Title: Father And Son
Summary: Although DJ never got to meet his uncle Dean, he kinda really hates the guy. Post-Series. Hurt/Comfort. Brotherly love.
Warnings: Spoilers up for and including the series finale. Rated T for bad language, vague mentions of depression, grief and suicidal intentions.
Disclaimer: I don't own the series or any of its characters. Just borrowing them
When DJ was three, he saw his dad cry for the very first time. He doesn't remember it all too well, doesn't recall the events that led up to the crying. It's one of his earliest childhood memories. Just his dad losing it, like utterly losing it. At the time, he was too young to understand where the sadness came from. But not too young to remember that his father's tears were somehow magically linked to this guy named 'Dean'.
When DJ was fifteen, he wanted to show a cute girl the Impala. He doesn't exactly remember how or when things went wrong, only that they kind of ended up on her hood, fooling around when his dad found them and made a big scene. They got into a huge fight that night. DJ was embarrassed, mad as hell for the way his dad had scolded him in front of the girl. But more than anything, DJ was jealous of a piece of trash car and of how much it meant to his father.
When he was seven, his mom threw him a big birthday party in their back yard. It was shortly before she got the diagnosis, the last birthday she was a part of and DJ remembers it vividly. The balloons, the presents, the other kids playing and laughing. He remembers walking up to his parents with a plate of half-finished apple pie in his hands and saying "Look dad, it's my favorite. You want some?" And his dad trying so hard to smile his pain away as he took a bite. It was his last birthday with mom. And yet, all he remembered was the grief in his father's eyes. And how he had stopped eating pie altogether after that.
It was Christmas eve and DJ had just turned thirteen. His dad had bought him a guitar and DJ had been listening to songs, studying notes and downloading tabs to practice with. He had always wanted to learn how to play the guitar and he would practice day in day out, until his fingertips became calloused and his head started buzzing. His dad never complained about the noise, just kept encouraging him, paying for his lessons. DJ got better over time. He didn't need tutoring so often anymore, could play certain songs by heart without having to look at the pages. He only played Zeppelin once. Just once. Before seeing the dead look in his father's eyes afterwards and deciding Led Zeppelin wasn't even that good anyway.
The first girl DJ ever brought home had a thing for nicknames. She had a fitting nickname for almost anyone, managed to shorten names in variations DJ had never previously heard of. "So do you go by Sam or Sammy?" she had asked at the dinner table and DJ could have kicked himself for not telling her… for not being prepared for this. But he wasn't. His dad's fork and knife clattered onto the plate and then he sputtered and excused himself, practically running out of the room. "Did I say something wrong?" she asked. DJ swallowed and looked after his dad, feeling disappointed and mad and stupidly jealous yet again. "No," he bit out, because she didn't. She didn't. "He just doesn't like nicknames."
When DJ was fourteen, they started visiting a therapist. In the beginning, DJ figured it was for him to get over what happened with mom. But eventually his dad saw her more often than DJ did. They didn't ever talk about it. But his dad always left the therapist looking way worse than before. Eyes red-rimmed, body shaking. It took DJ about five years and a whole lot of hunter's training before he put one and one together. "She's a shifter," he spat on the night he realized what was going on, rounding on his father with accusation blitzing in his eyes. "She shifts for people. Pretends she's someone they care about. Someone they lost. Doesn't she?" "DJ, listen, it's not what you think," his father tried to reason with him on the drive home. But DJ was so fucking mad he could barely breathe. It wasn't the fact that his dad lied about the therapist that got to him. "Whose presence did she take on for you?" His father pressed his lips together, throat working silently and it was the worst stab of betrayal DJ has ever felt. "DJ, listen… your uncle Dean and I, we—" "He's not my uncle, he's just some dead guy who I happen to be named after! I hate him. I wish he never existed!" His dad hit the brakes so hard, DJ was thrown into his seatbelt, lungs cut off from air supply and tires screeching. There was yelling afterward, angry words spewn back and forth. His dad shaking, tears in his eyes and to this day, DJ didn't think they'd ever come closer to trading blows. The scratch on the Impala was a walk in the park compared to this. They didn't talk on the entire drive back home.
