This is going to be a new series I'll be starting on times in Dean's life in which he's stopped talking. Each chapter will be like it's own little one-shot. Hope you enjoy!
John Winchester sleeps on his stomach with a knife and a gun under his pillow. His right hand clutches the handle to an old Beretta, since he'd always been better at shooting with his dominant hand, and his left hand holds the leather hilt of a serrated, silver dagger. Even as he's in a deep slumber, he makes sure that he has those two things tightly grasped in his hands. That way, if anything comes into their motel room at night, John will be ready. He won't let an evil thing take him from his sons, or his sons from him. The fire will not repeat, and John will never lose an important person in his life again. He's going to protect those two boys from the things that go bump in the night, or he's going to die trying. Dean, five-years-old, still isn't speaking, and John knows that he has to save his traumatized little boy. Dean knows about monsters, and John has sworn to protect him from them. If that in turn means sleeping with a loaded gun underneath his pillow, then so be it. No demons will be sneaking up on John Winchester this time. This time he'll be alert, and ready.
From what he can hear, Dean's still asleep with Sam in the other bed. The infant, almost one-year-old now, makes little baby noises as he slept, and Dean is surely snuggling his brother close to his chest, making sure that he doesn't go anywhere. Knowing that his boys are safe for the time being, John lets himself drift off at three in the morning.
But, of course, he isn't fully sleeping. He needs to be alert and ready for if—no, when—something sneaks into their motel room and tries to take his kids away. He knows that the monsters are out there, and that they will come for him. They did the night of the fire, but what about now? His grip on his weapons never falters, making sure that when he's attacked, the sucker won't stand a chance. It'll be sliced, shot, whatever it takes to keep the thing from advancing. Once upon a time, he used to sleep like a rock. Mary would laugh at how he could sleep through his alarm and would only awaken after she shook him for a good ten minutes. The old John Winchester had liked his sleep, savored it. Now, however, he barely sleeps at all, and when he finally does turn in, the sweet pulls of unconsciousness seem to be forever out of his grasp. Not that he minds anymore. He's learned to cope. Some nights he has a little sleeping aid, also knows as a beer or two, which gives him what he needs to get through a night without the nightmares. He can't sleep every night knowing that his dreams will be haunted with depictions of demons and vengeful spirits and Mary. The nightmares often don't let him glean any rest from his four hours a night, so going to bed a little wasted helps to ward them away.
It's at sometime in the wee hours of the morning during which John feels a dip in his bed. He's instantly fully awake, alert to whatever has shaken him out of his slumber. Yes, there's definitely something making its way across his bed. Both of John's hands tighten their grips, and he steadies his breaths so that he can further assess the situation. The creature (or whatever it is) is crawling on four legs. John doesn't have a large encyclopedia categorizing different types of monsters in his mind yet, but logic tells him "animal, not human," and he figures that a knife seems more fitting. There's salt lines around the room, so it can't be a ghost or a demon, if he recalls correctly. He abandons his handgun in favor of the large knife in his left hand and places it in his right; he doesn't know what this creature is, but it won't stand a chance against John Winchester, amateur hunter extraordinaire. The creature is slow, he can tell that much, or is it just acting slow to throw him off? It could be trying to keep its movements dull and lethargic as to not wake John, and thus not be attacked. But if that's its goal, the monster has miserably failed, and now John is ready to slit this thing's throat and thus end its grievous existence on earth.
His breaths are slow and calculating, muscles tense, ready to deliver the blow that's needed. The thing is slowly making its way closer, and John twists his body, shooting up and aiming the knife at where he'd previously calculated that the creature's neck is. He doesn't slice, instead boring into the creature's bright green eyes. He wants to see the light fade as it dies, the sense of failure. John has saved his family from yet another threat, and no creatures will ever succeed in taking them away from him.
Wait, green eyes? John blinks. He knows those green eyes...
"Oh my god," he whispers, knife dropping from his clenched fist and onto the bed.
Looking back at him in horror is Dean, mouth agape in a silent scream and eyes wide. He looks too shocked to do anything but sit there and quiver. John Winchester, amateur hunter extraordinaire (yeah right, who would believe that now?), had almost knifed his oldest son. He reaches out a consoling hand towards him, but Dean only jumps off the bed and runs away from his father. The killer.
