The opposite of talking
The opposite of talking isn't listening. The opposite of talking is waiting.
-Fran Lebowitz-
1.
Dad has never been much of a talker, Dean thinks, at least not when he's tired; if Dean wants to be honest, Dad must have been feeling tired since The Fire really, but Dean doesn't mind because if there is one person in the whole world he looks up to, it's him.
He loves mom (by sheer instinct and fading memories), he'd lay down his life for Sam (by the big brother instinct, training, brainwashing and natural disposition. Sometimes he thinks he's genetically programmed to love him), but Dad? With Dad it isn't just love. With Dad it's awe and adoration, the same adoration angels must have in the face of God. Not that he thinks much of angels and God.
As far as Dean's concerned, life's more practical. You deal with what's there, and what's there are things to kill and bones to burn. And Sam and Dad to protect. So. There you have it really, he's thinking. Life can be as simple as that.
Follow Dad's orders, protect Sam, don't let the bad guys get you. And get that pretty waitress into bed.
So this life has been working out alright so far. He suspects that's not how people live, knows his lifestyle is somewhat deviant, but he's never had a normal life to begin with so he can't compare. He knows that dad tried his best to give them both a normal life when they were children, as normal as training them with guns and leaving them alone for days can be, but somehow that faded as they were growing up. Dean thinks, with pride, that Dad saw him as an equal. Relied on him. He took up that role eagerly. He'd do anything for him. Anything for Sam.
So Dad's never been much of a talker and Dean doesn't mind because they don't need words between them. Dean gets Dad in a way Sam never could, and Dad responses in the same way. And usually the silence between them is comfortable. Camaraderie, Dean thinks and remembers all those war movies he's watched with Dad.
But this…this is getting ridiculous.
2.
"Hand me the salt, Sam," John says.
Dean smirks.
"It's the third time you're calling me Sam, dad."
Pause.
"I said 'son'. And I said hand me the salt."
Dean takes a sharp breath and a half smile that says I can't believe you'd try that shit on me, dad, but after a small pause hands him the salt.
This has been happening a lot lately, and it's not that Dean minds being called Sam, it's that John won't even let himself admit that Sam left him broken hearted, not simply angry. And he misses him. Like hell.
John sets the bones on fire and they watch them being eaten up in silence, save for the fire crackling.
Dean thinks it's ironic how fire is the one thing to help them out with ghosts. Can't make himself like it any better for it, though. For him fire means an evil red orange yellow thing that creeps through nursery rooms and eats up mommies.
"I miss Sam, too," Dean says after a while, and John throws him a dirty look, and heads back to the Impala. Dean rolls his eyes and goes after him.
3.
Sam is vibrating like a chord stretched too tight. Dean can see the same vibration spread over his father, only the vibration is so tense somehow that it's barely visible, and Dean knows in a moment of epiphany that this will be the last fight between John and Sam for a long, long time.
"Just go, Sam," Dean says, letting his fingers point softly at the door. "Just go. Let him go, dad."
"Don't need the blessing," Sam says almost rolling his eyes. "I'm going. With or without it, dad."
And then John grows still. Totally still. And Dean closes his eyes. John's voice comes out slow, deep, quiet, the rumble of a distant storm, and yet cuts through the air heavier than lightning, and this is so, so wrong, Dean's thinking. Dad should have been yelling like always, not like this.
"If you walk out that door don't come back."
And the words are out, and can't be taken back. Won't be. Sam's jaw stiffens, and he nods slightly. He takes his bag over his shoulder, nods at his brother, walks out and closes the door behind him. As quietly as dad.
John pants, doesn't say anything. When Dean touches his shoulder saying Dad, John jerks his arm away, grabs his jacket and leaves. Dean hits his thighs in exasperation, then takes a shower to relax and clear his head and goes to bed waiting up for dad.
4.
John always leaves Dean (and Sam, when Sam was still with them) to take the shower first, but he must be really ticked off with Dean's I miss Sam too remark, and Dean guesses it's the too that really made John hit the shower first and take his own fine time in it. And god knows how much Dean loves his dad, but he's the first to admit that when John gets crooked about something, he can be a total pain in the ass. Dean feels tempted to tell him that that is one particular talent he bequeathed to his younger son, but he's tired and all he wants is to eat and get some sleep and just…stop missing Sam. Or worry about him. Or dad. Dammit.
