Soldiers Fall
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a/n: I'd left this withering away in my document manager on this site and figured I'd drag it out and finish it. This turned out way more depressing than I intended it to but I hope it helps explain a bit of Dean's thought process in the early seasons. Explores the relationship between Dean and John from pre-series up until the beginning of Season 2. Spoilers until 2.01. Hope you all enjoy. Reviews are ever welcome :D
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"So somewhere along the line, I stopped being your father, and I become your drill sergeant."
.
Dear mother, I love you, I'm sorry I wasn't good enough;
Dear father, forgive me, 'cause in your eyes I just never added up;
In my heart I know I failed you, but you left me here alone;
If I could hold back the rain, would you numb the pain?
'Cause I remember everything;
If I could help you forget, could you take my regrets?
'Cause I remember everything.
- Five Finger Death Punch; Remember Everything
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December 3, 1983
"Last night I was sitting in Sam and Dean's room, in the dark, and I heard these noises… Mike said it was the wind, and okay, maybe it was, but it sounded almost like whispering, like someone was whispering a name, under their breath, again and again… like something is out there in the dark, watching us… I stayed up all night, just watching them, protecting them. From what, I don't know. Am I protecting them? Am I hurting them? I haven't let them out of my sight since the fire. Dean still hardly talks. I try to make small talk, or ask him if he wants to throw the baseball around. Anything to make him feel like a normal kid again. He never budges from my side – or from his brother. Every morning when I wake up, Dean is inside the crib, arms wrapped around baby Sam. Like he's trying to protect him from whatever is out there in the night." - John's Journal
There's so much smoke in the room, fogging up the TV screen and blanketing the furniture. It snakes up his nose and mouth and he can't breathe. Then the sound of shouting trails down the staircase. Dean rolls out from underneath the comfy brown blanket, leaving it on the chair as he toddles up the stairs.
The smoke is worse here, so much worse. He coughs, accidentally inhaling more smoke. His eyes begin to water.
Someone's crying. Dean hurries up the rest of the stairs and turns the corner. The walls are a weird orange color, flickering. The crying is coming from Sammy's bedroom, along with the smoke.
"Mommy," Dean calls out as the crying picks up again. His lower lip wobbles. "Daddy?"
He peeks his head around the corner of Sammy's bedroom door. Daddy is on the floor, staring up at the ceiling and crying. There's red dots on his forehead. The room is so hot. It climbs up Dean's skin and inside his mouth and nose, making him shiver. He tries to find Sammy through the smoke, but there's too much. Then his eyes shift up.
Mommy is on the ceiling, burning. Her stomach is cut open and there's blood everywhere: on her stomach, on her face, on her hands that are pressed to the ceiling. Her mouth is open wide but she's not talking. She's screaming.
"Mommy," Dean yells, letting out a sob. He stumbles backward into the wall and nearly falls over. Everywhere looks funny, twisting and turning in the smoke. And it's so hot. His skin is turning red and it hurts. "Mommy, no," he wails just as Daddy runs out of the room, carrying Sammy in one of his blankets.
"Take your brother outside as fast as you can!" Daddy yells, shoving Sammy into Dean's arms. "Don't look back! Now Dean, go!"
Dean's lip trembles. He chokes out another sob and then runs, clutching Sammy as tightly as he can, stumbling down the stairs and out the front door. Just as he gets out, Daddy swoops in and grabs them, pulling them further away.
One of the windows upstairs is bright red. With a crash, fire breaks through the glass.
"No," Dean whispers, burying his face into the side of his daddy's shoulder.
"Dean."
Dean stares at the burning room, searching desperately for his mother. "Come back," he whimpers, tightening his hands around Sammy.
"Dean!"
Dean's eyes fly open and he strikes out with his fist, nearly hitting the side of Daddy's face. One of his father's hands wrap around his little fist and holds it gently while the other hand reaches down to wipe the tears from Dean's cheeks.
"Did you have the nightmare again, bud?" Daddy asks quietly.
Dean nods, the lump in his throat growing painfully big. He pulls Sammy closer to him in the crib and buries his face into the back of his brother's neck, breathing in shakily. Mommy, burning. He squeezes his eyes shut and whimpers. Gone.
"Do you want to talk about it?" Daddy asks.
Dean shakes his head, nose brushing Sammy's hair. Sam makes a sleepy noise and cuddles back against Dean. He can't talk about it because it can't be real. Mommy has to be okay.
"Okay."
Daddy begins to pull away but Dean grabs his wrist and holds him there for a minute. Daddy's skin feels hot, like the fire. Dean pulls his hand away quickly with a cry as memories hit him. Mommy, screaming, bleeding. Daddy running out, giving him Sammy to keep safe.
"Try to get some sleep, okay?" Daddy says, and something wet falls on Dean's arm.
When Dean looks up through blurry eyes, Daddy's face is wet too.
