Something You Wanna Say
Title: Something You Wanna Say
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 1500
Disclaimer: Not my boys. Kripke broke them all on his own.
Summary: Sam leaves for Stanford, John drinks, Dean stops talking.
Yeah, I know this story has been told ad nauseam, but what else am I suppsoed to do with 'Losing a Limb/Body Function'? *cuddles angst_bingo card* Also, I know I'm supposed to be working on two birthday fics, but don't worry guys, they're getting done. This just sort of wanted to get written. My muse is weird like that.
"Don't you fucking do this again, Dean."
Dad makes it sound so easy. Like Dean has any sort of control over when his voice decides to get the hell out of Dodge. Or when it comes back. Like he's a bratty little kid, acting up because he didn't get his third piece of chocolate cake or something and needs to be slapped back in line. Yeah, that's so not how this thing works, but it's been a long time since Dad got that, if he ever did in the first place.
Dean used to try and get his throat to relax, form the words in his mouth, feel them out with his tongue and force them to come out. Come up with anything, just to make Dad stop looking at him like he was some mute retard, but all it did was make him gag and wheeze and Dad would shake his head and walk away until Dean got his act together and was useful again.
Now, usually they both ignore it, but tonight Dad's on a warpath and without any bikers to beat up or monsters to kill Dean's full on in his line of fire.
Dean doesn't really remember too much about those first few months; after. When everything was black and hot and he smelled like smoke no matter how many baths he took and had to throw up every time Dad burned their steaks, but he knows the fire stole his voice. He thinks Dad took him to a shrink once or twice but then they had to move and never went back to that first motel room that wasn't his home and that was that.
He thinks Dad might have been understanding then, back when he was dealing with a traumatized toddler, not a spoiled brat who's giving him the silent treatment just to get attention.
At least it doesn't happen all that often. A couple times a year at most, when there's fire and burned out houses and dead mothers. Or little brothers slamming doors, headed for another, less broken life.
Dean is usually okay a couple days later. He rasps some weak apology and doesn't have to deal with the monster hangovers that come with John's own coping techniques.
Not that it matters of course, because when Dad tells you to cut something out, you better be planning on snapping to. Usually Dean's pretty good at that. Sit, stay, fetch, jump. Just talk he's got some issues with. Maybe John should go have a talk with Bobby 'bout what to do with difficult dogs. Dean'd laugh at his own joke if it didn't feel painfully close to the truth.
"For fuck's sake, Dean, he abandoned us," Dad sighs. He sounds calm. Resigned, but all the pent up rage is still there underneath the surface when he slams the whiskey bottle down on the table and Dean finds himself flinching like the pathetic loser he is. "Move on. No need to be actin' all butt hurt over it."
Right, Dean thinks. Because Dad is coping so well, getting shitfaced three nights in a row, only to come home smelling like sex and smoke and Jack Daniels. Dean thinks he might do that too. Go out and get himself laid, once his voice returns and he can talk some random girl into going to bed with him - or the men's room for that matter. Who the hell cares?
He tried drowning his sorrows in a bottle once, after he had to burn the bones of a ten year-old choir boy until the dimpled, dark haired spirit went up in flames. Tried to follow in John Winchester's ever too large footsteps and ended up stumbling over his own feet - both literally and figuratively. He didn't like the loss of control, the way the whiskey made him spill his guts and babble on and on about the woes of being a motherless orphan, when all he needed was to shut up and sit in silence for some time. Dad clapped him on the shoulder then, asked if he felt better and Dean nodded because that's what Dad wanted him to do, but still, he doesn't think he'll ever be able to drink away his pain the way his father does.
Sex though. Sex is a nice distraction most of the time.
"You're not five years old anymore," Dad's saying and Dean finds himself nodding along, his fingers still twisted into the thin leather string around his neck. Haven't left the thing alone in days now. Dad is right, Dean knows he is, it's ridiculous for him to shut down like that, just because his kid brother ran off to college, but it's not like he can really help being a selfish, clingy bitch. "You're a grown ass man. You deal with this crap and move on. Don't throw a fucking temper tantrum at me."
Dean remembers one time when Dad had to come pick him up from the nurse's office. He remembers rocking gently back and forth, his nose clogging up with snot, tears running down his face and onto his shaking hands and Dad telling the scandalized substitute that there was nothing wrong whatsoever with a ten year-old freaking out over Bambi. Dean still hates Disney. Too many fires. Too many dead mothers.
That was the last time it was ever acceptable for Dean's voice to go AWOL though. After that It's okay, buddy, you take your time, I'll be here whenever you wanna talk again turned to quit feeling sorry for yourself, it's your own damn fault you almost got your brother killed and yes, Dad's right. God knows Dean didn't have the right to shut down after Wisconsin, but all the lecturing, all the shouting and disapproving frowns were for shit because Dean's voice has a mind of it's own.
