fic: can't forget the ills
Okay, so this happened. It happened because lavinialavender left me pretty, pretty comments on Mouths of Decadence, and I was flattered. And then she said, "And you know what I really want to see? A sequel with the next time John's back and they're eating a meal together. Sam's mostly recovered - i.e., gained back enough weight close to where he should be - and it's extremely tense, Dean is on edge, just waiting for John to say something about Sam's appearance, and Sam is struggling with a minor relapse - really just sudden disinclination, more than he's had in a while, not to eat since John's there and watching him. It takes several pointed hard looks from Dean to make him finish." And I didn't look away in time.
So, I took that, chewed it up, and THIS is the result!
Not. My. Fault.
But onward, now:
oh, I get to use my relatively new label: required reading: Mouths of Decadence. And, not so much with the required, but still preceding this fic, time-wise: the fruit of the melancholy tree.
OMGWTF: DEALS WITH EATING DISORDERS; unbeta'd; Dean-POV, dick-ish, but slightly misunderstood!John; DEAN (a warning all by itself? why yes, this time).
can't forget the ills
It's weird, having their dad back and rattling around the apartment. He doesn't drink, Dean hasn't even found a single bottle in the house since John's been back but he doesn't talk all that much, either, not to Dean and definitely not to Sam. He's always up before Dean, drinking coffee and reading the paper in the morning.
When Dean finally asks, John just shrugs. "Garage," he says.
Oh. "We're staying then."
John finally glances up, the paper cutting off the lower half of his face. "Yeah. For awhile. That okay?" It's a little too knowing, Dean thinks, but he smiles anyway.
"Sam'll like that."
**
They haven't eaten a meal all together, yet. John comes and goes. Gone before Sam gets up, home after Sam goes to bed. Dean sees him drifting into rooms and out again, finds stray wrappers in the living room, bunched inside a dirty glass, all signs of a quick meal. If Dean makes a meal, a real one, he packs up the leftovers before Sam does the dishes, neat stacks of old butter bowls or sour cream containers lined up in the fridge. He doesn't make John a plate, doesn't leave anything out, but he will scrawl a note and stick it on the counter.
He tells himself it's all he needs to do. John had been gone weeks, so long that Dean had started thinking maybe it was for good, that maybe if they ever wanted to see John again he'd have to go after the man with rope and shotgun and drag him back. So Dean's not responsible for him, it's not his job, but on the nights there's hamburgers or chicken or spaghetti sitting in the fridge, Dean tosses and turns, wonders if John found the note or if it got shoved off the counter.
"Go out there and just tell him," Sam whispers. It makes Dean jump, that sound without a creak from his brother's bed.
"Christ, I thought you were sleeping, Sam."
"No," Sam huffs, "I can't, you keep flippin all around. So just go tell him, already."
"I don't need to. He's a grown man, he can look after himself."
Sam snorts, and Dean almost wants to get up and smack him quiet, but then he says, "you don't want him to leave again."
Christ, and that makes Dean sound like a little kid. "Sam - "
"No," Sam says again, "I didn't mean it like that, Dean. I just, not like how he did."
"What I want," Dean smacks his mattress, dry whumpwhump. "Is for him to get that stick outta his ass. However he does that's fine with me."
He waits a second, then two, before he hears it, Sam's muffled giggles. They get louder and louder until Dean's hissing, "shh," and chucking whatever's on his table in Sam's general vicinity. "Shut up," and he hears Sam choke on his laughter until he can get deep breaths in between hiccups. "Just get some sleep, alright?"
Sam sighs, but it sounds happy, more relaxed than Dean's heard him since John showed up, and he can't help grinning, too. Things'll be fine.
**
One day, Dean thinks, one day he'll learn.
Things'll be fine. With John for a dad, and Sam for a brother. Things'll be fine.
Jesus.
If things were fine, he wouldn't be at a table stabbing at a medium rare steak in the dead silence John and Sam leave in their respective wakes.
It's driving him insane, the scrape of metal on his plate and the way John breathes when he eats, sturdy and a little too fast.
