SPN fic: These small hours
Title: These small hours
Author: maharetr
Genre/Rating: Het (John/Mary), PG-13.
Word count: 1,050
Disclaimer: Non mei, commodo operor non educo
Summary: There are things he'll talk about, and things he won't.
Notes: Sequel to Adventures on the high seas. It'll make more sense if you read that first, but it's not vital. A hundred thanks to vegetariansushi for the beta and the patience.
x-posted to supernaturalfic and papawinchester
There are things he'll talk about, and things he won't. The first time they slept together, she’d touched his scars, question in her eyes, and he'd shaken his head and kissed her in silent apology. There are things about him she's resigned herself to never knowing, things he’s buried from her, from everyone, from himself. It doesn't mean they don't surface, though, and she can see the tiny signs emerging as she finishes putting the washing away.
John grins as he chases Dean, but as the afternoon wears on, she can see the way he starts closing in on himself: how the smiles become a little forced, and even as he makes Dean shriek with laughter the joy isn't reflected in John's eyes.
By the time they’re lying on the sofa, Dean in bed and the TV casting blue light over the living room, he's sitting stiffly even with her head pillowed on his chest, and flinches every time the house creaks
Six years have taught her there's nothing she can do for this particular tension except replace it with another, and she changes the brush of her fingers to a light scratch of nails over his forearm and up his bicep. She can't see his face, but he twitches ever-so-slightly in that way that tells her he's not paying attention to the TV anymore. He slides his own hand under her shirt, pressing warm over her lower back.
She takes a little risk when she whispers: "Come to bed, pirate," but he grins back at her and lets her pull him up from the sofa and up the stairs.
His smile was real, but the tension's still there under it. He clings a little in her embrace after they get the bedroom door closed, and his voice hitches when he whispers her name. She kisses him fiercely, pulling him down onto the bed and wrapping her arms and legs around him to bring him deeper into her. After, she runs her fingers through his hair as they drift off to sleep.
She expects to be woken by his nightmares, but she wakes to an empty bed instead. John’s side of the bed is still warm, and she listens for the sound of footsteps in the corridor on the way to the bathroom, but there is only silence.
Sliding out of bed, she pauses at the head of the stairs, hoping for the sound of gunfire and screaming and the flickering light of the TV against the wall, but it’s not a simple case of insomnia, not tonight. She goes back to the bedroom for her robe and a pair of socks.
He’s in the kitchen, his back to her as he stands at the counter, pouring himself a whiskey. John doesn’t turn around, and she doesn’t say anything from the doorway, but he takes down a second glass and pours her a finger.
“Ice?” he asks as she pulls on her robe and sits down at the table. She nods, and for a while there is only the humming of the fridge; he's quiet as he cracks ice into her glass and sits opposite her, not quite meeting her eyes as he pushes the tumbler across to her.
“I’m okay,” he says. She raises her eyebrows with a smile, making a show of putting on her socks and settling into her chair.
She's watching far more closely than she wants to admit for the smile that flickers over his own face: it's barely there for a second, but there's warmth behind it, and that reassures her more than his words.
"Bad dream?" she asks, and sips her drink. He rolls his tumbler between his palms, studying the liquid.
"Not really," he says. "More like… bad memories. Just, stuff."
She wants to touch him, and she knows he'd let her, even though they both know he wouldn't want it, would tolerate it rather than deny her anything. She wraps her hands around her glass.
'He's so young," John says softly, and snorts to himself. "I mean, beside the obvious. I don't want him to get old. I don't want him to be eighteen and doing what I --" He cuts himself off, looks up at her, and his eyes are haunted in a way she hasn't seen in years. "I want him to think it's pirates and sea monsters forever."
She doesn't say it can't be like that, even though it can't. She doesn't say that's not fair on Dean, even though it's not. Instead, she reaches out and rests her fingertips on the back of his hand and says: "I know. Me too." Because that bit's true, at least.
For a moment she thinks he might pull away, but instead he turns his hand over and she rests her hand in his, curling their fingers together.
The silence lengthens, slides from almost awkward into peaceful even with the fridge humming in the corner. They sip their drinks, hands still linked across the table, until he puts down his empty glass and leans back with a sigh.
"I've got work tomorrow --" He glances at the clock. "Today. And you promised Dean a park visit."
She sighs and makes a put-upon face.
"I did. Why did I do that?"
"Masochism?"
She smacks his arm and gestures to his glass.
“I’ll rinse,” she offers.
He smiles his appreciation, belting his robe on the way out into the hallway.
She washes the glasses under the tap and leaves them to dry on the draining board; puts the whiskey back in the cupboard and waits an extra minute, just in case. If the bathroom light is on when she goes up, spilling light over the end of the bed, she won’t say a word.
The bathroom light is off when she goes up, and their bed is empty, so she keeps going down to Dean’s room. John is standing by Dean’s bed, the nightlight casting a warm glow over Dean’s sleeping figure and John’s face as he gazes down at him.
“He okay?” she whispers to break the silence. John adjusts Dean’s blanket and she can see him resisting the urge to touch Dean’s cheek.
“Yeah,” John says just as softly, and the smile he delivers her is all warmth. “He’s fine.”
