TITLE: Exile
AUTHOR: Pedellea
RATING: PG or K
SUMMARY: After the fire claimed his wife, John can't look his 4-year-old son in the eye.
SPOILERS: In My Time of Dying, In the Beginning
DISCLAIMER: Supernatural belongs to Eric Kripke and Warner Brothers Television.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: A Wee!chester fic, inspired by the scene from In My Time Of Dying between John and Dean as they talk about what is to happen. Updated June 2013 with minor grammatical edits (mainly those apostrophes that went missing in the first upload!).
-:-:-:-
It hurt just to look at him.
And so John didn't. He held his baby boy, gazed held intently at his perfect face, but he could not look at his firstborn who sat beside him, head on John's arm. The kid sighed and readjusted his head, and John just stared harder at the baby, trying not to hear his beloved Mary's own sigh in that breath.
Dean seemed a flawless incarnation of his wife, albeit being the opposite sex. Dirty blond hair and spunk to spare, it once brought sheer joy to John's soul seeing the two of them together, giggling identically at his corny jokes. Now Mary was dead, and John didn't know if he could still love one without the other. He let out a shaky breath.
"Daddy?"
John felt his son's green eyes pierce into his flesh. He fixed his eyes on baby Sammy to anchor himself.
"Hmm?"
"Can we go home now?"
The boy still didn't quite understand that their house had been badly damaged by the fire and that there was no longer a home to return to. And home was an impossibility without Mary.
"We have to stay at this motel a while longer."
"Oh."
Dean left it at that, and his hair scratched on John's arm again. The silence that engulfed the room was too deafening for John. He was used to a lively atmosphere, in the company of his wife and children.
"Why don't you watch some TV, son?"
He seemed to ponder a moment before replying.
"Naw, it's okay. Baby Sammy's sleeping."
"It'll be alright, kiddo."
"But momma said—"
"Please, Dean. Watch something."
Dean stopped and slowly lifted his head to face his father. John stretched away slightly, eyes still glued on little Sammy. He yearned for the peace his baby boy seemed to have.
A moment later, the TV switched on, and John relaxed into the noise, relenting into a quick glance at his older son. Their eyes met for a brief second, and both turned away as if scorched on a hot stove, eyes falling back to the TV.
Infomercials. Chatter about a better life, a better you. John scoffed silently. A better me. A better this. Right.
Just then, Sammy stirred and blinked his eyes open. He sniffed a little, his face crinkling in a frown as he began to whimper. John continued to look, his heart shattering a little more. This was the look of Sammy wanting his momma.
A little flustered, John stood up and rocked Sammy gently, hushing him softly. There was a lullaby Mary would sing in times like these, but John couldn't bear allowing it to escape his lips. Mary was dead, and so was her song.
"Daddy, sing the—"
"Shh. Dean, I've got it. You watch your TV."
John walked slowly to the bed and regretted his snippiness at his older boy. Mary would have chastised him for it.
Oh, god. How was he supposed to raise two sons without her?
"Daddy?"
"What, Dean?"
Still couldn't look at his boy. A small hand holding a blue pacifier swam into view. With a sigh, John took it a little roughly.
"Please go watch TV now, okay Dean?" And let me figure out how I can face up to you.
John felt the green eyes bore into him a moment, and he sighed again when the feet shuffled away. He quickly put the pacifier in place in Sammy's mouth, and waited for his whimpering to stop.
It seemed to take a while longer for Sammy to fall asleep again, and when John finally put the baby down in his car seat on the bed, an hour and a half had passed. He rubbed his face, feeling a tiredness descend into his bones.
And it was then that John finally mustered up enough courage to look up at Dean.
The kid had passed out on the dingy motel couch, head on the armrest and body curled up, facing away from the still-on TV. Dean had been watching his dad and baby brother the whole time.
John closed his eyes, the ache in his heart swelling again. What the hell was he doing to his older son?
Another sigh escaped his lips as he crept over to Dean, scooping him up gently. He should at least sleep in a bed. A groggy Dean instinctively found John's neck with his hands and clung on for a while. John's body shook as he allowed his son's embrace. It felt a lot like Mary, and for a moment, John lingered in that thought.
"Daddy?"
Dean's voice was soft but sincere. John unhooked his son from his neck and looked at him. Though sleep clung in his eyes, there was a look of quiet determination on the young boy, amplified by the small hand that found his father's shoulder.
"It's okay, daddy."
John took a moment to let the words register. Sadness overwhelmed him for a while, and he looked at his son, silently bewildered. Why should a four-year-old have to say that? He shook his head. This nonsense has to stop.
