SPN fic - Going Without - John and Dean PG13
RL work stuff continues to suck the life out of me like a black hole with a schwarzchild radius of a small planet. I am struggling with fic in between various work assignments. However, I did manage to complete a short piece for one of my Cash songs prompts for poorboyshuffle.
TITLE: Going Without
RATING: PG13 (gen; mention of canon het)
CHARACTERS: John and Dean, mention of Dean/Cassie
DISCLAIMER: Not mine.
PROMPT: Johnny Cash - One
NOTES: 1050 words. Set during Stanford era. John and Dean. After Cassie.
Did I disappoint you
Or leave a bad taste in your mouth
You act like you never had love
And you want me to go without
Well it's...
Too late
Tonight
To drag the past out into the light
We're one, but we're not the same
We get to
Carry each other
Carry each other...
“You got sloppy.”
Dean slides low in the passenger seat, his shoulders curved in and around, like he’s trying to make himself smaller.
Sam’s trick, that was, once he hit six foot and showed no signs of stopping. No matter how much he’d yell at Sam to stand up straight, the boy would hunch his shoulders; shove his hands down into his pockets and scowl. He’d perfected that scowl, made slouching into an art form, a mute expression of defiance when whatever small amount of sense the kid possessed dictated that backchat would no longer be tolerated.
There’s no defiance in Dean’s posture though; never has been. Right now he just looks wiped-out, the bruise-dark circles under his eyes contrasting starkly with the milky pallor of his skin. He slumps awkwardly against the door, a physical manifestation of utter exhaustion. John feels his own bones ache in unwilling sympathy.
“Got to stay focused, son.”
He doesn’t mean to criticize, but he doesn’t know what else to say. It was an easy job, the research wasn’t exactly taxing, all Dean had to do was find the quilt that contained the lock of hair and do a simple salt and burn. No rituals to learn and repeat. No curse to break. The kind of job Dean could do in his sleep.
Seems like he took that a little too literally. Fucking ghost got the drop on Dean; John found him pinned against the wall, her sewing needle poised to stab him right through the eye.
Cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye.
She died of a broken heart. Well, not quite, they realized, once they started looking a little deeper into the case. She died mostly of blood loss. From slashing her wrists after she found out her fiancé was cheating on her. Bled out all over the marriage quilt she’d been working on.
They’d torched her bones at the cemetery, a too-easy salt and burn, and Dean had been uncharacteristically quiet. John thinks he should have maybe said something then, but to be honest he hadn’t thought much of it. Not until after. Not until he saw Dean with her.
Not in a bar. Not leaning over a pool table, all wandering hands and that cocky little asshole grin that John’s despaired of since Dean turned fifteen going on twenty-one. All those gory lectures he'd given on STDs and taking precautions, and he’d thought that was the worst he had to fear.
They’d been sitting, side by side, arms barely touching, a quiet, easy conversation over coffee. It looked familiar, as if they’d been doing it for a while. Dean turning to gaze at her when he thought she wasn’t aware, looking at her like she was the sun and he’d been walking in shadows up until then.
It had been like sliding back into the past, riding some crazy carnival tilt-a-whirl, seeing himself in Dean, seeing the way he had looked at Mary reflected in his son’s gaze. Never saw his son look at a woman that way before.
He’s ashamed of how much it had terrified him.
The ghost had wrenched Dean’s shoulder out of the socket. Again. Kid should really get some physical therapy; that’s the third dislocation this year. He’s guarding it a little, his elbow resting carefully on his raised thigh, supporting it without being too obvious about it. Hurts like a bitch, John thinks, but Dean is silent, stoic, probably figuring that whingeing will get him yelled at. He’s not wrong.
“You know better than to turn your back. Rookie mistake, Dean.”
The criticism falls from his lips, unplanned. He shakes his head, and refastens his hand on the steering wheel. Dean still doesn’t answer.
That’s not like him. John doesn’t expect excuses; Dean knows better than that, but the kid’s not usually this quiet. Right about now he should be smarting off, giving John grief about his lack of stealth, lack of speed; criticizing the old man’s piss-poor aim. Running his mouth off, because that’s what they do. John criticizes and Dean gives him lip, but takes it to heart. That’s how it has always been. This silence from Dean is new, unnerving.
“You gotta always be prepared, son.”
John sees his son stiffen at the implied rebuke. It’s harsher than he means to be, than he wants to be, but he’s never coddled the boys, isn’t about to start. And right now that’s not what Dean needs.
“Don’t know what’s gotten into you,” John lies softly.
Because he does know. He remembers what it was like when the rest of the world faded to vague shadows, when Mary first became his sun and moon and stars above. In moments of idle fantasy, when he’d pretend he'd dreamed Mary’s death, he’d wished something like that for his sons.
Now he just wishes Dean had never met her.
He’s seen his son hurt. Cut and bruised and ripped open by the reality of other people’s nightmares. But only once before has John seen him broken, and he’d vowed then that he wouldn’t allow it to happen again.
Only he hadn’t let Dean in on that particular vow. Dean fell for her, hard and fast and all the way down until he hit bottom.
John doesn’t know what happened between them, only knows the results. Dean’s reactions fucked, his timing gone all to hell, his focus all over the goddamn place. She’d almost got his boy killed.
He swallows down the bile that rises in his throat at that thought and tightens his grip on the steering wheel.
“Can’t afford to let yourself get distracted, son.”
Dean shifts in the passenger seat, a low grunt the only concession to the pain that must be radiating down his arm by now. They’re gonna have to stop soon and take care of that shoulder, otherwise it’s gonna seize up and Dean’ll be in worse shape than he already is.
“We’ll stop and get you patched up, kid,” he says softly, dropping his hand onto Dean’s good arm, squeezing lightly. “Put this all behind you, okay?”
