Disclaimer: I do not own "Supernatural"
Story Summary: Dean gets a ride to Sam's wedding.
His pillow was vibrating. Again.
Dean shifted, groaning and turning over. He knew who it was. He didn't have to check caller ID.
He hadn't checked in.
God, what time was it? Was it morning? Afternoon? Was it still Wednesday? Thursday? His head was pounding, and his shoulder felt like it was still dislocated.
With another groan, he slowly pushed himself up. A moment later he bit back a hiss as his ribs protested the movement. He pulled the phone from underneath his pillow and moved to get up.
The world spun lazily when he stood, but it only lasted for a moment, so he was good to go. With careful steps he headed for the door.
"Dean, 're you 'kay?"
Inebriation and concussions were surefire ways to bring out the caring side of John Winchester.
"Fine, Dad," he offered as he slipped out the door – and closed it firmly behind him. He leaned back against it a moment later, taking slow, shallow breaths and feeling the warm sun on his face. With a soft sigh he pressed the appropriate speed dial button and brought the phone to his ear.
It was picked up before the first ring ended.
"What happened?"
Sam's voice was tight and hurried and worried.
"I'm fine, chill," he said slowly, careful to keep his words from slurring.
"You're practically slurring," Sam accused. "What happened? You said it was just a poltergeist!"
"It was a poltergeist," Dean defended, eyes still closed.
"Jeez, Dean, you're exhausted. I can hear it. What the hell kinda poltergeist was it?"
Dean released a tired chuckle. "A violent one," he murmured. "With friends."
"There was more than one?"
"Four."
"Shit."
"Yeah."
"How far out are you? You could park and I can pick you up?" Sam offered.
Dean laughed, because that had to be a joke. "Funny, Sammy."
"Uh-huh. But seriously, where are you? Remember, you promised to be at the rehearsal dinner . . . try and be on time, okay. You know Jess has a thing about time and R.S.V.P'ing -"
Dean smirked. "Chill, Sam, I've got days."
"Funny, Dean."
Dean straightened a little, "Why would that be funny?"
Sam was silent for a moment. "Because the rehearsal dinner is tonight – at eight o'clock," Sam said softly.
Dean was silent for a moment. "Sam. It's like Wednesday."
"Dean, it's Friday. It's 10:38 AM on Friday, the second of October."
Dean's eyes snapped open. "No, it's not."
"Yes, it is." Sam was quiet for another moment, then, "Dean . . .where are you?"
"Holy shit . . ."
"Dean?"
"Holy shit."
"Dean. Where are you?"
"Don't worry. I can make it . . ."
"I wasn't worried!" Sam hissed. "I am now! How did you lose two days?"
"Well, not the rehearsal, so tell Jess sorry for me . . ."
"Do you have a concussion? How many walls did you get thrown into?"
"Why do you assume I got thrown into a wall?" he asked, frowning and carefully pushing himself away from the door.
"Because you always get thrown into walls. Where are you?"
"Michigan."
"WHAT!"
"Chill."
"We AGREED you would stick close! Fuckin' Michigan is NOT close!"
"Relax, I can make it," he murmured, wincing as he tried to take deep breath.
"You're HURT!"
"Jess is gonna hear you," he cautioned. "I gotta go, Sam."
"Dean -"
"I can make the wedding . . . three o'clock tomorrow, no problem -"
"Dean -"
"Take my tux to the church for me. I'll see you then, little brother."
"Don't hang -"
He pressed the end button before Sam finished the sentence.
For a moment he stared at the closed door in front of him. For an entire summer he'd kept in touch with his little brother. He'd seen him often and talked to him almost constantly. Sammy called erratically, constantly – no pattern whatsoever, as if to test Dean's promise to always pick up. And as a consequence, for an entire summer Dean had been receiving the icy treatment from his father.
The ice was about to crack, though.
No matter how concussed or tired his dad was, he'd notice Dean hightailing out of here when he was barely put-together enough to stand. He'd ask about that, ask why, ask where . . .
With a sigh, Dean opened the door.
There were two ways to go about this. He could hedge or he could spit it out. Since the clock was ticking, he was voting for spitting it out.
John's head lifted from the pillow. The ragged gash stretching from his temple onto his forehead and disappearing into his hairline was visible in the light. "What're you doin'?" he asked, blinking owlishly at his son.
"How're you feelin'?" Dean asked first, because, well, it was Dad and the poltergeist party hadn't been kind to either of them.
"Good enough to know why you're packin'," his father stated, sitting up slowly and running a tentative hand over his face.
"I got somewhere to be," he said, cringing at the underlying hesitancy in his voice.