1986
"I was six or seven, and he took me shooting for the first time. You know, bottles on a fence, that kind of thing. I bulls-eyed every one of them. He gave me this smile, like... I don't know." - Dean; 2.06
"Where are we going?"
"Dean, would you shut up and listen to me for once?"
Clamping his mouth shut and forcing back the instinctive bout of tears, Dean looks up at his father through shaded eyes. John stares back down at his elder child, jaw flecked with dark stubble and lips set in the beginning of a frown.
"I'm sorry," Dean mumbles quickly, digging his teeth into his mouth as his lips quiver. John's expression doesn't change and Dean stares down his father as bravely as he can, knowing that he's being analyzed to see if he's lost his sense of control. Dean doesn't like the look in his dad's eyes: cold, dead, calculating, as though Dean is little more than a threat being sized up. Before the fire - the little scraps that Dean can remember - his dad's face wasn't the mess of hard, ungiving lines it is right now. Between memories of his mother's screams and flames exploding through the upstairs window of their home, Dean remembers being picked up and spun around as his father laughs.
Before Dean realizes it, a small sigh has slipped through his teeth. John's face darkens and he looks away. You've failed him again, a little voice whispers in Dean's mind. His shoulders sag.
"I'm sorry, dad," Dean repeats softly.
It doesn't have the desired effect. John still doesn't look at him; he just juts his head and says, "This way."
They reach their destination a moment later: a field with a crumbling wall at one end. Bottles are lined up on the top of the wall, glinting in the light. Something is being shoved into his hands and Dean looks down to see the barrel of a shotgun pressed into his palm. He inhales sharply, his heart jumping in his chest. "Dad?"
John doesn't answer. Instead, he pulls his son into position, wrapping Dean's hands around the gun. John doesn't stop fidgeting until he has Dean in the correct pose. Once he does, John steps back and to the side of the boy, a breeze ruffling his dark hair.
"Look at how you're positioned right now," John orders. "Learn it. I don't want to have to waste time reteaching you later."
Dean swallows back his hurt at the words. He nods, focusing on the feel of the gun and the way his fingers caress the smooth surface. When he's sure that he has the position down, Dean looks back up at his father silently, waiting for more orders.
John nods toward one of the bottles and says, "Aim, take your time and make sure everything's lined up. Then press the trigger." He takes a deep breath. "Now look, I know this sounds corny, but you have to feel like you and the gun are one essence, one purpose. One you get that, you won't be able to miss."
Dean turns his attention back to the shotgun. He breathes in, tightens and loosens his fingers on the barrel of the weapon, and then raises it up. His finger curls back on the trigger, and a sharp sound splits the air. The kick of the gun has the seven year old staggering backward. The back of the shotgun slams into Dean's shoulder and pain blossoms across the surrounding skin.
"Dean." The voice is muffled and Dean shakes his head, trying to get rid of the roaring in his ears. There are more distant mumbles, followed by the clap of John's hand on the boy's shoulder. Dean jumps at the unexpected contact and thrusts his shoulder back, quickly opening his mouth to apologize for throwing his dad's hand off.
"Atta boy," John says before Dean can speak.
The hunter is grinning broadly and it makes something flutter in Dean's gut. He can't help but smile in return, soaking up his father's approval. When at last Dean turns to look back at the crumbling wall, the bottle he was aiming for has vanished. Bullseye, he thinks, smile widening.
Their celebration is short lived, however.
"Again," John says a second later, waving his hand loosely at the bottles on the wall.
"Dad," Dean says, his curiosity getting the best of him, "why are we doing this?" He shouldn't have spoken, because his father has given him an order and Dean knows the consequences of ignoring him.
Thankfully, John doesn't get angry. He just glances down at the ground and shuffles his feet for a moment. His voice is much quieter when he says, "One day, I'm not going to be here, Dean. Whether it's because I'm out on a hunt or I've died, it will be your responsibility to take care of Sammy. You're learning how to shoot so you won't be helpless if something bad happens."
Dean nods, still turning his father's words over in his mind. His dad has made vague comments about keeping Sammy safe before, but this is the first time he's told Dean specifically that it is his job to protect his little brother.
"It isn't fair," Dean mumbles, mimicking his father and looking down at the ground.
"Our life isn't exactly normal anymore," John says, raising his eyes to stare at the top of Dean's head. "Fair doesn't apply to us."
How can he say that? Anger sparks to life within Dean.
"Yeah, well, it should," Dean growls, digging the point of his left shoe into the ground and putting pressure on it. "I don't want to look after Sammy all the time, and I don't want you to go away. You might not come back!"
"Of course I will," John reassures him.
But it's not enough. Dean hisses out a breath and when he stares up at his father, John is shocked to see the depths of rage and pain in Dean's eyes. This is exactly what Mary wanted to spare their children and yet here they are. I didn't try hard enough to prevent this, John realizes, closing his eyes against the rush of emotions those words bring with them.
