dean’s eyes are closed again, and he looks so young and vulnerable that for a fleeting moment John feels a little like an asshole.
The moment passes, though. It always does.