John frowned. "Where's that?" he asked.
Now or never.
"Sam's wedding."
John Winchester blinked at his son, positive that he'd misunderstood. He was slightly concussed, after all. But the silence stretched and Dean didn't continue. "Say again . . ." he growled, a pressure beginning to build in his chest.
Dean wanted to take a deep breath, to strengthen himself – but just the thought made him wince. "Sam's wedding. It's tomorrow."
The room was silent and he started packing again. He didn't have time to wait for Dad's reaction.
Christ, it was Friday and he was in friggin' Michigan. It was a two-day drive if he shagged ass – to get there in twenty-four hours he was gonna hafta fly and he didn't mean that literally, 'cause he wasn't getting on a plane.
"Sam's getting married?"
He'd almost forgotten his father was in the room. The soft words reminded him.
Dean looked up for a minute, pausing on his slow trek to the dresser. "Yeah," he answered. "Tomorrow."
His dad was looking a bit shell-shocked and Dean would love to pause and contemplate what that meant – except he didn't have the time.
"And you're...?"
Again the words were soft, the question barely detectible.
"Best Man. Can't be late." He kept his answer short, saving his breath for the steps he was taking.
John took a shuddering breath, watching Dean's slow progress back to the bed with his stuff.
The kid looked like road-kill. A dark bruise spread up from his left jaw towards his cheekbone, contrasting ghastly with his pale face and the dark shadows under his eyes.
John knew the dark grey t-shirt covered a myriad of bruises on his son's torso, as well. There were cracked ribs, he knew that, too, whether or not Dean wanted to admit to it.
God.
Sam's wedding. Sammy's goddamned wedding.
"Fuck," Dean hissed suddenly, dropping the bag onto the floor abruptly and clutching his right shoulder; apparently, he'd tried to lift it.
Dislocated shoulder, too, John remembered.
"You're hurt," he said, and even to himself he sounded inane.
But Dean understood what he meant, understood what he was trying to say even if he didn't exactly say it. Dean always understood.
"I have to go," his son responded. "I have to." His voice had taken on a tiny edge of panic and it did something strange to John's heart.
Dean was indeed beginning to panic. Pain was blurring the edges of his vision and his breath was coming in shallow gasps; the thought of sitting up in a driver's seat for twenty-odd hours straight made him lightheaded.
He was starting to think he might've been a bit prematurely cocky with Sam.
He was starting to think he might've made a promise he had no way of keeping.
He was starting to think he might not make the wedding.
The thought made him nauseous.
John watched Dean pale even more; the kid was starting to look gray. He stood quickly, holding back his own gasp as pain shot through his head.
"Sit down," he ordered, as he neared his boy and pushed him back onto the bed.
Dean did as he was told even as he shook his head no.
"You can't drive," John stated.
Dean swallowed hard, his heartbeat accelerating. He had to drive. He couldn't not go . . . he – just – couldn't – not – go –
"Christ, Dean! Breathe!"
His dad was suddenly kneeling in front of him, gripping his shoulders, and Dean winced as the pressure on his right arm made it throb even more.
"Relax!" his dad yelled.
Dean nodded, pulling in a deep breath and releasing it on a quiet whimper as he reached down and wrapped an arm protectively around his middle. His ribs were throbbing with every beat of his heart.
"I have . . . to go now," he told his Dad. "Can't waste any time."
"You can't drive," his dad repeated, dropping his hands from Dean's arms.
It was true.
Panic exploded through him. Dad was right. He wouldn't be able to drive for two hours let alone twenty and some.
He couldn't drive.
But he had to get to Palo Alto.
He had to.
It was Sam's wedding. God, he'd promised Sammy. He'd promised to be there.
"I'll fly." The words were out of his mouth before they'd fully formed in his mind.
The panic doubled as he realized it was the only option. The only way he'd make it in time. He had to fly. He had to get on a plane.
John watched in alarm as Dean's chest rose and fell quickly, much too quickly. And with each breath there was a flash of pain and twitch in his body, a sign that his boy was hurting.
"Dean, you need calm down."
The command fell on deaf ears. Dean continued to draw harsh breaths; whether he knew it or not, the boy was on the verge of a panic attack.
"I have to . . . I have . . . to . . . be there . . . I have to, Dad . . . I just . . . I have -" Dean pushed himself up off the bed and made another grab at the duffel bag. He hissed in pain, but didn't drop it this time.
His breathing was labored and he was shaking a little. "I can get there fas-faster if I – if I fl-fly there."
The words were shaky, too; and John was reminded of a time long ago when his blonde little boy had stood at the edge of the pool and asked if he was sure this was fun.