John comes out wrapped in a towel, hair still dripping and it's Dean's turn. After a while they're both dressed and ready to hit Joe's Happy Diner.
Joe's Happy Diner looks anything but happy. It could probably use several tons of new paint, a whole new make-over really, but it looks so clean and the elderly lady behind the counter is really sweet and has kind eyes when she takes their orders.
Dean goes for the Wonderburger and John settles for a steak, both with extra fries.
"Hand me the salt, Sa…son," John says, fork in hand and there's enough emphasis and satisfaction in his voice that somehow tick Dean off more than anything.
"Do I detect a pattern here?" Dean says, giving the salt, after taking his time salting his own fries in full show. They'll probably be too salty even for his taste buds, but if the only thing Dean can get out of John is a fight, he'll take it. Better than have him sit around in silence, eyes drifting somewhere far away, and looking two decades older.
"You're the one missing him," John says, and salts his own fries with slightly more force than necessary. "So you're the one hearing Sam instead of son."
Dean can't help the chuckle and the shaking of his head, and when John cocks his eyebrows daring him, Dean crosses his arms.
"We can talk about it, you know," he says.
"There's nothing to talk about," John replies, and even in the mundane task of cutting steak, you see the ease of wielding anything knife-like. "Your brother…."
"Your son."
"Your brother left us."
"So there's a lot to talk about."
John lets the knife down with slightly more force than necessary.
"Dad," Dean says.
John's edge dulls a bit. He takes a fry in his mouth and grimaces.
"We should probably order new fries," Dean says grinning.
John gives his son a smile that lacks tension and motions for the lady to come.
"But there's still nothing to talk about," he adds, and then orders new fries.
They finish their dinner in companionable silence, and for Dean, for now, that is enough.
5.
Dean flicks aimlessly through the channels till he hears the familiar engine of the Impala. He felt restless, but he turns the TV off and pretends to be asleep when John comes in, not staying up wondering if Sam would be alright, and where the hell John was.
John's footsteps aren't exactly steady and they're approaching Dean's bed, and Dean forces his breathing to come out calm and easy, as if sunk in deep sleep. There's alcohol on his father's breath as John gingerly sits by Dean's side, and then Dean feels John pulling up the cover over his shoulder, tucking him in, and then stroking his hair the way Dean remembers from when he was a kid. It's been a long, long time since that memory, and Dean has to use all of his self will to choke down the sob that is rising, feeling his father's hand pass through his hair over and over.
Dean thinks he hears a sob, a trembling sigh from his father, and knows he won't be able to restrain himself much longer. He knows that dad will be embarrassed to be caught in this weakness and Dean won't do that, not now, not ever. He makes a big show of having just woken up, turning over, blinking, mumbling
"Dad?"
"I'm back, Dean, go back to sleep," John says, palm cradling his son's face for one precious moment, and then John goes to his own bed.
6.
Dean flicks aimlessly through the channels as John scans through the newspaper for anything strange. Or pretends to anyway, because what John is really doing is having the newspaper on his lap, head resting against his fingers, eyes staring at the telephone.
"Phones don't work by telepathy, dad," Dean says. "And Sam's not going to call you."
"I wasn't thinking about Sam."
"Yeah, right." He snorts. "He's as pig headed as you."
"What was that, Dean?" John says at the verge of being pissed off, head making a sharp turn towards him. Dean knows he only needs an excuse to snap.
"Dad, you're worried and miss Sam, so take that phone and dial the number. I know you have found it already."
"Not calling Sam. Your brother made a choice and he has to live with the consequences."
"Jesus, dad," Dean says, sitting up. "I'll call him. Alright?"
John's stare hits him with the force of a metal hammer.
"You'll do no such thing. That's an order. Is that clear?"