"Mom didn't," Dean says sharply.
There's a blur of motion and then John's hand connects with the side of Dean's face. The boy lets out a strangled yelp, bending over, and John stares in stunned belief at his stinging hand. Angry exclamations burst into his consciousness, pointing out the tear that's rolling down Dean's cheek, showing John every failure he's ever had trying to be both a mother and a father to Dean and Sam. How could I - John shakes his head much like Dean had done earlier, forcing everything away. An apology is right on the tip of John's tongue, but it won't come out. He reaches out for his son but Dean pulls away with a quiet sob that just about breaks John's heart.
What should I do, Mary? It's become an unfortunate habit of his, praying to his dead wife as those she'll actually be able to answer. Predictably, no one answers, and John feels his regret morph into anger. Why did Dean have to bring up Mary? John is already having a hard enough time with his wife's death - though it has been three years now - and every time Dean mentions his mother, the barricade John has put around his memories of Mary burst open and flood him with more than anyone can conceivably take. She's gone. Mary's gone.
"Again," John says, wincing at the frostiness of his tone. His hand is shaking as he points at the bottles again.
Dean lifts his head, eyes sparkling with tears and nods mutely. He can barely raise the gun up let alone aim. His thoughts aren't exactly catering toward moving his body right now. Dean's still trying to figure out what he's done to deserve getting hit. You're the one who brought up Mom, he tells himself. You should've known it would hurt Dad. It's the only thing that makes some sort of sense right now. But it doesn't get rid of the lump in his throat. You're not the only one that gets to miss her, Dad, Dean thinks vehemently, biting his lip until he tastes blood.
Blinking through the tears, Dean raises the gun up and focuses. The kickback isn't so bad this time, mainly because Dean's expected it. He shifts just in time so that his shoulder doesn't get the brunt of the hit. Dimly, Dean makes out the sound of shattering glass, and he smiles despite the dark thoughts in his head fighting for dominance.
"Dean," John begins gently.
"I don't see why I need to do this," Dean breathes, purposely not facing his father. "Mom always said I had angels watching over me." He waits for another blow, but it doesn't come. The only change is the tightening of his dad's jaw.
"I'm not going to believe in something I can't see," John says bitterly. "But if you really believe there's angels, go ahead. Drop the gun. Just don't blame me when you get hurt."
Dean hears the crunching of gravel and knows that his dad is walking away. Instead of following him, Dean takes a deep breath and raises the gun up again, willing his thoughts to shut down. Whether or not Dean agrees with his dad, it's still his responsibility to follow orders. Besides, his dad and Sammy are the only things Dean has left. He won't give that up, not for something so simple as shooting off his mouth.
So, Dean does the only thing he can. He presses down on the raging hurt inside of him, the pain tearing apart his insides, and buries it. You're not allowed to miss her, not around Dad. It doesn't make sense and it isn't exactly right, but if that's what it takes to keep his father happy, then so be it. He'll force it to make sense. You shouldn't miss her, not when you still have Dad and Sammy. Stop whining.
His chin quivers and then stills. Dean's finger presses back against the trigger.
Bullseye. Every one of them. When Dean looks back toward his father, he's calm again and there's an approving smile on John's face, as if he expected nothing less.
1989
"Oh, you deserved it. You were nothing but ungrateful."
"I was a kid! Kids aren't supposed to be grateful. They're supposed to eat your food and break your heart, you selfish dick."
- Bobby and his father; 7.10
"Have you had your fun?" Dean asks after twenty minutes of playing catch with Bobby.
The man glares owlishly down at him. "As a matter of fact, I haven't. Now throw."
Dean grits his teeth and, pulling his arm back, fires the ball at Bobby. The ball strikes Bobby's glove with enough force to send a puff of dust spiralling in the air. Bobby gives the glove a fond look and says, "Poor girl's been retired a little too long."
"Bobby," Dean snaps, slapping his hand into his glove. "If you're just gonna stand there talking to inanimate objects...can I go home?"
"Not unless you want to walk," Bobby retorts sharply. He cocks a bushy eyebrow at the boy. "What's up with you anyway? You're more ornery than usual."
Dean ducks his head but not before Bobby sees a dark flash pass through the boy's eyes. "Just pass the ball," he mumbles.
Obligingly, Bobby tosses the ball in a high arc. Reaching out with his glove, Dean catches it easily and gives Bobby a bored look, muttering several choice words under his breath.
"Alright, that's it," Bobby announces, pulling off his glove.
Dean gives him a relieved look, asking, "Can we go now?"
"No."
Bobby stomps toward the boy and Dean takes two steps back jerkily. The confused look on his face suggests that he hadn't meant to move, and it's quickly followed by another flash in his eyes.
"This is why I don't let you pick the game," Dean says with a huff of frustration, trying to hide his unease.
