Title: The Weight of Us
Author: OpheliacAngel
Pairings & Characters: John/Dean
Genre: Romance/Family
Rating: Teen
Summary: Maybe it'll be enough, just him and his dad; a love, sense of protection and home he can wholeheartedly fall into. Because Sam isn't here, and Sam's certainly not offering. Pre-Series, after Sam leaves for college.
A/N: Another John/Dean, I'm starting to really ship this now.
Dean's eyes can barely focus on the road through the windshield of his baby; luckily, he pulls up into the parking lot of yet another shitty motel barely minutes after. He manages to make the what seems like arduous task out of the car and up to the door, ready to fall face-first into the bed, barely registering the drapes drawn tightly together and the fact that there doesn't seem to be any light shining out at him.
He manages to pull the door open and shut it quietly, the room already pitched into darkness, not wanting to wake his dad. Before he's able to pull off his jacket and wait for his eyes to adjust to the darkness though, he trips over something sharp and only just barely manages to catch himself on the table, his hand gripping the surface to hold himself up. He swears, quietly, hoping he hasn't woken his father.
"That you, son?"
No such luck.
"Dad." He stands there quietly by the table, very still, waiting for another word or sound to try to gauge what mood his father is in. He can already smell the heavy scent of whiskey and sweat permeating the room, and Dean's head grows dizzy from it paired with the lack of light. Dean finally realizes how truly tired he is; he's spent most of the night researching, and he can only hope that he's hasn't walked into one of his father's bad moods.
He waits, he doesn't know how long, but too much time couldn't have realistically passed before he can hear his father sigh deeply, and Dean can vaguely see his arm lifting up in the dark, as if to beckon him near.
"I'm not gonna bite, tiger." Dean almost sighs out loud in relief because it's not very often, but some nights his father is drunk enough to smack him around a little, not that he knows what he's really doing or anything. When John wakes up in the morning, sober but with a killer of a hangover accompanying, Dean can see how much he just wants to go back to bed and will the day away.
It doesn't matter how much his dad seems to want it though, there's never been a time where he hasn't dragged himself out of bed and shoved him into the bathroom, John following with a head heavier than lead and a bad taste in his mouth, wincing as he flicks on the strong overhead light to survey the damage he's done to his son the night before. Dean can't miss the way his father finally looks at him when his eyes are done wandering over nearly every patch of skin, eyes boring into his own with similar amounts of longing in the forms of lust and love.
There's denial there too though, and sometimes Dean bends down but John always lifts him back up so he can look at Dean again, look at him with Dean looking back.
And Dean really, really does love to look back.
This point is always the time for forgiveness, a reaction and potential display of mercy that John never seems to want. Hell, Dean thinks his dad would be completely okay with him just blowing up and storming out of the room. But Dean is never angry, he only wants his father's love and approval.
John usually mumbles an apology, kisses him quickly and messily, and then goes out to get the both of them breakfast, as if plagued by his own guilt. Dean is left behind, occasionally biting his nails or just pacing for his father to come back. His eyes may droop from the long, sleepless night past and his thoughts may wander: a small reprieve from his cheek that may still be throbbing; or his arm burning unrelentingly from a fierce grip wrenched upon it hours before, but Dean ignores anything he's been given.
Dean only wants to be forgiven, for any of the wrongs he may have caused, for not being strong enough to convince Sam to stay.
And the more and more he thinks about Sam, the worse he feels, and then he can hear the familiar sound of the Impala pull up in the parking lot and his dad is standing in the doorway before he knows it, and Dean is more than aware that John knows all his secrets, shares all his thoughts and feelings and loves him even more for it. And he doesn't say a word as he serves his son breakfast, kissing him on the spot he hit on his cheek, or rubbing gentle, meaningful fingers down the arm he may have bruised without really realizing it, and more often than not Dean finds himself smiling and happy and thinking about the next hunt in anticipation.
He loves his dad, he really does, more than he probably should. His eyes lighting up when they catch sight of Dean, an easygoing smile and rough though equally gentle fingers as they caress him, sliding down his naked body.
