FIC: Primer (1/1)
Title: Primer
Author: kimonkey7
Rating: PG-13 for mild swears
Pairing: none (gen) Dean, John
Timeline/SPOILERS: none, pre-series
Disclaimer: Not mine. Damn it.
Summary: Teach your children well, though they’ll learn plenty on their own.
A/N: Written for oxoniensis’s Fall Fandom Free-for-All, and animotus’s prompt: John didn't know Dean was so bossy!*whumpage is always appreciated*. ETA: Poooop! It's been so damn long since I did this, I forgot to add the much-deserved THANK YOU for pdragon76's fine beta. *facepalm*
“Here.”
“Whassat?” John asked. He squinted hard at whatever Dean was thrusting toward him, but couldn’t focus well enough to know if it was a pill, a bottle, or a goddamned possum.
“It’s a relatively clean towel. Best I can do for right now. Put it on your fuckin’ head before you get blood all over my seat.”
Damn. John was hoping it was a bottle, but also: “Whatta you mean, your seat? Impala ain’t yours yet, kid.”
“Quit yappin’ and put the damn towel on that gash, would ya?”
Dean slammed shut the passenger door, and John leaned away from the force. Just missed getting his hand or arm or head sheared off by cold Chevy steel. He watched Dean stomp around the front of the car and chuckled a little - would have with more enthusiasm, but it hurt his head and ribs.
Dean was pissed with a capital jaw-clench and he had every right to be, John knew. He’d give his son that. They were supposed to have been in and out: no worries, no heat. Easy money, that’s what he’d told Dean.
Most times, kid ghosts are. Whether they’ve been around for six months or sixty years, they fall for the simplest tricks - the old stand-bys - and usually, when all else fails, John’s got a helluva ‘Cause I said so… going for him. None of that matters when you get a little sociopath, though.
The sonuvabitch spook hadn’t wanted to go anywhere, that was clear five minutes in. Kid was stubborn as Sam. The ghost had sent Dean for a bumpy ride across the ancient farmhouse’s flagstone floor, then introduced John’s chest to a bookcase and his face to some old-fashioned slate walling.
Dean quick-braked the blinking red light at the deserted intersection and shot John a glance between stop and go.
“Dad. Keep the fuckin’ towel on your fuckin’ head.”
He didn’t realize he’d taken it off. “Sorry,” John muttered. He meant for the gig, not for letting the ersatz bandage slip.
Since Sam took off, John had been grabbing every job that came their way, had dragged Dean from Texas to Maine to Oregon in a single week. They were both running on nothing but bile and tension and heartache they couldn’t discuss.
When they got to the motel, Dean had to give him a shoulder into the room. John’s steps were uneasy, and a fresh flow of blood was keeping his right eye closed. In the room, he took steps toward the bed, but Dean steered him to the table.
“Dean, lemme lay down.”
“I gotta sew up your head. I need to be on top of that with the sutures, so I need you sittin’.”
He tried to keep the mattress as finish line, but Dean wrangled him into one of the straight-backed chairs by the window. The overhead light made John’s brain throb. A half-full fifth of Jack and a plastic cup were plunked down in front of him.
“I’m gonna get some water and towels, grab a stitch kit. No more than two shots,” Dean cautioned sternly, pointing at the bottle. He wrapped a knuckle against the Formica tabletop. “You got it?”
“I got it,” John grumbled, but missed the bottle on his first grab. “Fuckin’ concussion.”
“Exactly,” Dean said, and turned for the bathroom.
John remembered the first time his son had stitched him up; kid couldn’ta been more than fourteen. A spring-heeled Jack had taken a swipe at John’s back - opened up a maw of flesh six inches long - and he couldn’t twist and turn himself through that surgery. It’d taken Dean almost an hour to shakily close the wound, apologies, rough tugs, and winced reluctance, start to finish. John had dragged himself out of bed to piss during the night and caught the sniffs and chuffs at the end of Dean’s tears. It’d nearly broken his heart.
He poured a shaky shot into the plastic cup, let the inch of hot liquor steal the burn from his head for a second. He had a sudden, sorrowful flash of remorse for the life he’d given his sons. It had driven Sam away, and ended up just plain driving Dean.
“That one, or two?” Dean asked, teeth clamped on the corner of the plastic-wrapped suture kit. He set down a stack of towels and an ice bucket filled with hot water, then took the kit from his mouth. He pointed his chin at the cup in John’s hand and jabbed, “Or is that the first double?”
John sucked in his cheeks, softly clucked his tongue. “Let’s just do this, Nightingale.”