Bobby's expression darkens. "Look," he snaps, "you may not be havin' the best time of your life, but that doesn't give you the right to bitch about it. And it especially doesn't give you the right to bad mouth me. Not unless you want to walk home." He repeats the idea just to make Dean understand that he's quite serious about it.
Dean shuffles his feet, having the smarts to look ashamed of himself.
"Sorry," the boy murmers, and Bobby's expression softens. He reaches out and presses a hand to the boy's shoulder, causing Dean's eyes to flicker up to rest on his face. The sunlight hits them just right, making the circles of green sparkle.
"Now, no need to beat yourself up about it," Bobby says, knowing that that's exactly what the idjit is doing. He doesn't have to look far to see where that particular trait comes from. The apple hasn't fallen far from the tree and it isn't hard to see why, considering that John's the only parent Dean has left. Bobby may consider himself a father figure to the boys but that doesn't mean that the feelings are reciprocated. "Just try and think a little more next time."
"Yeah," Dean says, "alright." He takes a step back and Bobby removes his hand, giving the boy some space. Bobby turns his attention to the worn glove in his hands. It had been a present from Karen several years into their marriage and this is the first time he's used it since his wife's passing. The thought has his throat closing up, but Bobby coughs sharply, refusing to let himself cry over spilled milk.
Bobby raises his head up just as Dean is moving to scratch his head, lifting up the edge of his shirt. The sight makes Bobby freeze in his tracks.
Bruises cover Dean's hip and abdomen, some still purple while others have already faded to green and yellow. The amount of them is sickening to see on a ten year-old boy.
"Who the hell did that to you?" Bobby hisses through clenched teeth.
Dean's attention drops to his exposed stomach and his eyes widen in dismay. Instantly he drops his hand, hiding the bruises, and shakes his head. "It's nothing," he says with a fake smile, refusing to meet Bobby's gaze.
"Dean." Bobby's hand launches out again and latches onto Dean's shoulder. The boy winces and despite his guilt at making the boy start, Bobby doesn't move his hand. "Did your father hurt you?"
Dean says nothing, the tightening of his mouth the only indication that Bobby's right. He tries to pull back again but Bobby only grabs his other shoulder and yanks Dean closer, shaking him as he does so. "Dean, you need to tell me exactly what happened." No response. From this close proximity, Bobby can smell badly imitated vanilla. He assumes that Dean has put on scented cream to help the bruises heal faster. "Dean."
"I deserved it, Bobby," Dean says after a moment. He sounds exhausted, like he's been ruminating over this for awhile. "Dad told me to watch Sammy and I disobeyed. I nearly got Sam killed."
"That doesn't give your father any right to beat you," Bobby growls, fingers tightening on Dean's shoulders. Dean makes a soft sound of discomfort.
"I nearly got Sam killed," Dean repeats fiercely, a trace of tears in his voice. "I went to play a stupid video game and the Shtriga Dad was hunting found Sammy. If Dad hadn't gotten there when he did, Sam would be dead." He takes a breath, and his voice cracks when he next speaks. "I deserved whatever punishment Dad saw fit. This is nothing." He doesn't sound like he's convincing himself. He sounds utterly sure of his words and the longer that Bobby studies Dean the more horrified he becomes. What has John done to his boy, making him believe that his life is forfeit compared to Sam's? The thought of John taking a belt to his son, drilling the mantra "Sammy comes first" in with every strike, has Bobby closing his eyes and shuddering.
Dean is quivering slightly in his arms. Bobby releases him immediately, unable to look at Dean as the boy stumbles back a number of feet.
"Don't tell Dad," Dean begs.
Bobby sees red. He shakes his head once.
"Bobby, please." Bobby has never heard Dean use that particular word before. "You can't. I-"
Then the boy cuts off and through the molton rage, Bobby watches Dean straighten, appearing to steel himself.
"I think I'll walk home," Dean says coldly as though already knowing what Bobby is going to do once he finds John.
He's gone, then, sprinting across the park before Bobby can do more than lift a finger. Bobby wraps his fingers around the keys in his jacket pocket and pulls them out, clenching them tightly. One of the keys cuts into his palm but he barely notices until his skin is stained crimson.
Bobby remembers the terrifying heights of his father's rage, remembers the way he beat Bobby's mother down without a hint of hesitation. Pure, animalistic brutality. He remembers murdering his father in cold blood, the kick of the shotgun and the piercing ring as it fired. The parallels between his father and John are startling, particuarly the violence aspect and the way that both men had taken on drinking as though they'd drown without it.
As Bobby heads toward his truck, he clutches the keys tighter still, remembers the shock on Dean's face as Bobby had traced the bruises on his skin and wonders if he'll have to repeat his actions.
God, he hopes not. But he will. For Dean - young, innocent, hurting Dean - he'll do it. Even if it means killing John.
Bobby can only pray that it doesn't get that far.
