Notes: As always, English is not my first language so forgive me for any mistakes. Kudos, reviews, and suggestions are always welcome and I can't thank enough people who spend even just a few minutes to let me know their thoughts on my stories, it really means so much to me.
Two shades of the same loneliness
Dean tries to keep his gaze steady on the Impala not too far over his father's shoulders and to breathe regularly. He forces himself to pull himself together for the next round of reprimands to come - not that he expected anything else, not after breaking the most important of the house rules.
"Since when do you disobey a direct order, Dean?"
It sounds like one of those questions dad doesn't really want an answer to. It is. He continues to focus on his breathing. Dean has the feeling that the sudden stabbing pain in his rib cage is not solely due to his father's not-too-surprising anger and disappointment. The only thing he can be happy about is that they are in the middle of nowhere and that Sammy is with Bobby and has no way of taking his side and starting another never-ending argument.
"Didn't I tell you to wait? Didn't I tell you to obey under any circumstances? Was there something in the orders that you didn't understand? "he urges him again.
It's suddenly hard to swallow. That, on the other hand, seems like a question to which dad wants an answer.
"No, sir," he replies.
It takes the utmost of his self-control for that response not to come out like a gasp of pain and to be respectful, as Dad expects it - damn it, there's no need to dig his grave further.
"So you deliberately disobeyed an order," Dad concludes at the end.
That's not a question, that's an observation that crashes into him with the same sternness, which seems to make the pain in his rib cage more acute.
"Yes, sir."
Dean didn't expect anything else but Dad's anger after the stunt he pulled, but that doesn't really make it easier for him to accept that disappointment in Dad's eyes. He had shot that werewolf with all the calm and confidence in the world as soon as he saw the beast disarm John.More or less. Just for the record, that son of a bitch had managed to slam Dean into a tree before he pulled the trigger, but he'd still got the gun before Dad and -
He knew perfectly well that in John Winchester's world there was only black and white, the right and wrong - and that what went against orders, like being in the middle of a fight when he had been told to wait, was wrong. But Dean knew even more that when it came to his family, nothing was really absolute.
Dean clenches his jaw tighter. He takes a breath and wonders if he's hyperventilating because it would be really, really fucking great to pass out just because dad is scolding him. He feels like more than a few bruises are forming under his shirt, but he's fourteen and it's really nothing he can't handle.
"I expect more from you, Dean. If you're expecting some compliments or think you've impressed me with this move, you're very wrong, "he finally tells him, and Dean has the feeling that a slap might hurt him less. John looks at him as if he was expecting any protest or disobedience, but there is no fight left in his son. He slowly approaches Dean. For a moment, the boy can see something in his eyes that he cannot decipher. Gratitude? Concern? Anger? All of the above?
Whatever the truth is, that window has already been closed before he can understand. His father places a hand on his shoulder, and that's when Dean instinctively pulls back, not because he is afraid, but because his weight already seems difficult enough to bear without adding more. It is an imperceptible motion, but not imperceptible enough for his father not to notice.
"You're hurt," he observes. This is not a question either and his tone doesn't soften; if possible, it becomes harder while realizing that his son has even gotten hurt by disobeying him.
Dean makes a grimace of calculated nonchalance. After a brief pause of silence, it doesn't take long for Dean to realize that Dad isn't buying it.
"Sit down" he orders simply.
The boy hesitates under his gaze. Then he dares to lift a hem of the shirt to assess the damage and he sees a bluish bruise between the fifth and sixth rib on the right.
"It's okay, dad. It's nothing "he replies too quickly.
It's an act, it really is. It's not like he's not using all the breath left in his body to claim he's okay, but hell, dad has pretended so many times to buy his I'm fine, it's all right that Dean hopes he'll be satisfied.
"Are you disobeying an order again, boy?"
The threat behind that sentence isn't as obvious as John thought it would be, but it's enough for Dean to obey and sit down on the grass, lifting his shirt. His father bends shortly after, tracing the back of his back with an expert hand. Noting the bump on the back of his head, he continues further, tracing the outline of his ribs, until he reaches the hematoma he had seen from the other side, on his son's abdomen. John feels his son stiffen.
"Turn around" he then orders, to better observe the hematoma on his abdomen.
For a single moment, he meets Dean's green eyes, before the kid goes back to staring at the bruise or anything else outside of it that isn't him. John gently rests his fingers on the swollen area, while the other hand ends up in his son's hair for a while. At that gesture, Dean closes his eyes and must use all his self-control to suppress a lump in his throat.
"Everything's fine, huh? Should I add lying to the list of rules you broke today? " he still presses him, but the tone is no longer as solid as it was before.
For a long moment, they remain motionless and just look at each other; Dean's eyes are fleeting, John's so immense and steady as he tries not to look away, not to show the fear and pain that slide down his paralyzed back. The fear of a man who saw his son being cornered, the pain of a man who knows he was the reason why his son was there in the first place.
"Take a deep breath, Dean," he orders.
He is not even a little surprised when in obeying Dean moans and utters a whispered curse. Damn it. John sighs as Dean squirms.
"You have a bruise the size of an egg on the back of your head. A concussion, perhaps, "he observes, imposing a detached tone. "Broken ribs. I don't think your lungs collapsed, but it could be. Surely those ribs are the cause of the breathing difficulties. It hurts as hell, doesn't it? "
Dean nods, forcing himself to look at his father. The expression on the man's face seems impassive, but the tension in his jaw is visible. He could see the emotion in that contraction.
"It's okay. I deserve it, dad "he finally exhales, in one breath.