By the time DJ graduated from high school, he had an entire book full of things that triggered his dad. 80-ies Classic Rock music. Pie. Cheeseburgers with extra onion. Leather jackets. Opening beer bottles with jewelry. Magic fingers. Motel rooms. Highway Diners. Angels. Busty Asian Beauties (don't even ask how he found out about that one). Charlie-Bronson Movies. Rocket launchers. Flannel-shirts (in particular red ones). 'Sammy'. Certain brands of beer. Black coffee. Dating Apps. Spanish telenovelas. Memory foam. And on and on the list went. DJ avoided ALL of these things. He didn't drink, didn't wear flannel, didn't wear jewelry and he loathed junk food. Basically, he tried his darnest not to look, talk or act like Dean Winchester, ever.
"Are you mad at your uncle?" the therapist asked him once. "For leaving?" DJ looked at her for the longest moment. He thought about it, weighing the options in his mind. "No…" he eventually said. "You can't be mad at someone for leaving who never actually left."
Every year, on January 24th, DJ sets his alarm for 3 am. Most of the time, he doesn't even fall asleep until then, too worried that this night will be the night where the grief pushed his father somewhere DJ couldn't follow. But every year, his worries turned out to be unfounded. He found his dad out in the garage, same as always. Wearing one of Dean's flannels or wrapped around an old dog-eared photograph. Or sometimes with his hands clutching the phone that still had Dean's voicemail on it. He also found a half-emptied bottle of Scotch and dried tear tracks on his dad's face. Every year DJ was a little less scared and a little more pissed about it. Every year he thought about taking that damn phone from his father's lax fingers and deleting the last lifeline his father still has to his long-lost brother. Every year DJ's fingers hovered over the delete-button. Every year he was too fucking weak to do it.
"Do you think your dad ever thinks about hurting himself?" DJ couldn't help but smile at the question. "I think the last thing my dad wants is for me to lose yet another parent." She hummed and scribbled a few notes into her files without looking up. "Do you think he would hurt himself if it wasn't for you?" Exasperated, DJ let out a sigh. He glanced at the ceiling, closed his eyes for a second against the sting of truth in his next words. "No. I think he hurts because of me."
Everyone his dad knew from his 'previous' life, couldn't shut up about Dean. They would talk about how much fun he was, of how brave and self-less he was. They would tell DJ about how proud Dean would be of him, adding a whole new level of exasperation to DJ's hatred because now he felt guilty on top of everything else.
DJ didn't like for anyone to call him 'Dean'. Once when he was seventeen and his dad had come down with a pretty bad fever and called out for 'Dean' in his fever-induced frenzy and DJ had taken his clammy hand and shakily answered 'I'm here, dad' knowing full and well that he wasn't the 'Dean' his father was asking for.
Now DJ was married and he was older and he knew that his father had only ever tried to do good by him. He knew his father had always loved him the best he could. Deep down, he knew his dad would have died for him in a heartbeat, that he would have done anything - given anything - to give DJ a good childhood. He's no longer bitter about his dad's grief over Dean or over the weird bond his father seemed to have shared with his brother. He doesn't even mind getting called 'Dean' by his wife and close friends.
In fact, these days when his father calls out for 'Dean' in his sleep he takes his father's hand all the same, squeezing it tightly, a tear slipping down his cheek. "It's okay, Sammy," he whispered knowing his father would mistake the voice easily in his cancer-riddled state. He was already more dead than alive and clinging to his last bit of consciousness for DJ only. In a way, it was a strange metaphor for their entire relationship, with DJ being the only reason his father's broken heart was still beating. His dad had loved him and cared for him and they'd had great moments together, but for as long as DJ could think, his father had carried a hole in his heart that only one person could fill. "You can go now," he cried, squeezing his father's hands and watching his eyelids flutter into relaxation, his chest lifting and falling for one final breath before his body went still. "It's okay. He's waiting for you."
With his father's death, DJ felt a strange sense of forgiveness overcame him. Every bit of resentment toward his uncle fell off his shoulders like unwanted baggage he finally managed to rid himself of. Sometimes he visited their grave at the cemetery, Sam's name engraved in the tombstone next to Dean's now, their earthly remains (whatever was left of them after receiving a proper hunter's burial) reunited six feet deep in the ground.
He ran his palm over the cool stone, tracing his father's name, then his uncles.
"You take care of him, okay, Dean?" he asked, his voice wavering a bit as a tear slipped free.
The wind took up all around him, a gust of cool September air whirling up twigs and leaves and messing up his hair like as though an invisible hand had reached out to tousle it. DJ smiled to himself, a sudden warmth spreading in his chest. "He's yours now."
He knew wherever they were, his dad was finally at peace.
And so was he.