1995
"I'm sitting there and I'm looking into the fire...I'm thinking to myself: I'm sixteen years old. Kids my age are worried about pimples, prom dates. I'm seeing things they'll never even know. Never even dream of. So right then I just sort of..."
"Embraced the life?"
"...Yeah." - Dean and Gordon; 2.03
"Dean?"
Dean turns to face the blood-stained face of his father as John jogs into the clearing, carrying his crossbow against his side. He runs his eyes quickly over John, assessing his father's condition. There seems to be little more than a few scratches, one on John's forehead and others scattered across his arms and torso.
"Thank God," Dean says with a sigh of relief. "Where the hell did you go?"
John's eyebrows grow close together. "I was checking out the trail over there -" he points to the left, past a row of towering oak trees "-and it jumped me. I must've been near the entrance to its lair."
"I thought they only liked dark, underground places," Dean says, confused. He follows the direction his father's hand is pointing but the area behind the trees appears to be completely flat. Save for the fog creeping along the ground, misting the air, there isn't anything here that could hide a shapeshifter.
"I could've sworn I saw a tunnel of sorts over by those bushes," John answers, pressing a hand to his forehead. It comes away stained with blood. "Unless my eyes are giving out on me already."
Dean's eyes scan their surroundings once more in a habitual defensive maneuver and then he offers, "I can check it out again. These sons of bitches are tricky."
"You act as though you've taken on a shapeshifter before," John says with a chuckle.
Dean cracks a smile as he murmurs, "I had a good teacher." His smile widens. "And I'm just that good."
John's eyes flash with something before he laughs again.
"Shapeshifters are nasty creatures," he warns Dean. "Don't underestimate them."
"Don't coddle me," Dean retorts.
"Everyone needs coddling once in awhile," insists John.
Dean raises his eyebrows. In return, John makes a sound like a snort and Dean spares his father a quick glance before taking a step toward the trees. Stupid, rookie mistake, he'll tell himself later. There's a crack as a foot steps on a branch - breaking the twig into several pieces - followed by a heavy breath against the back of Dean's neck. As Dean whirls around, a hand latches onto his arm with bruising strength and John presses a knife against Dean's neck.
Panic flares through Dean for a quick moment as the blade digs in, leaving a shallow cut, but he quickly represses it. He snorts, giving the shapeshifter an amused look. "Haven't you read the rule book? Try being less obvious next time."
The creature's mouth twists into a smile and it croons, "You just never learn when to shut your mouth. Do you, son?" With that, it slams Dean back into one of the trees. Blinding pain erupts across the back of Dean's head and he gasps.
"You're not my father," he spits, narrowing his eyes.
"Are you sure about that?" John's look-alike asks with another one of those twisted smiles. "Maybe I'm just sick and tired of you trying to emasculate me. Ever since your mother died, you've treated me as though I'm about to break. Well, newsflash: I'm dealing with things just fine." The knife digs in deeper. "Are you?"
Dean groans as his head is slammed into the tree again. He tries to reach out for the gun filled with silver bullets hidden between the back of his jeans and his back but he's beaten to it by the creature. John wrenches Dean's arm away - leering as Dean cries out - and pulls out the gun, waving it in front of Dean's face.
"Were you really going to try and shoot your own father?" the creature growls. "I thought I raised you better, son."
Dean laughs and the creature's eyebrows raise in surprise.
"You're a damn poor imitation of him," Dean breathes, murder in his eyes as he forces himself to glare into his father's face. "But you're gonna regret finding us and impersonating him. You don't want to know how much I'm planning on making you scream tonight." He studies the familiar way in which his dad's face tightens and wonders if he's really going to have to torture someone who looks so much like his dad, his role model.
"I taught you everything you know," the creature hisses, clenching its fingers around Dean's gun. "You're no match for me."
"Normally I'd agree," Dean says, desperately trying to slow down his slamming heartbeat. It's not him. It isn't him. "But see, you aren't my dad, and you have absolutely no idea what I'm capable of." He growls through his teeth. "I'm told I'm quite handy with a knife."
John raises the gun into the air and then throws his arm down, smashing the gun into Dean's stomach. Dean gasps again as he loses his breath, his knees nearly giving out on him. His eyelashes flutter as black stars burst across his vision, obscuring it. The creature's laughter rings in his ear, too proud of itself to realize that Dean is reaching for silver knife tucked down into his pants by his hip.
No sixteen year old should ever have to experience something like this, is Dean's exhausted thought, and then he plunges the knife into his father's side.
John screams, a keening sound that brings tears to Dean's eyes, and stumbles back. I'm so sorry, Dean thinks as he pushes his father further away and drops to the ground. Dean rolls to the side as the creature lunges toward the tree, ignoring the crunch of what feels like a broken rib. Fingers latch onto his ankle, but Dean kicks back and connects with something. John cries out again and Dean pulls his leg away, scrambling toward the crossbow John had dumped at the edge of the clearing. The moment he reaches it, Dean forces his legs to work and rises to his feet.
