close to my heart, never to part chp2- SN fic - PG
Title: close to my heart, never to part
Chapter: II. Absolution
Fandom: “Supernatural”
Disclaimer: John, Mary, Dean, and Sammy aren’t mine. Title and cut text from “Baby Mine” by Allison Krauss.
Warnings: spoilers for “Something Wicked”
Pairings: none
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 1800
Point of view: third
Notes: part of my Dean canon
Chapter one: "Discovery"
“Dad!” Dean bounded over, shoving a large book under John’s nose. “Lookit!”
John pushed the book away. “I’m busy, Dean. Go back to Sammy.”
“Yes’re,” his eleven-year-old son said, slinking back to the corner where he’d stashed Sammy. John watched him go, took in the slump of his boy’s shoulders, the defeated way he moved.
It’d been a little over a year since the shtriga and John hated himself for how he’d handled that. Dean blamed himself and would for the rest of his life. It wasn’t his fault, but John knew he’d never tell his son that. Because, to his lasting shame and horror, what happened in Fort Douglas would ensure Dean protected Sammy forever.
Dean settled next to Sammy and spread the large volume over both their laps. Sammy snuggled into him and looked his brother with wide, worshipful eyes. Dean smiled at him and then began reading aloud, gesturing to the book.
John returned to his research. He had to figure out who the ghost was before it struck again.
-
“Dean.”
Sammy was asleep on the couch but Dean had school-books littered around the table. Dean raised his head. “Yes’re?” he asked, exhausted.
“Go to bed, son. It’s after eleven.”
Dean yawned and his jaw cracked. John wondered if mouths were supposed to open that wide. “I have to finish this report on the sun first, sir,” Dean told him, barely able to keep his eyes open.
“When’s it due?” John asked, putting dishes in the sink.
“Friday.” Dean yawned again.
“Dean, go to bed.” John made it an order. “You still have three days to complete the assignment.”
Dean slid out of the chair. “Yes, Dad.”
John watched him go, placing Dean’s books on a chair. Then he strode over to the couch and picked Sammy up, carrying him to the boys’ bed. He settled Sammy in the middle and waited till Dean curled around him before tucking the comforter about them.
Dean was barely awake when he asked, “Daddy, do you still hate me?”
John caught his breath, something hurting in his chest. He turned in the doorway and stared at his son. “I could never hate you, Dean. Never.”
“I almost killed Sammy. I left him alone.” Dean sounded heartbroken, shattered, achingly young.
John had never loathed himself more. “I love you, Dean. No matter what. You’re my son.” He wished he was as good with words as Mary had been. “Now, go to sleep, son.”
John shut the door behind him and sat at the kitchen table for a long time.
-
Next afternoon, they were back at the library. John was close to cracking the case, he just knew it. He’d put Dean to work helping him research and given Sammy some paper to scribble on.
They’d been at it for nearly an hour when Sammy plopped a giant book next to Dean. “Read to me,” he pled, pulling out a look John recognized as Mary’s pout. He’d caved the instant she turned those eyes on him, and Dean was the same.
“Dad,” he said, turning to John. “Can I take a break and go read with Sammy for awhile?”
John nodded. “Go ahead, son. You’ve done good work.”
Dean hopped out of his chair, grabbing the text-some sort of encyclopedia, John noticed, the same Dean had showed him yesterday-and led Sammy over to a large chair. They scrunched in together and Dean held the book in their laps. John returned his attention to death certificates.
-
That night at supper, John asked, “Why don’t you just check that book out?”
Dean answered, “I tried. It’s reference material, so I can’t.”
Sammy butted in, “It’s about sea monsters!” He bounced in his seat. “Can we buy a megdon, Dad?”
John a raised a brow and turned to Dean for clarification. “A megdon?”
Dean’s eyes lit up like they hadn’t since that field of horses in Arkansas. “He means ‘megalodon.’ A giant Great White shark, sixty feet long. They’re awesome, Dad.” He spent the next ten minutes telling John all about the sharks, Sammy adding information whenever he felt the need.
John listened in wonder. Dean so rarely showed excitement for anything anymore, and now he was animated. It was like watching Dean as a toddler again, exploring the house, constantly in awe of all the new things.
-
After the hunt was over and the ghost dealt with, John visited a book store. He picked out four volumes, though he didn’t really have the money to afford it. A horse encyclopedia, a sea creature encyclopedia, and two children’s books for Sammy.
He flirted with the cashier and she knocked five dollars off the price, though it still cost a small fortune. He swung by the school just before Dean’s grade let out and he met his son by the door.
Dean’s eyes widened. “Dad! Is everythin’ okay?”
It bothered John that Dean’s first thought was everything that could have gone wrong. “I finished work earlier than I’d expected,” he explained, reaching down to ruffle Dean’s hair fondly.
Dean shyly smiled up at him. “You want me to show you where I wait for Sammy?”