Maybe more than that, more important than that, is Sam's pale face, the way his eyes skitter over everything on the table, and land on nothing in particular. Dean watches Sam tense and sigh; he watches him go for his knife and fork, flinch away from them, and then go for it again like they're some twisting snake he has to wrangle.
Dean knows what it means. He's spent days prying fists open to get a fork in there. Weeks counting bites taken and tracing bones with eyes and hands. Months getting Sam to see exactly where he should be. It's become everything to him, every day that's normal; every meal that's made and eaten without a hitch is a sign that Dean's doing something right.
And John just watches, like he's waiting for something, for Sam to live up to some big dream John's stored up in his head. It makes Dean grit his teeth, makes his grip on his glass tight and painful.
What's the point, Dean wants to say. What's the point of this?
Because coming home to his dad already here should be okay. It shouldn't be John in the kitchen, fuckin cooking, and Sam stashed away in their bedroom curled up on Dean's bed, trying to smile and only managing to wince.
It definitely shouldn't be this, this fuckin joke of a meal.
He wants to snap, at John or Sam, he wants to get up, storm off, say to hell with it all, because it's too much. Too much work and too much time to see Sam's face fill out again, to get some muscle back on his brother that actually has any bit of strength behind it. And now all Dean can think is that he gets to see John watch everything unravel.
"Not hungry, Dean?" His dad's eyes are off his brother for a moment, focused on him, and Dean just bares his teeth.
Sam's looking between them, small square of meat balanced on the tip of his knife. Dean watches him stick it in his mouth. He watches Sam chew woodenly and swallow like he doesn't know how to get his throat to work. Dean knows that he's not helping the situation, really, but all he can see are Sam's ribs and the way he shakes, he can see the sad droop of his mouth, and the way he begs for a choice that Dean can't give him.
Sam says, "It's good," and it's soft, like a question, like he's the one trying to make peace.
John tenses and something Dean doesn't want to name flickers in his eyes, "I don't - "
Dean slams his glass down, water sloshing over the rim, down his wrist; cheap wood from the table chipping off and flying, but his, "no," is low, steadier than his hands or the way his heart is trying to beat out of his chest. "No. Don't you dare." He's leaning forward, closer to his dad. Let him hear it, he thinks. The fuck does he know. "Don't you say one damn thing to him about it."
His dad says, "you don't have a right." Sam says, "Dean."
And he can't, he's too angry, he feels it vibrate through him, curl around his spine. He stands, yanks Sam's plate over to him, drops it on top of his own. Pieces of potato skin skid off onto the table and the dishes clack together when he stands up. He passes by John's chair on the way to the kitchen and he hisses, "where were you?"
He doesn't wait for an answer, knows he's not going to get one - at least not one that will excuse anything or make it all right. He can hear shuffling and the murmur of voices, so he bangs the plates against the trashcan, loud, tries to drown them out.
"Okay," Sam says from the doorway. "That was interesting." He walks over, John's plate in hand, and Dean takes it from him, watches the food slip off into the bag, leaving behind a sheen of juices that he hoses off with the sprayer. "Dean." It's a question, and Dean looks over at him. "He said he'll be back. You'll talk then."
"Yeah," Dean tries smiling, watches Sam's eyes get big, and gives it up. "'s fine. Here, gimme that pot."
When Sam hands it to him, he fills it with water and drops it onto the stove. "Ramen," he says, and slides down til he's on the floor, back pressed against the cupboards.
Sam joins him, presses close until Dean lifts an arm and slings it around Sam's shoulders. Still thin, but it's not all bone against him, and he tugs Sam closer for a minute, buries his nose in Sam's hair before letting up.
Sam's apparently content to stay there, though, because Dean feels Sam relax against him, head tipped onto his chest. "I'm sorry," and his brother's voice sounds unsure and afraid, everything Dean doesn't want.
"Nah," he says and breathes, feeling Sam copy the rhythm. "Not your fault, Sammy."
They stay that way until the water boils. Then, when Dean's scrambling to get up, Sam whispers, "I can't believe you threw away steak dinners," and Dean looks at the package of noodles in his hands and laughs.