His dad is standing by the tree, one hand pressed against the bark. He pulls the blade out of his side with his free hand and grunts quietly. Blood drips from from the knife, leaving a pattern of crimson freckles on the ground.
"You're going to pay for that, you impertinent child," John threatens hoarsely, raising the knife up.
But it is too late. Dean already has the crossbow pointed at his father, staring darkly at the bleeding figure as he tries to will himself to fire.
They stand in silence for a moment, John's eyes brightening with triumph the longer that Dean stalls.
"You can't do it," his father says with vicious satisfaction. "Poor baby already lost mommy dearest. He can't lose dad too."
There's a thwick and the silver-tipped arrow buries itself in John's chest, directly into his heart. The creature slumps to the ground and Dean ignores the desire to do the same. He has to find his father's body, because he can't have just killed him.
A few minutes later he finds John lying unconscious in a ditch behind the bushes the creature had pointed out earlier. Shaking him, Dean mumbles, "C'mon, dad, get up. If you die on me, I swear to God -"
He's cut off as John lurches up with a gasp, staring wide-eyed at his son.
"What happened?" John asks faintly, staggering to his feet and nearly falling over. Dean presses a hand to his father's back, steadying him.
"I ganked the son of a bitch."
.
It's obvious after they finish burning the creature's body that Dean is in desperate need of a hospital trip. So, despite Dean grumbling and threatening to hotwire a car and take off, John drives them to the nearest hospital. The letters in St. Mary's Hospital waver in front of Dean's eyes and he turns away with a grunt of discomfort.
As he'd predicted, Dean is told that he's broken a rib due to his "extreme hiking" and has to spend an agonizing half hour getting his torso wrapped. Once they're done poking and prodding, Dean is wheeled into his own room and falls into an exhausted sleep almost immediately.
He wakes up to the sound of heated whispers. Cracking open one eye, Dean finds the blurry outline of Sammy sitting in the chair by the bed, his brother's head turned toward the doorway as he argues quietly with their father.
"Wus goin' on," Dean mumbles sleepily, rubbing a hand over his eyes. "Why did you let Sammy in here?" John should know better. They'd agreed long ago to keep Sam out of the hunting business as much as possible. Maybe they could keep one family member untainted.
"He wanted to see you," John says wearily, but Dean can read the unspoken "I couldn't keep him in the car." "Sammy, go ask the doctor when Dean can be released."
"But-" Sam begins.
"Now."
It's the same tone both Dean and Sam have heard over the years, the main source of their arguments. It's the tone that usually accompanies an order and demands instant cooperation. It is the tone that Dean has conditioned himself to obey and the one that Sam usually gets his feathers ruffled over.
"Fine," Sam says with a sigh. He casts Dean a mournful look before heading out into the hall.
Once they're alone, Dean allows himself to soak in his father's features, trying to erase the memory of them being twisted beyond imagination. His chest tightens without his permission, and he says softly, "I shot you."
"You shot the creature."
Dean shakes his head, pressing into the thin comforter. "Doesn't matter."
John sighs, making his way over to the chair in which Sammy had been sitting.
"C'mon," his father says, raising an eyebrow and pressing his hand against the top of the sheets where Dean's leg is. "Don't be such a girl about this."
Immediately, Dean buries the impulse to rant and rave, knowing that John will only say it isn't necessary. The words burn on the tip of his tongue and Dean flinches as he tries repeatedly to swallow them. He glances up just as John's eyes flit his way, catching the light.
The crack of a twig. A hot breath. A menacing smile. "Poor baby already lost mommy dearest. He can't lose Dad too."
Without thinking, Dean cowers back against the wall, fixing his dad with hooded eyes. Something rips its way through him, tearing at the endless chain of memories that make up the admiration Dean holds for his father. It taints them, and Dean is reminded of how human the shapeshifter had made itself, how something that looked so ordinary could behave in such a destructive manner.
This is why we do what we do, his father would say. There are innocent people out there and we can't just let these sons of bitches keep on killing.
Dean's hands fist the sheets and his stare intensifies. Doubt weeds through him as remembers hesitating to shoot the creature, unable to tell if it was his father or not. You're still not sure. He hates himself for even thinking it. You can't trust him, not until he proves himself.
"Dean," John says worriedly, reaching out.
"Don't," Dean growls in a tone he hasn't used with his father since that day John taught him how to shoot. "I can't - I don't know if-"
Realization dawns on John's face and he says, "It's me, Dean. You know it's me."
Dean shakes his head and it breaks something within him to do so. "Silver," he manages to say before words are impossible. You're doubting your own father, the one person you're supposed to be able to trust with your life. How can you betray him like this? He blinks back tears.