He closed his eyes briefly to collect himself again, and when he opened his eyes again, John swung his son down and planted him down on the ground. The young boy perked up, standing stick straight and looked intently at his father. John bent down a little to face his oldest child.
"Dean."
The boy nodded slowly.
"I have a job for you."
Dean's head bobbed a little more enthusiastically.
"You have to take care of Sammy, y'hear?"
He nodded all the more.
"But you don't need to worry about me, son. I'll take care of me. You got that?"
Dean's head stopped bobbing, and his brows knitted together, head tilting slight to the side. His lips parted to say something, but the kid thought better of it and didn't.
"You got that, soldier?"
The boy thought for a moment before slowly nodding again, hesitation lacing his eyes. John gave a curt nod back.
"So what did I tell you to do?"
"I have to take care of Sammy."
"And?"
"But, da-"
"What did I say, son?"
Dean chewed his lip a little.
"Not worry about you."
"That's right, soldier. Take care of Sammy and not worry about me. Now run along and get washed up for bed."
Dean blinked at him before responding.
"Yes sir."
John nodded once.
"Go on."
Dean looked at his father for a moment more before disappearing into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. Not until he heard water running from the tap did John lower his head into his hands and sink into the couch with a weary sigh.
How the hell will he raise two sons by himself?
-:-:-:-
Hearing his name hollered from upstairs by his wife, John raced up the stairs in time to see his sudsy son squirm from Mary's grasp and take off down the hallway to his room, clad only in his underwear, squealing with delighted all the way there. Mary gave John an exasperated look before scurrying off after her child.
"Dean! You can't run around the house still all soapy! "
Little Dean only squealed some more, this time taking off down the hallway in the opposite direction, away from his momma and her big fluffy towel. Unfortunately, the boy couldn't escape his father's big swooping arms and he shrieked happily as his father marched, with him in tow, into the bathroom.
John slithered the towel out of Mary's grasp on his way to his mission and announced, "I'll be a few minutes."
After John successfully dried and dressed his boy and set him in front of Sesame Street, he went in search for his wife and found her, feet propped up, eyes closed and hands resting on her swollen belly, in the kitchen. He crept up gently and planted a kiss on her forehead. John slid into a chair beside his wife, and she sighed deeply, brows knit. John sat up a little and spoke up.
"What is it, babe?"
She continued to look at him, her lips bunching up. She started twice before whispering.
"John, how are we going to raise two boys?"
"Aww, babe..."
With one hand, John grasped both of his wife's hands and with the other, he traced the shape of her belly. Mary continued, brows still creased.
"I mean, Dean? He is – a handful – and that's a good day. I love him with all my soul but, John, can you imagine two little Deans running around this place?"
John chuckled a little, placing an arm around Mary. He hated seeing her so worried, but two Deans bouncing off the walls would certainly be quite a chaotic sight. He sighed contentedly and looked at his wife, lips curled into a smile.
"We'll make do, babe. I swear – it'll be okay."
Her brows finally loose of their tension, Mary freed one hand from John's grasp and placed it on his face. As he kissed it, she spoke up in a sing-song voice.
"Do you prohh-mise?"
"I do. We have each other. It's gonna be okay."
-:-:-:-
"Daddy?"
John snapped out of his reverie, finding Dean standing in front of his father, those knit brows creasing his young face again. Reality slammed back hard onto the older man, and he stiffened.
"Are you o-"
"Dean, what did I just tell you?"
The boy looked startled and only stared at his father. John sighed roughly, composing himself.
"I said, 'Take care of Sammy and don't worry about me. '"
There was a pause before Dean nodded.
"Right. So don't you dare worry about me, son. Only your brother."
"Yes sir."
John nodded tersely.
"Now go to bed."
Dean looked at him for a moment more and padded toward the bed across his baby brother, leaving his father to sit on the couch undisturbed. John waited for Dean's breathing to even out before stretching out across the couch, rubbing his temples and exhaling wearily.
John knew from that moment on that he could not and would not stay sane if he kept aching for his dead wife whenever he saw his carbon-copy-of-his-mother older son. He would have to keep a certain distance away if he were to keep his sons – Mary's boys – alive. His stint in the Marines taught him that in war, sacrifices had to be made to reach the objective. In this war to obliterate the demon who took his Mary, he had to keep the boys at arm's length.
To complete the task, there was no other choice than to cast emotion aside, far away enough so that it couldn't tangle up with their survival. Avenging Mary's death was the only duty now. In the process, he would alienate his baby boy and exile his firstborn to a lifetime of reckless self-sacrifice.
But there was little else a helpless father could do.
And so, that night, John threw down the mission anchor and set all else adrift. It was the only way he knew how to give purpose to three wrecked lives.