Author: maharetr
Genre/Rating: Het (John/Mary), PG-13.
Word count: 1,050
Disclaimer: Non mei, commodo operor non educo
Summary: There are things he'll talk about, and things he won't.
Notes: Sequel to Adventures on the high seas. It'll make more sense if you read that first, but it's not vital. A hundred thanks to vegetariansushi for the beta and the patience.
x-posted to supernaturalfic and papawinchester
There are things he'll talk about, and things he won't. The first time they slept together, she’d touched his scars, question in her eyes, and he'd shaken his head and kissed her in silent apology. There are things about him she's resigned herself to never knowing, things he’s buried from her, from everyone, from himself. It doesn't mean they don't surface, though, and she can see the tiny signs emerging as she finishes putting the washing away.
John grins as he chases Dean, but as the afternoon wears on, she can see the way he starts closing in on himself: how the smiles become a little forced, and even as he makes Dean shriek with laughter the joy isn't reflected in John's eyes.
By the time they’re lying on the sofa, Dean in bed and the TV casting blue light over the living room, he's sitting stiffly even with her head pillowed on his chest, and flinches every time the house creaks
Six years have taught her there's nothing she can do for this particular tension except replace it with another, and she changes the brush of her fingers to a light scratch of nails over his forearm and up his bicep. She can't see his face, but he twitches ever-so-slightly in that way that tells her he's not paying attention to the TV anymore. He slides his own hand under her shirt, pressing warm over her lower back.
She takes a little risk when she whispers: "Come to bed, pirate," but he grins back at her and lets her pull him up from the sofa and up the stairs.
His smile was real, but the tension's still there under it. He clings a little in her embrace after they get the bedroom door closed, and his voice hitches when he whispers her name. She kisses him fiercely, pulling him down onto the bed and wrapping her arms and legs around him to bring him deeper into her. After, she runs her fingers through his hair as they drift off to sleep.
She expects to be woken by his nightmares, but she wakes to an empty bed instead. John’s side of the bed is still warm, and she listens for the sound of footsteps in the corridor on the way to the bathroom, but there is only silence.
Sliding out of bed, she pauses at the head of the stairs, hoping for the sound of gunfire and screaming and the flickering light of the TV against the wall, but it’s not a simple case of insomnia, not tonight. She goes back to the bedroom for her robe and a pair of socks.
He’s in the kitchen, his back to her as he stands at the counter, pouring himself a whiskey. John doesn’t turn around, and she doesn’t say anything from the doorway, but he takes down a second glass and pours her a finger.
“Ice?” he asks as she pulls on her robe and sits down at the table. She nods, and for a while there is only the humming of the fridge; he's quiet as he cracks ice into her glass and sits opposite her, not quite meeting her eyes as he pushes the tumbler across to her.
“I’m okay,” he says. She raises her eyebrows with a smile, making a show of putting on her socks and settling into her chair.
She's watching far more closely than she wants to admit for the smile that flickers over his own face: it's barely there for a second, but there's warmth behind it, and that reassures her more than his words.
"Bad dream?" she asks, and sips her drink. He rolls his tumbler between his palms, studying the liquid.
"Not really," he says. "More like… bad memories. Just, stuff."
She wants to touch him, and she knows he'd let her, even though they both know he wouldn't want it, would tolerate it rather than deny her anything. She wraps her hands around her glass.
'He's so young," John says softly, and snorts to himself. "I mean, beside the obvious. I don't want him to get old. I don't want him to be eighteen and doing what I --" He cuts himself off, looks up at her, and his eyes are haunted in a way she hasn't seen in years. "I want him to think it's pirates and sea monsters forever."
She doesn't say it can't be like that, even though it can't. She doesn't say that's not fair on Dean, even though it's not. Instead, she reaches out and rests her fingertips on the back of his hand and says: "I know. Me too." Because that bit's true, at least.
For a moment she thinks he might pull away, but instead he turns his hand over and she rests her hand in his, curling their fingers together.
The silence lengthens, slides from almost awkward into peaceful even with the fridge humming in the corner. They sip their drinks, hands still linked across the table, until he puts down his empty glass and leans back with a sigh.
"I've got work tomorrow --" He glances at the clock. "Today. And you promised Dean a park visit."
She sighs and makes a put-upon face.
"I did. Why did I do that?"
"Masochism?"
She smacks his arm and gestures to his glass.
“I’ll rinse,” she offers.
He smiles his appreciation, belting his robe on the way out into the hallway.
She washes the glasses under the tap and leaves them to dry on the draining board; puts the whiskey back in the cupboard and waits an extra minute, just in case. If the bathroom light is on when she goes up, spilling light over the end of the bed, she won’t say a word.
The bathroom light is off when she goes up, and their bed is empty, so she keeps going down to Dean’s room. John is standing by Dean’s bed, the nightlight casting a warm glow over Dean’s sleeping figure and John’s face as he gazes down at him.
“He okay?” she whispers to break the silence. John adjusts Dean’s blanket and she can see him resisting the urge to touch Dean’s cheek.
“Yeah,” John says just as softly, and the smile he delivers her is all warmth. “He’s fine.”