"Yeah," he says, easy to smile now, over his shoulder where his brother's waiting for him. "Thinkin the same thing."
Here, have pre-Stanford fic: the taste of saints.
And pre-Pilot Stanford era Sam/Jess the hunger never ends.
So, I took that, chewed it up, and THIS is the result!
Not. My. Fault.
But onward, now:
oh, I get to use my relatively new label: required reading: Mouths of Decadence. And, not so much with the required, but still preceding this fic, time-wise: the fruit of the melancholy tree.
OMGWTF: DEALS WITH EATING DISORDERS; unbeta'd; Dean-POV, dick-ish, but slightly misunderstood!John; DEAN (a warning all by itself? why yes, this time).
can't forget the ills
It's weird, having their dad back and rattling around the apartment. He doesn't drink, Dean hasn't even found a single bottle in the house since John's been back but he doesn't talk all that much, either, not to Dean and definitely not to Sam. He's always up before Dean, drinking coffee and reading the paper in the morning.
When Dean finally asks, John just shrugs. "Garage," he says.
Oh. "We're staying then."
John finally glances up, the paper cutting off the lower half of his face. "Yeah. For awhile. That okay?" It's a little too knowing, Dean thinks, but he smiles anyway.
"Sam'll like that."
**
They haven't eaten a meal all together, yet. John comes and goes. Gone before Sam gets up, home after Sam goes to bed. Dean sees him drifting into rooms and out again, finds stray wrappers in the living room, bunched inside a dirty glass, all signs of a quick meal. If Dean makes a meal, a real one, he packs up the leftovers before Sam does the dishes, neat stacks of old butter bowls or sour cream containers lined up in the fridge. He doesn't make John a plate, doesn't leave anything out, but he will scrawl a note and stick it on the counter.
He tells himself it's all he needs to do. John had been gone weeks, so long that Dean had started thinking maybe it was for good, that maybe if they ever wanted to see John again he'd have to go after the man with rope and shotgun and drag him back. So Dean's not responsible for him, it's not his job, but on the nights there's hamburgers or chicken or spaghetti sitting in the fridge, Dean tosses and turns, wonders if John found the note or if it got shoved off the counter.
"Go out there and just tell him," Sam whispers. It makes Dean jump, that sound without a creak from his brother's bed.
"Christ, I thought you were sleeping, Sam."
"No," Sam huffs, "I can't, you keep flippin all around. So just go tell him, already."
"I don't need to. He's a grown man, he can look after himself."
Sam snorts, and Dean almost wants to get up and smack him quiet, but then he says, "you don't want him to leave again."
Christ, and that makes Dean sound like a little kid. "Sam - "
"No," Sam says again, "I didn't mean it like that, Dean. I just, not like how he did."
"What I want," Dean smacks his mattress, dry whumpwhump. "Is for him to get that stick outta his ass. However he does that's fine with me."
He waits a second, then two, before he hears it, Sam's muffled giggles. They get louder and louder until Dean's hissing, "shh," and chucking whatever's on his table in Sam's general vicinity. "Shut up," and he hears Sam choke on his laughter until he can get deep breaths in between hiccups. "Just get some sleep, alright?"
Sam sighs, but it sounds happy, more relaxed than Dean's heard him since John showed up, and he can't help grinning, too. Things'll be fine.
**
One day, Dean thinks, one day he'll learn.
Things'll be fine. With John for a dad, and Sam for a brother. Things'll be fine.
Jesus.
If things were fine, he wouldn't be at a table stabbing at a medium rare steak in the dead silence John and Sam leave in their respective wakes.
It's driving him insane, the scrape of metal on his plate and the way John breathes when he eats, sturdy and a little too fast.
Maybe more than that, more important than that, is Sam's pale face, the way his eyes skitter over everything on the table, and land on nothing in particular. Dean watches Sam tense and sigh; he watches him go for his knife and fork, flinch away from them, and then go for it again like they're some twisting snake he has to wrangle.
