A New Sort Of Animal

by jobincityslacka

John thinks through the years of all that's happened and realizes he was in the wrong. John/Dean slash. "Do you think it's sort of a crutch? When you try to move me to touch." Sort Of - Silversun Pickups. Moved from another account.

Pairing: John/Dean
Rating: M
Disclaimer: I don't own em' didn't create them. Just love writing the fiction.
Warnings: Daddy!kink, m/m or slash
Notes: Stroke of inspiration hit me and I wrote it. Just John dealing with what has happened between him and Dean, coping with the father that he was. Inspired by Sort Of by Silversun Pickups

It scares him, sometimes when he looks back and realizes what he's done. At the time, he didn't know what he was doing, but now he recognizes it and is drowning in the memories. All the should'ves and could'ves come flooding back but he resolves in knowing that he just wasn't strong enough. The present gets confused with the past as he tries to figure out where it began. He never had bad intentions, after all.

All of a sudden, it's nine years ago—1995—the first time he ever gave in. His fingers are pulling through his sixteen-year-old son's hair. City lights shine in through the window, reflected off billboards draped with women and sex. The glittery neon of the strip club across the street brands pink stripes over the flesh of his son's back, flesh that's glistening wet with sweat. He never indulged himself with sex that had a price, never spent money on a working girl with done-up hair and high-heels. He never brought home women from the bar and kicked his kids out of the bedroom just to have a night of fun after all of the horrible, corrupting things he'd seen and fought. And yet, as he takes pride in having never succumbed to those temptations, he feels every inch of the adolescent teen before him on his fingertips and feels no shame.

It's 1997 and he's had a lot of time to think. He comes home less and less and sees his children less and less. Now that his oldest is eighteen, his two sons are sent out into the world on their own hunts, all the while having to call daddy every day, to check up. He fears it's obvious that the check ups are only an excuse for him to hear his son's voice, because he needs to hear it just to keep running. He lies when he tells himself he doesn't miss the heat-filled nights and "oh, dad," being moaned in his ear. That's probably why he built this distance in the first place; the guilt is rising and he doesn't want to drown. Honestly, it's the roughest year they've ever had—father and son see each other only a few times and when they do, it's brief. He claims it's because they're busy and the world needs saving but neither of them really believe it.

It's 1998 and he promises to his oldest son that he won't put his children through another year like the last. He says they'll do more three-man hunts, and that he'll stop leaving for weeks on end. He says that the days where five-minute cell calls serve as the family's only communication are over. Both of them are hopeful and believe his words. He thinks he'll keep his promise. After all, he's tired of running.

It's 2005. Now—present time. He swears at himself and he knows he's broken one of the most important promises he's ever made, having left his only connection without even mentioning where he was going. He sits in the vacant motel room and cries in his palms, the years and years of shoving the pain to the side finally catching up. He's tired of this life. He's tired of having to protect his only ally.

It's 2001 again and his youngest son betrays him hatefully and runs away to college. As he breaks down fully in front of his son for the first time, he chokes on his sobs and hot tears stream down his face. He then engages in the most passionate act of his life. Once again he looks out the window and sees a street polluted with profanity and breasts. The sheets encircling his son's body pull his gaze back down and he loses himself in their softness. He turns his back to the window. The city's night-time pleasures no longer tempt him, and as he feels every inch of the full-grown man before him on his fingertips, the past four years of underlying shame seem pointless.

It's 2002 and his son is more like his combined soldier and lover than his family. He's taken to hearing his own name in bed, rather than 'dad' or 'sir'. The months pass by slowly as his son grows only more loyal, but it's also become apparent that he isn't in the best state of mind; neither of them are, really. Sometimes they split up and work on separate cases, trusting each other enough not to call constantly. Or maybe it's not about trust—maybe it's because they're both hiding. Binge-drinking in separate motel rooms across the country and wishing things were different. He knows that his son brings home women when he's not around, he can smell them on his clothes. They partner up again and talk about hunting the demon. In fact, over the past few years, since the youngest left, the demon is the common ground they always seem to go back to when neither of them know what to talk about. Fornication has become a part of their everyday messed-up lives, and neither of them thinks much of it, not after everything they've been through. They hunt, they share intimacy, and they track the demon, no guilt added.

It's 2005 and John is sitting alone, trying to focus on his journal and where the demon could be. He's already got some clues, but nothing is certain and he doesn't want to put his boys in danger. He got a call from his oldest, Dean, the other day saying that he'd found his brother and that the two of them were back on the hunting path and searching for him. He looked in the mirror later that day and shot himself a lethargic smile, glad that Sammy was back on the team.

Right now, he's a wreck, unable to smile even if he wanted to. He looks back at the past nine years and feels hopeless. It scares him, the thought of what he's done. He's carved a beautiful innocent boy into something unique, something threatening, something scary—a new animal. He trained Dean so early on to be agile and aggressive, to leap without looking and only care for Sam; his brother and nothing else. He forced his child to grow up at such a young age, no childhood in the process. He regrets so deeply having raised his son in such a neglectful, cold way; he never supported him, told him what a great job he was doing, or gave him any sort of appreciation. Worst of all, he raised his son to believe his relationship with his father is okay—even though Dean stopped being his son such a long time ago. He bred a different kind of kid—the kind that does nothing but respond to orders no matter how fucked-up they are, the kind that thinks it's normal to release sexual tension with their own dad. Dean's a dangerous, self-loathing, fucked-in-the-head, killing machine. A whole new sort of breed. A whole new sort of animal.