John feels tears welling in his eyes. The look of unadulterated terror on his own son's face is one he knows will haunt his dreams tonight, if he can even fall asleep. He can't believe that he had been so careless. He'd been too absorbed in his own, monster-filled world to even think about the movement in his bed being his own son seeking comfort. There had been only a handful of nights in which Dean hadn't had nightmares since the fire, and tonight seems to be one of the more common ones. Dean never screams, his voice doesn't even seem to work for that, so it's up to John to listen for his son tossing and turning in the night to know if he's having a bad dream. It must have been really bad, because Dean has never once come to his father after one.
"Dean," John hisses into the darkness of the night. "Dean, it's all right, kiddo. I thought that..."
He can't finish his statement, though. "I thought that you were a monster coming to kill me in my sleep" doesn't exactly pull any nominations for "Best Parent of the Year." As much as Dean seems to have accepted the fact of monsters really living in the world, John doesn't want to further affirm the fact. Dean needs as normal a childhood as he can get. Though John, nearly blinded by revenge for his wife's gruesome death, doesn't know how well he can supply that for his boy.
He gets no response—no surprise there. John hides his knife back in its spot underneath his pillow and scrambles out of bed, careful to watch for any sign of his boys on the floor because neither of them are on the bed they had been sleeping on. Dean must have taken Sammy to wherever he had scampered off to.
John scans the room briefly, not seeing or hearing either son. He then proceeds to the bathroom, as that seems like a reasonable hiding place for a five-year-old and his baby brother. Dean's most likely terrified at this point, which is entirely John's fault. He'd witnessed the boy squeeze himself between the toilet and the wall before when he was scared, so it doesn't seem like an unusual feat for the small boy to accomplish. Upon entry to the tiny washroom, John sees his guess to be correct. Like a cat trying to fit itself into the smallest of boxes, Dean is scrunched in the tightest spot possible in the small bathroom. His eyes are closed, holding a death grip on Sammy, and John notices that his oldest son looks pale, certainly sporting more of a pallor than he had mere hours before. John's stomach sinks when he sees the telltale signs of fever on his cheeks and the swollen, runny nose.
John kneels down in front of him, not making sharp movements as to startle his boys. "Dean?" he says, trying to keep his voice soft and tender. "Dean, come on out."
Dean shakes his head, peeking his eyes open the slightest bit. John sees that they were red-rimmed and full of tears. His heart clenches, knowing that he has caused those tears.
"Let's get Sammy to bed," John suggests. He knows that even if Dean doesn't want to be around his father—because why would he?—the little boy would look for the best interests of his brother. "Then we'll see what's up with you, okay?"
Dean nods slowly, reaching out his arms warily to hand the youngest Winchester to his father. John takes the child, thanking the heavens that he's still asleep. With a distressed Dean to deal with, he hardly needs a fussy baby on his hands as well. John watches as Dean works his way out of the hiding spot and stumbles slightly with every step he takes. He follows his father like a little duckling as John tucks Sammy back into his makeshift bed which consists of a bunch of blankets shaped into a barrier around where the infant would sleep so that he doesn't roll off the bed. Though John doubts he actually sleeps there, as ten times out of ten Dean is sleeping with Sam wrapped in his thin arms.
Once the baby is settled, John shifts his gaze towards his eldest. The child is slumped, sweaty, and just looks plain miserable. As John crouches down to get on eye-level with Dean, he notices with a cringe how his son flinches away from him the slightest bit. "I-I'm sorry, Dean," he says, voice quivering a tiny bit. "You know I still care for you and Sammy, you just startled me, is all."
Dean blinks with owlish eyes. His face shows no emotion, and it's moments like these in which John wonders whether or not Dean actually understands what he's saying. He never says any words, and John wishes that he would at least hear a "Daddy" or a "Sammy" again. His son's sweet voice would certainly help him make it through these hard nights, but he doesn't talk at all. He simply stares, taking in the world, but not quite participating in it.
John swallows back the lump in his throat that develops from his thoughts of before the fire. Before their lives took a one-eighty into hell. Dean was the liveliest kid in the world. Now he's a shell of his former self. "Now, how are you feeling?" John asks, turning his attention to how not good his son is looking.