And that's all. John widens his eyes at those words, but it's only a moment. His gaze is just tinged with that touch of tenderness he rarely shows to his children, as his hand goes to the boy's cheek for a moment and then slips into a short caress - not a squeeze - on his shoulder. He quickly regains the lost control.
"We have to go to the hospital to check the lungs," he finally says, with newfound composure.
Dean can't help but open his mouth to protest and say something about how he hates hospitals and how he doesn't need them.
"Dean, I don't have X-rays in my eyes and it wasn't a suggestion," John teases him at the end.
A tremor of nervousness and agitation seems to shake his kid.
"What about CPS?" he whispers, giving him another anxious look.
Those are moments of glances and fleeting touches. Moments of illusory serenity and moments of pure pain; moments when Dean looks at him with that glint in his eye and that expression half fearful and half proud of his work when his shots hit the target and John smiles from a far, giving him a nod of approval because saying anything would be too much. These are moments that ride the wave of an existence in the grip of madness like theirs; an existence that, in order not to get forgotten, is told in his journal. And then there are moments like that, moments when Dean's just a frightened kid and the weight of a war they are both the perpetrators and victims of presses on their backs.
"Let me worry about CPS today, kid," he silences him.
His son gives him an unconvinced look as he tries to get to his feet. He staggers as he does, but John grabs him by the arm before he can land on the ground, making him moan. He can't help but think about the stiff posture he used to be, how much pain he was holding back.
"Damn it, Dean. At least try not to fall back on it," he mumbles, cursing himself for the way that sentence comes out, sharper than he thought it would be.
Dean smiles sadly, without answering. In another attempt to walk later, his son almost falls on him. Dean curls up on himself, trembling and coughing for air, shaken by sobs that seem to pass through all his body.
"Sorry, dad" he mutters, between a cough and the other, blushing slightly.
John lets out a grunt, before grabbing him and pulling him into his arms, supporting his back and legs, as if he still weighs as much as Sammy. He is careful not to make any sudden movements, not to do anything that could scare him, as he wraps his kid in his arms. Dean's protest comes immediately and is not entirely unexpected.
"Dad, let me go! It's humiliating, " he whispers against the leather of his jacket. "Oh, come on. If you try to tell Sammy, I swear I'll - "
John gives him a warning and eloquent look, as he feels him squirm against his chest. He proceeds to the Impala.
"Consider this as a part of the punishment," he scolds him abruptly, although he is not quite sure about how he can punish him in those conditions. "What did I tell you about what would happen if you got hurt on hunt because you didn't listen to me?"
His son replies with a grimace because he does remember that talk.
"Something about kicking my ass if I ever got my ass kicked because of my stupidity?"
His father pauses, staring at him for a long moment before nodding.
"Yeah, something like that," he mutters, starting to walk again.
Neither of them adds anything else. Between them, there is an uneasy silence, which is nothing they are not used to. Which, perhaps, is the only constant that his son has known for about ten years. It is a silence that lasts for centuries and millennia, in which entire species become extinct and in which dozens of stars seem to die, even when it lasts only a few minutes. It is a silence that reduces them to two solitudes, which sometimes intersect but much more often not, in an inexorable countdown.
John opens the door with some difficulty, careful not to cause any further pain to his eldest son. Despite this, in trying to help him lie down, he almost doesn't find his son in his arms again.
"Damn, it hurts as hell lying down," he finally exclaims, feeling the need to justify that reaction.
John raises an annoyed eyebrow with one hand resting on the door. He watches him struggle to sit up. He studies his small grimaces of pain until Dean turns to him again.
"Hey, dad?" he tries at last, after gaining courage. "I - ... I didn't do it to impress you"
The look that Dean gives him is so genuine that it does not make John doubt even for a moment what he says. And he would like to tell his son that it's okay, that he understands it - that a parent exists for this, to cover up the weaknesses of a child. But not in their universe.
"I know," he concedes, observing the flash of hope that illuminates his son at that admission. "But it doesn't matter. You still disobeyed me"
Before Dean can answer, he closes the door behind him, then opens the front door on the passenger side and looks for morphine in the dashboard, without dwelling on the fact that normal people don't really have the morphine tablets in the dashboard. He gives the box of pills to the boy, who somehow managed to sit in the back seat.
"This should keep the pain under control until we get to the hospital," he simply tells him.
Dean hesitates before taking it.
"It had been too long since you told me to wait ten minutes. They wouldn't let me keep him if something happened to you, you know, "he says, and the words seem to get stuck between his tongue, his teeth, and the lump in his throat. There's no need for John to ask who or what they wouldn't let him keep. "You said it was dangerous and I felt the need to be there even more. I can't let some son of a bitch destroy our family like that. Dad, he … he needs you "
There is an " I need you too " hidden in that sentence, a clarification he doesn't dare utter. His father lets out a heavy breath, looking at the box of pills still in his hands. He gives him a warning look, but he's not entirely sure that Dean is really the one to blame for what he has just said.
"Dean, I'll tell you one last time. If you don't take it now, I don't want to hear you complain until we get to the hospital "he scolds him again, even though with his eldest son the problem has always been the opposite: he didn't complain, he didn't complain at all.
With a last sigh, Dean complies. There is a slight and well-hidden surge of pride in John while noticing that his son would give his life for him and Sam. He gives Dean the water to help him swallow the tablet.
"Dean?" he calls him, watching him for a moment in the rearview mirror.
His son looks at him, waiting.
"Don't ever do that again, kid" he reinforces, concluding the earlier reproach.
Then he lowers his voice to conclude.
"He needs you more," he adds then, probing the bitterness of those words, of the way they clash between the tongue and the teeth.
His son bites his lip and doesn't respond. He still has the feeling that every breath is torture, yet after that sentence, it doesn't seem so important anymore.