John nodded and followed Dean, asked him about school. He couldn’t remember the last time they really talked about anything but the hunt, and that shamed him. Mary wouldn’t want her boys to have just a drill sergeant. She’d want him to be a father, a daddy. But he didn’t know how to be that man anymore.
Sammy bounded out of the building in a rush of students. He didn’t notice John at first, making straight for Dean and chattering on. Dean listened seriously then turned him around and nodded to John.
“Dad!” Sammy exclaimed, bouncing up. John caught him and hugged him hard, tangled his fingers in Sammy’s too-long hair. He walked toward the car, still holding his baby boy, Dean beside him.
“Let’s get some ice-cream, huh?” he asked and Sammy said, “Yeah!”
“Mr. Winchester!” a female voice called from behind them. “Please, I need to talk to you!”
He paused and, as he turned, noticed that Dean blanched. “Dean?” he questioned softly. Dean didn’t meet his eyes.
John lowered Sammy and faced some woman a little younger than him-barely thirty, maybe. Petite, red hair, green eyes-and glaring at him.
Interesting. He gave her a smile that he knew worked on women. She didn’t soften.
“I need to speak with you, Mr. Winchester,” she said again. “I’m Rachel Morris, Dean’s homeroom teacher.”
John glanced at Dean. He had Sammy by the hand and stared at the ground. “Dean,” he said, tossing the keys when his boy looked up. Dean caught them easily and John ordered, “Take Sammy to the car.”
Ms. Morris’ glare intensified. “You’ll let them in the car unsupervised?”
John looked at Dean, who hunched further down. “I trust Dean with Sammy,” he said, and smiled at Dean as he glanced up. It was as close to an apology for Fort Douglas as he’d ever let himself get. “Run on, son. I’ll be there soon.”
Dean nodded. “Yes, sir.” He looked at the teacher. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Ms. Morris.” He pulled Sammy behind him as he took off.
“What can I do for you, ma’am?” John asked, hardly able to keep the challenge out of his tone.
She pursed her lips. “I saw bruises on Dean last week. This week, he walked like it hurt.” Crossing her arms, she continued, “I asked him about it-he said he was clumsy.”
“He’s a boy, Ms. Morris,” John told her. “Boys get hurt.”
If anything, that added fuel to her fire. “I’ve asked the nurse. Dean has numerous scars that childish accidents can’t explain.” She raised her head. “So, tell me, Mr. Winchester-why shouldn’t I call the police, get those two boys out of your care?”
John couldn’t help the thrill of terror that shot through him. The thought of life without his boys, Mary’s sons away where he couldn’t protect them-it not only terrified him, it pissed him off.
He knew this woman thought she was helping, doing the right thing-the only thing a good person could. But he still came close to hating her.
It was the first time anyone ever accused him of hurting his son. He knew it wouldn’t be the last, not with their life.
“Ms. Morris,” he said, softly and dangerously, “I do not abuse my son. I never have; I never will. He was running out into the street and I caught him. Then he tripped out in the yard and wrenched his leg.” He stared her down and she wilted beneath his gaze. “Dean is a good boy, the best of boys-I wouldn’t hurt him for the world.” He didn’t even try smiling. “Good day, ma’am.” He turned on his heel and stalked off, checking his stride. He didn’t want her to know how she’d gotten to him.
Dean was huddled with Sammy in the back, telling some story. John knocked on the driver’s window and Dean reached forward to unlock the door. He refused to meet John’s eyes.
“Dean,” John said firmly, “look at me.” Slowly, Dean did. “That wasn’t your fault. She was trying to help. You aren’t in trouble.”
“Are you sure?” Dean asked. “If I was better-”
“Dean,” John cut in. “You can’t be better. You’re awesome as you are. I couldn’t ask for a better son.”
John was astonished Sammy had kept quiet for so long. “What about me?” He leaned over Dean, eyes bright. “Am I bestest, too?”
“Yeah, Sammy,” John answered, sparing him a smile. “Dean, you hear me?”
“Yes’re,” he whispered, turning to Sammy. “Wanna know what happens next?”
John sighed as he started the Impala. Ice-cream was a must, now.
-
Dean picked chocolate, Sammy wanted a sundae, and John went with plain vanilla, requesting strawberry sauce on the side. Mary had loved strawberries, insisting on them with every meal when they were in-season.
As they ate, John fetched the books. “Here ya go,” he said, dividing them up.
Dean flipped through the horse encyclopedia with wide eyes, then lightly touched the ocean one.
“Yay!” Sammy cheered. “Mrs. Morgan was readin’ us this’n earlier, Dad!” He shoved the book about dogs at John. “Now I’ll know how it ends ‘fore anybody else!”
John smiled at his enthusiasm but focused on Dean. “Hope you like ‘em, son.”
Dean’s full smile blossomed, the smile that used to catch his breath when Mary wore it. “Thank you, Dad.” He reverently turned the pages, taking in the diagrams and illustrations. He kept the melting chocolate goo away from the books and refused to let Sammy touch either until he cleaned and dried his hands.
The books, John decided, were totally worth the money.