Dean has no problem with that, because he's already called Sam a couple of times when John wasn't around, and he knows he's alright, although a bit…colder somehow, and much, much later, when Sam avoids returning the calls or grows more icy Dean will realize how Sam is burning down all bridges, not caring if Dean gets caught in the flames. But that will be much later. For now Dean is satisfied in the knowledge that Sammy is safe. Stubborn and annoying, but safe.
"I said, is that clear, Dean?" John says again and Dean wants to make a scalding remark about how dad does call him by the right name when he's pissed off.
"Yes, sir," Dean replies instead. "Still, that phone won't ring all by itself."
"Dean." John says. "Whatever you're thinking? No."
Dean shrugs.
"I was just thinking about that thing you were saying to me that time I was pissed off cuz Dolores wouldn't put out and I let Sam walk half a mile behind the car. Remember, dad? Remember what you said?"
"I'm an old man."
"Going senile already? You said," and Dean imitates john's rough bark "Don't take out your problems on your brother, Dean. Whatever they are, learn to deal with them. Remember that, dad?"
John looks pissed.
"I'm dealing," he says. Dean wants to roll his eyes in a Yeah, right manner, but at least John indirectly admitted that there is a problem. It's a small victory, but Dean' ll take it, because it's the only one John will allow.
"Okay, dad," he says and lets it at that. And he knows dad won't talk about it at all, not about how much he misses his younger son, not about how much he worries about him, not about how much he beats himself up over those arguments. John Winchester doesn't solve his problems with words, so he won't talk. He'll just wait and wait for someone else to break the silence, someone other than himself, and Dean has tried his best.
He wonders what John will come up with in this long endless wait.
7.
It's been months. John calls Dean by his proper name and Dean mentions Sam without sending John into a pissed off rampage. Time dulls all edges, he's thinking, and waits for something to happen.
It does.
One day he hears John calling him from outside to join him. Dean pulls up his jacket (it's still chilly) and goes outside. There is a brand new shiny truck parked next to the Impala, and John is standing beside it with a grin reaching his ears.
"Like it?" he says.
"Cool," Dean grins back, and doesn't mention that he wouldn't trade the Impala for any car in the world. He frowns as a sudden thought hits him.
"We're not giving this baby away, are we?" he asks hand resting on the Impala's curves, unable to hide the worry in his voice.
John laughs, goes to him, leans against his old car.
"No, son, we're not," he says. "You're old enough now. And your birthday's coming up. I just thought…"
His hand reaches in his pocket, taking the ignition keys out, handing them to Dean. His hand is warm.
"She's yours now," he says and laughs when Dean hugs him hard.
"You're old enough now, Dean," John says growing serious. He shrugs. Doesn't say anything else, but Dean doesn't need it. The shrug is eloquent. The shrug says Here's a car so you can drive up and see your brother. Make sure he's okay, cuz it's been months.
"You'll start hunting on your own soon enough," John says after a while, not looking at Dean. "Maybe you'll want to…go places. You need a car. And…"
He shrugs again. And suddenly Dean realizes it's not about Sam, or not just about Sam anymore. This is about dad trying not to make anymore mistakes. This is about dad loving Dean and giving him choices.
Dean grips the keys tight in his hand, shoves them in his pocket, touches his father's shoulder, squeezing it.
"Thanks, dad," he says. John looks at him. There's serenity in the afternoon falling, serenity in the way the two cars are parked one next to the other, serenity in the way John looks at Dean and Dean looks back at him. Serenity after a long, long time. John smiles and lets his eyes drift in the distance.
"I'm dealing," he says, and this time Dean almost believes him.
-The End.
SIDENOTE: It is a non-linear narration, and I didn't want to name the chapters Then and Now or Present and Past because I felt that it took something away from this fic. I'm hoping the when is clear enough as it is.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own any of them, and am not making any profit whatsoever unless you're counting my psychological serenity as such.
DEDICATION: This is a prompt from my beta, e313. She was feeling down, I told her I'd write a story for her if she gave me the premise. She was oh so happy to oblige. I still owe her two fics, mind you. Someday I'll write them.
NOTE: I don't own the title either. Yeah, yeah, I know, I'm a quote freak. Still, don't sue.