Now the line is "Trust me kid, you don't wanna test me right now. I can make you talk." And Dad's just drunk and hurt enough to actually follow through; take Dean out back and beat the shit out of him just because. Dean nods again, studies the ancient scars in the rickety table he's sitting at. Still wouldn't make him talk though. John Winchester doesn't hit his kids. Not often anyway. Sam never much and Dean less now that he's technically big enough to fight back.
Dean's leg starts twitching under the table. He hates dealing with this side of Dad and he's sure Dad hates dealing with the silent, fucked up, broken version of his son.
Sam is so much better when it comes to Dean's emo crap. He just sits with Dean and makes him crappy cocoa and pretends to need comforting so Dean doesn't feel embarrassed when he grabs his little brother's hand or rests his head on his shoulder and he even lets Sam rub his back sometimes. But Sam is gone; hurled all kinds of hurtful comments at both Dean and John and now they're dealing. Dean by shutting down, John by lashing out. It's an old dance. They're pretty good at it by now.
"Fine, keep sulking," John spits and gets up to find himself another bottle.
That's another thing they have in common, Sam and Dad, insults and threats get thrown around like paper napkins but they rarely follow through. Except for when they do - I'm leaving - don't come back.
"You want a beer?" Dad asks from the fridge and Dean knows this is his opening. Dad's giving him a chance to say yessir or sorry or...those are pretty much his only options.
Dean opens his mouth and a cold wave of fear washes over him. He can't. He won't. Something terrible will happen the moment his voice makes it past his lips. The world will burn and nothing will ever be right again. His breathing speeds up, his eyes grow wide and he just can't.
They stare at each other, their eyes lock and Dean's mouth opens, closes, opens again, like some retarded mute fish. He shakes his head. No, I don't want a beer. No, I can't talk, I'm sorry. No.
John exhales shakily, shakes his head as well and Dean thinks he sees guilt there. And disgust and pity and he knows Dad is thinking about how the wrong son walked out on him.
"I don't have time to deal with this," he finally says. Puts the beer into the pocket of his leather coat and walks past Dean towards the door. "I gotta take care of something up in Minnesota. You call me whenever you decide to get over this."
He doesn't turn back around to look at Dean before he walks out into the night.
Dean calls the next day. Leaves a voice mail two days after that.
Dad only comes back after a month.
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 1500
Disclaimer: Not my boys. Kripke broke them all on his own.
Summary: Sam leaves for Stanford, John drinks, Dean stops talking.
Yeah, I know this story has been told ad nauseam, but what else am I suppsoed to do with 'Losing a Limb/Body Function'? *cuddles angst_bingo card* Also, I know I'm supposed to be working on two birthday fics, but don't worry guys, they're getting done. This just sort of wanted to get written. My muse is weird like that.
"Don't you fucking do this again, Dean."
Dad makes it sound so easy. Like Dean has any sort of control over when his voice decides to get the hell out of Dodge. Or when it comes back. Like he's a bratty little kid, acting up because he didn't get his third piece of chocolate cake or something and needs to be slapped back in line. Yeah, that's so not how this thing works, but it's been a long time since Dad got that, if he ever did in the first place.
Dean used to try and get his throat to relax, form the words in his mouth, feel them out with his tongue and force them to come out. Come up with anything, just to make Dad stop looking at him like he was some mute retard, but all it did was make him gag and wheeze and Dad would shake his head and walk away until Dean got his act together and was useful again.
Now, usually they both ignore it, but tonight Dad's on a warpath and without any bikers to beat up or monsters to kill Dean's full on in his line of fire.
Dean doesn't really remember too much about those first few months; after. When everything was black and hot and he smelled like smoke no matter how many baths he took and had to throw up every time Dad burned their steaks, but he knows the fire stole his voice. He thinks Dad took him to a shrink once or twice but then they had to move and never went back to that first motel room that wasn't his home and that was that.
He thinks Dad might have been understanding then, back when he was dealing with a traumatized toddler, not a spoiled brat who's giving him the silent treatment just to get attention.
At least it doesn't happen all that often. A couple times a year at most, when there's fire and burned out houses and dead mothers. Or little brothers slamming doors, headed for another, less broken life.
Dean is usually okay a couple days later. He rasps some weak apology and doesn't have to deal with the monster hangovers that come with John's own coping techniques.
Not that it matters of course, because when Dad tells you to cut something out, you better be planning on snapping to. Usually Dean's pretty good at that. Sit, stay, fetch, jump. Just talk he's got some issues with. Maybe John should go have a talk with Bobby 'bout what to do with difficult dogs. Dean'd laugh at his own joke if it didn't feel painfully close to the truth.