John doesn't try and argue. He simply pulls out his knife - the same one Dean had used last night to stab the creature - and presses it to his palm. Blood wells up as he drags it across the skin, but John does little more than wince. If his father was a shapeshifter, he would be keening like it did last night, Dean knows. He releases a breath he hadn't realized he was holding and nods. Dean doesn't apologize, doesn't speak. He just rotates until he can lean more comfortingly against the wall and tries to control his trembling jaw.
"Okay," he breathes, nodding at his father. "Okay."
"Okay," John echoes, his face tightening until he looks impassive once more. Wiping his hand on the front of his jeans, John stands up and heads for the door. "I should go get this wrapped." It's obvious that John isn't talking about finding a nurse. They have a shit-ton of medical supplies in the Impala. "Sam and I will be back in a day or two. Best to stock up while you're out of the game." Dean realizes then, as John leans down and pats his son's shoulder, that he's forgotten to breathe.
"Right," Dean says, clearing his throat. "Yeah. I'll just be...here, then." Disappointment weighs down his chest. For some stupid reason, Dean had thought that maybe, just maybe, his father would have stayed this time. But Dean doesn't come first. There's people out there that need saving and there always will be. So how can Dean possibly be selfish enough to ask his father to stay by his side? How can he want that so incredibly much?
John offers Dean a grin. "Don't sleep with too many nurses."
"No promises," Dean responds automatically.
The door clicks shut behind John and it's too quiet.
2004
"Dad let you go on a hunting trip by yourself?"
"I'm twenty-six, dude." - Dean and Sam; 1.01
"What do you mean, you're not coming?" Dean asks his father incredulously.
The room they're staying in has to be one of the crappiest places Dean has ever been, and that's saying something. Over the years, he and Sammy have slept in tents and on benches. They're snuggled close together on twin sized beds to stay warm in rooms where the heater wasn't working and frost gathered on the windowsills. But this has to be the worst. And it isn't because there's only one bed - which means Dean has been relocated to the floor for the past three nights; that's nothing new, no big deal - or because the window is cracked in so many different places it's a wonder it is still holding together.
No, what has to make this room the worst is the fact that Dean has his few belongings packed and in the Impala, ready for a new hunt, and his father isn't coming.
"I don't need to explain myself to you," John tells Dean firmly, reclining back in the chair by the window. If Dean didn't know his father quite so well, he'd say that John was content. But the hard edge to John's eyes gives it all away. He's not happy about this decision, but he isn't about to change his mind. He never changes his mind.
"Actually, you do," Dean snaps, taking two lumbering steps in his father's direction. John stiffens. "Because you're the one that's been dragging me around with you all these years, telling me that no matter how hard it gets, saving people comes first."
John's eyes have a dangerous gleam to them now, one Dean has seen far too many times in his short life.
"You make it sound like I'm going on vacation," John answers sharply, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees.
"Well, for all I know, maybe you are." Dean throws an arm in the air, punctuating his words. "All I've got to go off of are bullshit excuses."
"You watch how you talk to me," John hisses. He stands then, leaning into Dean's personal space. Instinctively, Dean pulls away, his heart pounding away as thoughts of how this could all end circle his mind. "I said I'm not coming, and that's that. I've given you the keys and you have everything you need, so I'm not sure why you aren't already gone."
"Maybe I wouldn't have to talk to you like this if you would just tell me the truth!" Dean cries desperately. He really, really doesn't like confronting his father like this, but what else can he do? John is telling him to leave (and he might as well have added "and don't come back".)
"Did you ever think I might be doing this for you?" John asks, voice steely, and Dean's heart jumps into his throat.
"What?" Dean asks softly, fingers kneeding at the hem of his shirt.
"Dean, you don't even see what this is doing to you." Turning his attention to the cracks in the window, John continues. "You act as though I'm always going to be here to hunt with you, as though I'm indestructible. I'm not a god, Dean. Just one shot and I'm gone, and where will that leave you?" He shakes his head dismissively, and Dean's heart sinks a little lower. "You need to learn how to fend for yourself."
Dean snaps. "I've been fending for myself my whole life!"
"No one cares," John roars, wheeling on his son so fast that Dean barely has time to understand what's happening before he's being backed against the nearest wall. The floral wallpaper crinkles under his back and Dean breathes so hard that black spots begin to dance in his vision.
John inhales shakily, one hand pressed to the wall behind Dean and the other cupping Dean's jaw forcefully. "Don't you understand," he murmers quietly, brokenly, "that no one cares?"
Dean tries to press further back into the wall, hoping that he might sink through it, but no dice.