Dean would rather not be in the same room with him when he's in one of his moods though, when he's overtaken by some permeating emotion that confuses him, that causes him to do or say things he doesn't register. He knows that on these nights he thinks of his mother, who left the both of them too soon, and Dean can't stand to see his father so broken and so typically unlike what he normally is: so strong, like he could always carry the weight of them both.
Back in the present moment, Dean sighs.
"Come over here, kiddo."
And usually he doesn't give such an open invitation, sometimes he just grunts if Dean nudges his way in beside him, seeking warmth and something only his dad can give him. Here, he can hide away from the fact of Sam being gone, he can breathe his father in and snuggle up so tight beside him, blocking out the world, imagining that Sam is in the room next to theirs.
Only he isn't. And he probably never will be again.
They never talk about him, no matter how much Dean may want to find emotional comfort from his dad in that subject. He knows that he can never bring it up, knows his father is grieving and beating himself up in his own way. So instead, he takes the physical, painfully real comfort his father offers on most nights with no semblance of protest, and it's enough.
Most nights it's all Dean feels he'll ever need.
John must desperately want his son tucked into his embrace tonight, so as to know and feel that he still has one son left, one son he can take care of and watch out for.
A son he knows still has his back.
"You okay?" John breathes as he approaches the bed and Dean nods, barely registering the pain in his foot as it begins to fade away, before realizing his dad probably can't see his nod in the dark and actually might not be talking about his recent stupidity at all.
"Yeah," he responds anyway, and his dad reaches up for him again and Dean gives in. He feels slightly distant today but he gives in, because he can't imagine crawling into a cold bed with nothing there to catch him should he fall.
John's fingers instantly latch onto him like he is his father's possession, though the grip on his arms is gentle, eyes slightly glowing with something Dean can't quite interpret in the dark. His father's fingers fumble as they work to unbutton Dean's shirt, though neither of them can see much in the pitch black surrounding them, and of course the small task becomes impossible with John's mind long since grown hazy from alcohol.
He pulls Dean tightly into him on a whim, into his chest to breathe in his scent: gunpowder; leather from the jacket he's still wearing, one of John's own that was given to Dean as a birthday present, one that's much too big for Dean though still makes John smile with pride and love when he sees him in it, when he sees his son start to grow into it more and more with every year that passes, with every hunt that makes Dean stronger and tougher and faster; and there's a slight hint of cinnamon buried deeply into him that sends John's head reeling but at the same time grounds him.
"Dad," Dean whispers this time and John smiles.
"Right here, Deano. You sound tired." Dean yawns at that and John's eyes, though previously opened, manage to clear and latch onto the stunning beauty that is his son just as a bright light, probably from a car, shines in through the thin drapes pulled across the window.
It lasts only for a brief moment, but it seems enough to last a lifetime.
He takes in his bright hazel eyes; spiky, dirty blond hair; and a face as beautiful as his dead mother's. He runs his fingers through that hair, then his lips latch onto his neck, sloppily kissing the soft surface and then rubbing slow circles into the skin with his thumb. Dean moans softly when John's fingers drop much lower a moment after, fingers skimming over his belly before sliding underneath the waistband of his jeans, a confidence in them that near takes Dean's breath away, tugging at his belt to try to get it to come undone.
Dean's much too tired to strip himself, and he falls again into his father's arms, none too set to lift himself up to position himself more comfortably. John doesn't shove him away though, laying him down flat on the decadently warm bed and positioning himself up on top of him, working on nudging his son's jacket off.
He revels in the rumble of his dad's warm, contagious laugh against his neck, the cause of it Dean being too exhausted to figure out. It echoes throughout his head, numbing him blissfully. There's an overwhelming aroma of whiskey on his father's breath, familiar and clouding his head; and the rough stubble of his growing beard scraping against his cheek, almost absentmindedly, both causing his heart to beat faster.
"Just lay back and let me take care of you, sweetheart."
Home.
Sam may be gone, but Dean's more than sure when he admits that this is all he needs right now: the sense of comfort and usefulness his father provides him effortlessly. This is all he's gonna need until Sam someday, somehow finds reason and makes his way back to him.
FIN