Dean nods, and if his eyes shine a little too brightly in the glow from the passing truck, well John sure as hell isn’t going to mention it.
TITLE: Going Without
RATING: PG13 (gen; mention of canon het)
CHARACTERS: John and Dean, mention of Dean/Cassie
DISCLAIMER: Not mine.
PROMPT: Johnny Cash - One
NOTES: 1050 words. Set during Stanford era. John and Dean. After Cassie.
Did I disappoint you
Or leave a bad taste in your mouth
You act like you never had love
And you want me to go without
Well it's...
Too late
Tonight
To drag the past out into the light
We're one, but we're not the same
We get to
Carry each other
Carry each other...
“You got sloppy.”
Dean slides low in the passenger seat, his shoulders curved in and around, like he’s trying to make himself smaller.
Sam’s trick, that was, once he hit six foot and showed no signs of stopping. No matter how much he’d yell at Sam to stand up straight, the boy would hunch his shoulders; shove his hands down into his pockets and scowl. He’d perfected that scowl, made slouching into an art form, a mute expression of defiance when whatever small amount of sense the kid possessed dictated that backchat would no longer be tolerated.
There’s no defiance in Dean’s posture though; never has been. Right now he just looks wiped-out, the bruise-dark circles under his eyes contrasting starkly with the milky pallor of his skin. He slumps awkwardly against the door, a physical manifestation of utter exhaustion. John feels his own bones ache in unwilling sympathy.
“Got to stay focused, son.”
He doesn’t mean to criticize, but he doesn’t know what else to say. It was an easy job, the research wasn’t exactly taxing, all Dean had to do was find the quilt that contained the lock of hair and do a simple salt and burn. No rituals to learn and repeat. No curse to break. The kind of job Dean could do in his sleep.
Seems like he took that a little too literally. Fucking ghost got the drop on Dean; John found him pinned against the wall, her sewing needle poised to stab him right through the eye.
Cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye.
She died of a broken heart. Well, not quite, they realized, once they started looking a little deeper into the case. She died mostly of blood loss. From slashing her wrists after she found out her fiancé was cheating on her. Bled out all over the marriage quilt she’d been working on.
They’d torched her bones at the cemetery, a too-easy salt and burn, and Dean had been uncharacteristically quiet. John thinks he should have maybe said something then, but to be honest he hadn’t thought much of it. Not until after. Not until he saw Dean with her.
Not in a bar. Not leaning over a pool table, all wandering hands and that cocky little asshole grin that John’s despaired of since Dean turned fifteen going on twenty-one. All those gory lectures he'd given on STDs and taking precautions, and he’d thought that was the worst he had to fear.
They’d been sitting, side by side, arms barely touching, a quiet, easy conversation over coffee. It looked familiar, as if they’d been doing it for a while. Dean turning to gaze at her when he thought she wasn’t aware, looking at her like she was the sun and he’d been walking in shadows up until then.
It had been like sliding back into the past, riding some crazy carnival tilt-a-whirl, seeing himself in Dean, seeing the way he had looked at Mary reflected in his son’s gaze. Never saw his son look at a woman that way before.
He’s ashamed of how much it had terrified him.
The ghost had wrenched Dean’s shoulder out of the socket. Again. Kid should really get some physical therapy; that’s the third dislocation this year. He’s guarding it a little, his elbow resting carefully on his raised thigh, supporting it without being too obvious about it. Hurts like a bitch, John thinks, but Dean is silent, stoic, probably figuring that whingeing will get him yelled at. He’s not wrong.
“You know better than to turn your back. Rookie mistake, Dean.”
The criticism falls from his lips, unplanned. He shakes his head, and refastens his hand on the steering wheel. Dean still doesn’t answer.
That’s not like him. John doesn’t expect excuses; Dean knows better than that, but the kid’s not usually this quiet. Right about now he should be smarting off, giving John grief about his lack of stealth, lack of speed; criticizing the old man’s piss-poor aim. Running his mouth off, because that’s what they do. John criticizes and Dean gives him lip, but takes it to heart. That’s how it has always been. This silence from Dean is new, unnerving.
“You gotta always be prepared, son.”
John sees his son stiffen at the implied rebuke. It’s harsher than he means to be, than he wants to be, but he’s never coddled the boys, isn’t about to start. And right now that’s not what Dean needs.
“Don’t know what’s gotten into you,” John lies softly.
Because he does know. He remembers what it was like when the rest of the world faded to vague shadows, when Mary first became his sun and moon and stars above. In moments of idle fantasy, when he’d pretend he'd dreamed Mary’s death, he’d wished something like that for his sons.
Now he just wishes Dean had never met her.
He’s seen his son hurt. Cut and bruised and ripped open by the reality of other people’s nightmares. But only once before has John seen him broken, and he’d vowed then that he wouldn’t allow it to happen again.
Only he hadn’t let Dean in on that particular vow. Dean fell for her, hard and fast and all the way down until he hit bottom.
John doesn’t know what happened between them, only knows the results. Dean’s reactions fucked, his timing gone all to hell, his focus all over the goddamn place. She’d almost got his boy killed.
He swallows down the bile that rises in his throat at that thought and tightens his grip on the steering wheel.
“Can’t afford to let yourself get distracted, son.”
Dean shifts in the passenger seat, a low grunt the only concession to the pain that must be radiating down his arm by now. They’re gonna have to stop soon and take care of that shoulder, otherwise it’s gonna seize up and Dean’ll be in worse shape than he already is.
“We’ll stop and get you patched up, kid,” he says softly, dropping his hand onto Dean’s good arm, squeezing lightly. “Put this all behind you, okay?”
Dean nods, and if his eyes shine a little too brightly in the glow from the passing truck, well John sure as hell isn’t going to mention it.