"Someone has to," Dean whispers, knowing somehow that they aren't talking about him anymore. "I do. Dad-" He cuts off, laughing weakly as his chest constricts. God, he feels so pitiful right now, whimpering all over his father like a child afraid of the dark. "We take care of each other. That's what we do. Just-"
"Dean." Just his name, but Dean feels everything come crumbling down around him. The hand clutching Dean's jaw loosens and then falls back to John's side as John takes several steps back. This is it. He'd known that this life with John wasn't quite right, wasn't as it ought to be, but they weren't normal and so Dean had made it work. But to hear that it has all been some kind of mistake on John's part...that teaching Dean and being there for Dean as much as John was capable of was just an error on John's part?
"Well, you know what?" Dean tries. "Tough, 'cause I'm staying with you."
"I've taken everything I need out of the Impala," John says, not meeting Dean's eyes. "I'll be changing my cell phone out within the next few days to keep under the radar, so if you can't reach me, that's why." John turns his back on Dean completely then, heading over to the bathroom and leaving the door open only a little. Dean hears the shower turn on, water spewing into the tub, and he swallows hard.
No, the life that John had led since Dean had lost his mother wasn't the mistake. John doesn't regret saving people, hunting things.
Dean is the mistake.
Dean stands still in the middle of the room for a minute, his breathing hitching as he fights the urge to cry. Then, he walks over to the nightstand, grabs the alarm clock and, weighing it in his hand for a moment, chucks it across the room. It hits the bathroom door, shattering, the alarm beeping weakly before sputtering out. Dean expects the water to shut off, for John to storm out and beat Dean to a bloody pulp. But the water keeps running and John doesn't come out.
Grabbing the keys to the Impala and heaving his backpack over his shoulder, Dean leaves the hotel room, leaves everything he's ever known, and drives away with dry, dead eyes. Three states away, ten days later, the rugged upholstery of the Impala becomes home. Dean decorates her seats with pieces of birthday cake - he's never celebrated his birthday before; might as well start now - and glides across the back seats with women who don't matter, leaving sweat stains he'll never forget.
2006
"I've done everything you've ever asked me. Everything. I have given everything I've ever had. And you're just going to sit there and watch me die? What the hell kind of father are you?" - Dean; 2.01
10:36am. Dean wakes up, gasping, flailing.
Sam is screaming.
Look after Sammy.
Dean stumbles his way out of the hospital bed and over to the huddled mound on the floor that is Sam, placing a hand awkwardly on his brother's back. For a second, Dean sees blood on Sam's mouth, and panics, only to realize that Sam has bitten through his own lip.
If you can't save him, you'll have to kill him.
"Sammy," Dean murmers gently, both comforting and leaning on Sam. He still feels a bit woozy. "Shh, it's alright. I'm here now. Do I need to gank someone?"
"Dad," Sam whimpers, tears rolling down his cheeks. His eyes meet Dean's, shattered beyond belief. "Dean, I couldn't-"
"Dad's fine," Dean says, though the more he lingers on his father's whispered message, the less convinced Dean becomes. "He just sent you out to get coffee, remember? He was right there." Sam gives Dean a brief, confused look, still whimpering, and Dean remembers that he'd been technically unconscious during that bit. Fun stuff.
Dean shuffles his feet a little, legs cramping up, and realizes that he is standing in spilled coffee. His eyes make the slow trek over to the doorway in front of him and connect with a pair of familiar, blood-specked shoes. He doesn't realize that he's started screaming until nurses are flooding the hall, grabbing the lifeless corpse of John, and hoisting him onto the hospital cot in the room.
They're ushered away from John's side by a frazzled nurse in scrubs and through the mist in his mind, Dean notices the disappearance of the Colt. He wouldn't. Dad wouldn't be so stupid.
10:41am. Monitors flat-lining. Dead. Dead.
Dean leads Sammy out of the hospital, an arm around his brother's waist, before he's taken back for more testing. Apparently being in a coma, hovering between life and death, and then suddenly waking up isn't so common. All Dean knows is that he has to get Sammy somewhere safe. He'll come back for the body later. He can't think beyond that. Dean's mind is aching. His body is groaning for relief, for respite. He can feel tears clinging to his eyelashes.
When Dean closes his eyes, he sees mocking yellow, hears screams as his father is dragged down to Hell. Sold his soul. For you.
Not for Sammy. Not for Mom. For you.
That night, Dean clutches John's coat to his chest, and breathes, and it doesn't make it okay, but Dean wouldn't have expected it to anyway. Because their family isn't normal, never has been. They save people, hunt things, value the lives of strangers more than they value themselves. But Dean breathes, because he can. He breathes because the beautiful Reaper held out a hand and told him that even when a soldier falls the battle continues. He'd been so tempted to let himself fade away, just so that he wouldn't have to fight anymore. Before Dean had acted on his choice, he'd been dragged back to his body.
The ache is still here. Dean still isn't sure if he wants to keep fighting. But now there's a difference. Now there's a choice, a little Reaper in the back of Dean's mind for all of eternity. There is this life and there is what lies beyond, whether it be Heaven or a plot of earth under which Dean's body is buried.
He might just be a soldier, but soldiers fall.
fin
.