"For fuck's sake, Dean, he abandoned us," Dad sighs. He sounds calm. Resigned, but all the pent up rage is still there underneath the surface when he slams the whiskey bottle down on the table and Dean finds himself flinching like the pathetic loser he is. "Move on. No need to be actin' all butt hurt over it."
Right, Dean thinks. Because Dad is coping so well, getting shitfaced three nights in a row, only to come home smelling like sex and smoke and Jack Daniels. Dean thinks he might do that too. Go out and get himself laid, once his voice returns and he can talk some random girl into going to bed with him - or the men's room for that matter. Who the hell cares?
He tried drowning his sorrows in a bottle once, after he had to burn the bones of a ten year-old choir boy until the dimpled, dark haired spirit went up in flames. Tried to follow in John Winchester's ever too large footsteps and ended up stumbling over his own feet - both literally and figuratively. He didn't like the loss of control, the way the whiskey made him spill his guts and babble on and on about the woes of being a motherless orphan, when all he needed was to shut up and sit in silence for some time. Dad clapped him on the shoulder then, asked if he felt better and Dean nodded because that's what Dad wanted him to do, but still, he doesn't think he'll ever be able to drink away his pain the way his father does.
Sex though. Sex is a nice distraction most of the time.
"You're not five years old anymore," Dad's saying and Dean finds himself nodding along, his fingers still twisted into the thin leather string around his neck. Haven't left the thing alone in days now. Dad is right, Dean knows he is, it's ridiculous for him to shut down like that, just because his kid brother ran off to college, but it's not like he can really help being a selfish, clingy bitch. "You're a grown ass man. You deal with this crap and move on. Don't throw a fucking temper tantrum at me."
Dean remembers one time when Dad had to come pick him up from the nurse's office. He remembers rocking gently back and forth, his nose clogging up with snot, tears running down his face and onto his shaking hands and Dad telling the scandalized substitute that there was nothing wrong whatsoever with a ten year-old freaking out over Bambi. Dean still hates Disney. Too many fires. Too many dead mothers.
That was the last time it was ever acceptable for Dean's voice to go AWOL though. After that It's okay, buddy, you take your time, I'll be here whenever you wanna talk again turned to quit feeling sorry for yourself, it's your own damn fault you almost got your brother killed and yes, Dad's right. God knows Dean didn't have the right to shut down after Wisconsin, but all the lecturing, all the shouting and disapproving frowns were for shit because Dean's voice has a mind of it's own.
Now the line is "Trust me kid, you don't wanna test me right now. I can make you talk." And Dad's just drunk and hurt enough to actually follow through; take Dean out back and beat the shit out of him just because. Dean nods again, studies the ancient scars in the rickety table he's sitting at. Still wouldn't make him talk though. John Winchester doesn't hit his kids. Not often anyway. Sam never much and Dean less now that he's technically big enough to fight back.
Dean's leg starts twitching under the table. He hates dealing with this side of Dad and he's sure Dad hates dealing with the silent, fucked up, broken version of his son.
Sam is so much better when it comes to Dean's emo crap. He just sits with Dean and makes him crappy cocoa and pretends to need comforting so Dean doesn't feel embarrassed when he grabs his little brother's hand or rests his head on his shoulder and he even lets Sam rub his back sometimes. But Sam is gone; hurled all kinds of hurtful comments at both Dean and John and now they're dealing. Dean by shutting down, John by lashing out. It's an old dance. They're pretty good at it by now.
"Fine, keep sulking," John spits and gets up to find himself another bottle.
That's another thing they have in common, Sam and Dad, insults and threats get thrown around like paper napkins but they rarely follow through. Except for when they do - I'm leaving - don't come back.
"You want a beer?" Dad asks from the fridge and Dean knows this is his opening. Dad's giving him a chance to say yessir or sorry or...those are pretty much his only options.
Dean opens his mouth and a cold wave of fear washes over him. He can't. He won't. Something terrible will happen the moment his voice makes it past his lips. The world will burn and nothing will ever be right again. His breathing speeds up, his eyes grow wide and he just can't.
They stare at each other, their eyes lock and Dean's mouth opens, closes, opens again, like some retarded mute fish. He shakes his head. No, I don't want a beer. No, I can't talk, I'm sorry. No.
John exhales shakily, shakes his head as well and Dean thinks he sees guilt there. And disgust and pity and he knows Dad is thinking about how the wrong son walked out on him.
"I don't have time to deal with this," he finally says. Puts the beer into the pocket of his leather coat and walks past Dean towards the door. "I gotta take care of something up in Minnesota. You call me whenever you decide to get over this."
He doesn't turn back around to look at Dean before he walks out into the night.
Dean calls the next day. Leaves a voice mail two days after that.
Dad only comes back after a month.