Dean knows what it means. He's spent days prying fists open to get a fork in there. Weeks counting bites taken and tracing bones with eyes and hands. Months getting Sam to see exactly where he should be. It's become everything to him, every day that's normal; every meal that's made and eaten without a hitch is a sign that Dean's doing something right.
And John just watches, like he's waiting for something, for Sam to live up to some big dream John's stored up in his head. It makes Dean grit his teeth, makes his grip on his glass tight and painful.
What's the point, Dean wants to say. What's the point of this?
Because coming home to his dad already here should be okay. It shouldn't be John in the kitchen, fuckin cooking, and Sam stashed away in their bedroom curled up on Dean's bed, trying to smile and only managing to wince.
It definitely shouldn't be this, this fuckin joke of a meal.
He wants to snap, at John or Sam, he wants to get up, storm off, say to hell with it all, because it's too much. Too much work and too much time to see Sam's face fill out again, to get some muscle back on his brother that actually has any bit of strength behind it. And now all Dean can think is that he gets to see John watch everything unravel.
"Not hungry, Dean?" His dad's eyes are off his brother for a moment, focused on him, and Dean just bares his teeth.
Sam's looking between them, small square of meat balanced on the tip of his knife. Dean watches him stick it in his mouth. He watches Sam chew woodenly and swallow like he doesn't know how to get his throat to work. Dean knows that he's not helping the situation, really, but all he can see are Sam's ribs and the way he shakes, he can see the sad droop of his mouth, and the way he begs for a choice that Dean can't give him.
Sam says, "It's good," and it's soft, like a question, like he's the one trying to make peace.
John tenses and something Dean doesn't want to name flickers in his eyes, "I don't - "
Dean slams his glass down, water sloshing over the rim, down his wrist; cheap wood from the table chipping off and flying, but his, "no," is low, steadier than his hands or the way his heart is trying to beat out of his chest. "No. Don't you dare." He's leaning forward, closer to his dad. Let him hear it, he thinks. The fuck does he know. "Don't you say one damn thing to him about it."
His dad says, "you don't have a right." Sam says, "Dean."
And he can't, he's too angry, he feels it vibrate through him, curl around his spine. He stands, yanks Sam's plate over to him, drops it on top of his own. Pieces of potato skin skid off onto the table and the dishes clack together when he stands up. He passes by John's chair on the way to the kitchen and he hisses, "where were you?"
He doesn't wait for an answer, knows he's not going to get one - at least not one that will excuse anything or make it all right. He can hear shuffling and the murmur of voices, so he bangs the plates against the trashcan, loud, tries to drown them out.
"Okay," Sam says from the doorway. "That was interesting." He walks over, John's plate in hand, and Dean takes it from him, watches the food slip off into the bag, leaving behind a sheen of juices that he hoses off with the sprayer. "Dean." It's a question, and Dean looks over at him. "He said he'll be back. You'll talk then."
"Yeah," Dean tries smiling, watches Sam's eyes get big, and gives it up. "'s fine. Here, gimme that pot."
When Sam hands it to him, he fills it with water and drops it onto the stove. "Ramen," he says, and slides down til he's on the floor, back pressed against the cupboards.
Sam joins him, presses close until Dean lifts an arm and slings it around Sam's shoulders. Still thin, but it's not all bone against him, and he tugs Sam closer for a minute, buries his nose in Sam's hair before letting up.
Sam's apparently content to stay there, though, because Dean feels Sam relax against him, head tipped onto his chest. "I'm sorry," and his brother's voice sounds unsure and afraid, everything Dean doesn't want.
"Nah," he says and breathes, feeling Sam copy the rhythm. "Not your fault, Sammy."
They stay that way until the water boils. Then, when Dean's scrambling to get up, Sam whispers, "I can't believe you threw away steak dinners," and Dean looks at the package of noodles in his hands and laughs.
"Yeah," he says, easy to smile now, over his shoulder where his brother's waiting for him. "Thinkin the same thing."
Here, have pre-Stanford fic: the taste of saints.
And pre-Pilot Stanford era Sam/Jess the hunger never ends.