Dean shakes his head, longish blonde hair waving with the slightest movement, a silent testament to how rotten he's feeling. Dean's whole figure is slouched tiredly, and he looks sticky with sweat. His hair is plastered down to his forehead in a way that can't be too comfortable John cups his boy's face in his hands, not liking the warmth seeping from it. Dean's chest is rumbling, and the child lets out a strained cough when John lays a hand against his torso. John inwardly sighs. A sick kid really doesn't fit into his busy schedule. He has research to do. The thing that killed Mary is still out there, and John won't rest until it's found and destroyed.
Woeful thoughts of revenge fill his mind, but glancing back to the destitute child before him, he thinks that maybe revenge will have to wait. Right now, his son needs him, and he intends to be at least a decent father for the time being.
"I know you probably won't answer me," John mutters, "but what hurts? I can tell fever, cough, runny nose, what else?"
Dean shifts his weight, looking a bit uncomfortable under his father's scrutiny. John pinches the bridge of his nose in sudden unkempt annoyance. "Dean, if you want me to be able to help you, you're gonna need to answer me."
Dean rubs his eyes in fatigue, sniffling a bit.
John growls. "Dean, use your voice and answer me!" he shouts as loudly as he can without waking Sammy. "I know you can talk, so just say something! Anything!"
Dean's tiny neck bobs with a thick swallow. The boy shivers and looks close to tears again, a disturbed look appearing on his face.
John runs a hand down his face. He recognized the loss and pure emotional pain that his son bears. He holds the same agony, only it feels tenfold. Dean misses his mother and has to take care of Sammy, yes, but John is now loaded with the guilt of not having saved her, the torture of seeing his eldest not speaking a single word, knowing that Sammy will never have a mother, and hunting down the thing that destroyed their lives in order to get what he wants the most: revenge. "I miss her too, Dean, but you don't see me shutting down and hiding inside myself, do you?" He's working up a fury now, releasing all of the anguished emotions about his son's silence that have been building up for five months now. "You've had you're coping time, so please just talk to me!" He rubs his eyes, which have begun tearing up. His lip is doing that funny little jig that it does when he's about to start bawling, so he calms his emotions down just in time. He needs to seem strong, for Dean. "God, I miss her," he whispers, holding his head in his hands. "I just…I need you to stay with me, Dean. You can't fall away now, I need you. Sammy needs you."
Dean is crying as well now, but doesn't make a sound. The wet tears stream down his face like an orderly procession and mingle with the fever-induced sweat beads along his cheeks, but he doesn't say a word, doesn't even sob. It's kind of eerie how he can even cry without making any noise. In a show of selfless compassion, Dean reaches out and hugs his father, squeezing as tightly as a five-year-old possibly could. His tiny fingernails dig into the fabric of John's thin shirt as he holds on for dear life. John embraces his son back, appreciating the motion of consolation, even if it isn't accompanied by words. Through his sleep shirt, John can feel the raging fever from Dean's face and is reminded of the present situation. Dean is sick, and he needs to take care if him.
"Come on, kiddo," he murmurs. "Let's head off to bed for the night. I'll get you some meds in the morning when we're both a little more in our right minds."
Dean nods against his chest, and John carries his eldest, the boy clutching his father for desperately as if he's scared John will disappear, to the bed where Sammy is sleeping. There, Dean positions himself in John's stomach, curling into his father's warmth like hasn't done since before the fire. John has sweet memories of Dean doing the same thing to Mary on nights in which he'd fallen asleep in her arms. He had fit perfectly into her petite form, and always sought her out for comfort. When Mary was busy or unavailable, he would come to his father and John would be just as welcoming. Watching the Sunday night game with a beer in hand, Dean would curl up like a little kitten on his lap (there again with the feline analogies) and fall asleep, but not before asking a million questions like "What are the guys in the red doing?" or "Do you think I'll ever play football like those guys?" John reaches out a spare arm to Sam, keeping both of his sons close in case anything might happen to them. Looking at his current situation brought tears to his eyes. Never again will Dean watch a football game with the same fascination while Mary gently nurses Sammy. Never again will Sam have a nurturing mother to care for him. Never again will John hear Dean speak, he's come to fear. Surely five months is long enough? Surely Dean should have gotten over his silent vigil already?
John sighs in anguish. Their family is far from healed, but for the first time, and quite possibly the last, John Winchester sleeps without a gun and knife under his pillow. His hands don't clutch the deadly weapons, instead holding his sons close and shielding them from the world. As long as John Winchester has his boys, nothing can destroy the small family. Nothing.
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