Dean stepped around the chair, tilted back John’s head like a gentle barber. He relieved the hand holding the bandage, and John felt him peel away the blood-soaked towel. Warmth oozed from the gash, wicking into his hair.
“Fuck Nightingale. This is Dr. Frankenstein shit, right here.”
“Bad?” John asked.
“Bad for me, bad for you.”
John felt the cold dampness of the dirty towel pressed back over the wound.
“We gotta hit a hospital.”
John reached for the fifth. “Screw that. Just…do what you gotta do.” But before his fingers could curl around the bottle, Dean’s hand jumped out and braceleted his wrist.
“What we gotta do is find an ER. Cut’s practically ear to ear, Dad.”
He shook off his son’s hand. “You’ve sewn up worse.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not doin’ it.”
John turned to see Dean’s arms folded tightly across his chest. “Excuse me?”
“I could peel your face back like a fuckin’ alien right now. I’m not messin’ with that.”
“Dean.”
“You really wanna make another dick decision tonight?”
John had no idea when it was, exactly, Dean had managed the new clang of brass balls, but he was pretty sure it was the morning after Sam left for California. He’d been hearing the percussion loud and clear, of late. “Fine.”
He had to pick his battles carefully these days. Butting heads on a topic could start small, but it’d eventually lead back to the take-sides of all take-sides: Sam. And there was no way John was swimming those shark-infested waters any time soon. Besides, he could come back.
Sam might just come back.
John pushed back from the table, hand moving to take on bandage management. “Fine. Let’s go.”
Dean’s face wore shock at the acquiescence, and John felt that familiar pang of guilt, again. “You gonna help me out to the car, or just stand there like a fuckin’ asshole all night?”
He blinked into motion, moving to lend a shoulder under John’s outstretched arm. They two-stepped out to the Impala, Dean sliding in behind the wheel once John was safely in the passenger seat.
The key jiggled into the ignition, and the Chevy revved awake. Dean chuckled as he pulled out of the lot and onto the highway.
“What?”
“I was just thinkin’, if the doc’s any good, maybe he can chuck that skin flap back an inch. Do somethin’ about your crow’s feet.”
John rolled his eyes in the darkness, winced at the throb in his head. “You think you’re funny, huh, sport? You ever heard of genetics?”
Dean shook his head. “You got nothin’ on me, old man,” he said, almost sadly.
John wished that were true.
Author: kimonkey7
Rating: PG-13 for mild swears
Pairing: none (gen) Dean, John
Timeline/SPOILERS: none, pre-series
Disclaimer: Not mine. Damn it.
Summary: Teach your children well, though they’ll learn plenty on their own.
A/N: Written for oxoniensis’s Fall Fandom Free-for-All, and animotus’s prompt: John didn't know Dean was so bossy!*whumpage is always appreciated*. ETA: Poooop! It's been so damn long since I did this, I forgot to add the much-deserved THANK YOU for pdragon76's fine beta. *facepalm*
“Here.”
“Whassat?” John asked. He squinted hard at whatever Dean was thrusting toward him, but couldn’t focus well enough to know if it was a pill, a bottle, or a goddamned possum.
“It’s a relatively clean towel. Best I can do for right now. Put it on your fuckin’ head before you get blood all over my seat.”
Damn. John was hoping it was a bottle, but also: “Whatta you mean, your seat? Impala ain’t yours yet, kid.”
“Quit yappin’ and put the damn towel on that gash, would ya?”
Dean slammed shut the passenger door, and John leaned away from the force. Just missed getting his hand or arm or head sheared off by cold Chevy steel. He watched Dean stomp around the front of the car and chuckled a little - would have with more enthusiasm, but it hurt his head and ribs.
Dean was pissed with a capital jaw-clench and he had every right to be, John knew. He’d give his son that. They were supposed to have been in and out: no worries, no heat. Easy money, that’s what he’d told Dean.
Most times, kid ghosts are. Whether they’ve been around for six months or sixty years, they fall for the simplest tricks - the old stand-bys - and usually, when all else fails, John’s got a helluva ‘Cause I said so… going for him. None of that matters when you get a little sociopath, though.
The sonuvabitch spook hadn’t wanted to go anywhere, that was clear five minutes in. Kid was stubborn as Sam. The ghost had sent Dean for a bumpy ride across the ancient farmhouse’s flagstone floor, then introduced John’s chest to a bookcase and his face to some old-fashioned slate walling.
Dean quick-braked the blinking red light at the deserted intersection and shot John a glance between stop and go.
“Dad. Keep the fuckin’ towel on your fuckin’ head.”
He didn’t realize he’d taken it off. “Sorry,” John muttered. He meant for the gig, not for letting the ersatz bandage slip.
Since Sam took off, John had been grabbing every job that came their way, had dragged Dean from Texas to Maine to Oregon in a single week. They were both running on nothing but bile and tension and heartache they couldn’t discuss.
When they got to the motel, Dean had to give him a shoulder into the room. John’s steps were uneasy, and a fresh flow of blood was keeping his right eye closed. In the room, he took steps toward the bed, but Dean steered him to the table.
“Dean, lemme lay down.”
“I gotta sew up your head. I need to be on top of that with the sutures, so I need you sittin’.”
He tried to keep the mattress as finish line, but Dean wrangled him into one of the straight-backed chairs by the window. The overhead light made John’s brain throb. A half-full fifth of Jack and a plastic cup were plunked down in front of him.
“I’m gonna get some water and towels, grab a stitch kit. No more than two shots,” Dean cautioned sternly, pointing at the bottle. He wrapped a knuckle against the Formica tabletop. “You got it?”
“I got it,” John grumbled, but missed the bottle on his first grab. “Fuckin’ concussion.”
“Exactly,” Dean said, and turned for the bathroom.
John remembered the first time his son had stitched him up; kid couldn’ta been more than fourteen. A spring-heeled Jack had taken a swipe at John’s back - opened up a maw of flesh six inches long - and he couldn’t twist and turn himself through that surgery. It’d taken Dean almost an hour to shakily close the wound, apologies, rough tugs, and winced reluctance, start to finish. John had dragged himself out of bed to piss during the night and caught the sniffs and chuffs at the end of Dean’s tears. It’d nearly broken his heart.
He poured a shaky shot into the plastic cup, let the inch of hot liquor steal the burn from his head for a second. He had a sudden, sorrowful flash of remorse for the life he’d given his sons. It had driven Sam away, and ended up just plain driving Dean.
“That one, or two?” Dean asked, teeth clamped on the corner of the plastic-wrapped suture kit. He set down a stack of towels and an ice bucket filled with hot water, then took the kit from his mouth. He pointed his chin at the cup in John’s hand and jabbed, “Or is that the first double?”
John sucked in his cheeks, softly clucked his tongue. “Let’s just do this, Nightingale.”
Dean stepped around the chair, tilted back John’s head like a gentle barber. He relieved the hand holding the bandage, and John felt him peel away the blood-soaked towel. Warmth oozed from the gash, wicking into his hair.
“Fuck Nightingale. This is Dr. Frankenstein shit, right here.”
“Bad?” John asked.
“Bad for me, bad for you.”
John felt the cold dampness of the dirty towel pressed back over the wound.
“We gotta hit a hospital.”
John reached for the fifth. “Screw that. Just…do what you gotta do.” But before his fingers could curl around the bottle, Dean’s hand jumped out and braceleted his wrist.
“What we gotta do is find an ER. Cut’s practically ear to ear, Dad.”
He shook off his son’s hand. “You’ve sewn up worse.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not doin’ it.”
John turned to see Dean’s arms folded tightly across his chest. “Excuse me?”
“I could peel your face back like a fuckin’ alien right now. I’m not messin’ with that.”
“Dean.”
“You really wanna make another dick decision tonight?”
John had no idea when it was, exactly, Dean had managed the new clang of brass balls, but he was pretty sure it was the morning after Sam left for California. He’d been hearing the percussion loud and clear, of late. “Fine.”
He had to pick his battles carefully these days. Butting heads on a topic could start small, but it’d eventually lead back to the take-sides of all take-sides: Sam. And there was no way John was swimming those shark-infested waters any time soon. Besides, he could come back.
Sam might just come back.
John pushed back from the table, hand moving to take on bandage management. “Fine. Let’s go.”
Dean’s face wore shock at the acquiescence, and John felt that familiar pang of guilt, again. “You gonna help me out to the car, or just stand there like a fuckin’ asshole all night?”
He blinked into motion, moving to lend a shoulder under John’s outstretched arm. They two-stepped out to the Impala, Dean sliding in behind the wheel once John was safely in the passenger seat.
The key jiggled into the ignition, and the Chevy revved awake. Dean chuckled as he pulled out of the lot and onto the highway.
“What?”
“I was just thinkin’, if the doc’s any good, maybe he can chuck that skin flap back an inch. Do somethin’ about your crow’s feet.”
John rolled his eyes in the darkness, winced at the throb in his head. “You think you’re funny, huh, sport? You ever heard of genetics?”
Dean shook his head. “You got nothin’ on me, old man,” he said, almost sadly.
John wished that were true.