"I'll drive you." The words were out of his mouth before they'd fully formed in his mind.
They were out before he got the chance to analyze what they meant, to realize how much of a concession they were.
They were formed by his heart, which screamed his boy needed him, not by his mind, which yelled he shouldn't give in.
Dean stared at his father for long moments, his harsh breathing the only sound in the room. "You will?"
The question slipped out, soft with wonder and hope.
John swallowed hard, but he nodded. "Gimme a sec to grab my stuff . . . and Christ, just sit. Down."
Dean blinked in surprise for a moment, before nodding slowly and moving back to the bed. He sank down onto it.
His dad was going to drive him.
He didn't have to get on a plane.
He didn't have to fly.
His Dad was going to take him to Sammy's wedding...
He didn't have to fly.
The thoughts washed over him, leeching him of the panic and tension, washing away the adrenaline that had coursed through his veins moments earlier.
Dean leaned back against the headboard, resting his body. God, everything just hurt suddenly.
His head, his shoulder, his ribs – they all throbbed and burned, but he'd promised Sam. More than that, though, he wanted to go to the wedding.
He was involved in this – he'd helped Sam pick the band and made gagging noises when Jess had considered eggplant as the color for bridesmaid dresses.
He wanted to go.
"Time to go, son."
His father's words alerted him to the fact that he'd dozed off. He blinked up at the man. "Gotta check out," Dean murmured, words slurring a little with the remnants of sleep. He winced as he sat up straight.
Jeez, but he was more beat up than he'd thought.
"Did it. Everything's in the car, but us..."
"Wha' 'bout the truck?" he asked, rubbing a hand over his face.
"Lucas's gonna drive it over to California for me. He'll be right behind us."
Dean nodded, as he stood slowly, and finally looked at his dad. "Sure you can drive?" he asked quietly, his eyes studying the cut on his father's face.
"I'm not the one that decided he could handle this one on his own when Lucas specifically told us it was a two-man, maybe a three-man job. You're lucky I was only a few hours behind you."
Dean's gaze dropped. He'd known that was coming. He'd rushed into a job, hoping to finish it quickly . . . so he could get back early for the wedding. Irony's a bitch.
"You know better than that," John added.
"Yes, sir," Dean replied.
John nodded. "Let's go," he said and turned.
Dean's hand shot out and grabbed his dad's arm. When their gazes met he spoke softly. "Thanks. For doing this, for driving me," he murmured.
John swallowed hard then, nodding; his throat suddenly too tight for words.
Sammy's wedding.
He was driving Dean to Sammy's wedding.
Didn't that just beat all?
It was vibrating again. How many times was that now? Definitely past the thirties, late forties? Maybe even into the fifties.
He had to give his boy credit for persistence.
His boy.
His boy that was getting married – tomorrow. Or rather, today.
The phone must have slipped out of Dean's pocket when John had ordered him to get in the back and lie down. It had vibrated on the backseat floor for close to ten minutes before John had craned his neck and glanced down at the display.
He'd nearly killed them reaching down to pick the phone up while driving.
Sammy,the display flashed, and he'd dropped the phone like it was a damn hot coal.
That had been an hour ago and the kid was still calling. It stopped for a few seconds every few minutes, but pretty much he'd been calling for a little over an hour straight.
Dean was conked out in the back and John was reluctant to wake him.
Every once in a while the boy would shift, drawing his father's gaze to him through the rearview mirror.
John would look just in time to see him wince a little, or even whimper. It never failed to make him grip the steering wheel a bit tighter.
It had never gotten any easier – to see one of his boys hurt. He had expected it would.
Dean needed the sleep.
And Sammy was losing it.
Every time the phone vibrated John could practically feel his youngest son's panic intensify.
Sammy was panicking.
For a moment, he contemplated answering.
But the moment passed.
There was too much history there; too many things said that couldn't be unsaid over the phone – maybe not even in person.
He wouldn't know what to say. He'd stopped knowing what to say to Sam a long time ago.
Maybe he'd never known.
The part of him that would have known had died in that fire.
In another world he would have been proud of his inquisitive, dark-eyed boy; he would have teased the questions out of him and spent hours explaining the answers. He would have encouraged the boy's studies. He would have reveled in the boy's achievements.
In another world, he would have been invited to his son's wedding.
In this world, his world, he knew he didn't deserve to be.
He'd made himself clear that night.
If Sam left, he was not to come back.
Sam had left.
That night . . .
There had been rage that night.
Rage and pain – the betrayal of everything he'd ever taught his son.
Fear, too – underlining it all, but mostly there had been rage.
Fury that Sam dared to defy him, to question him, to dismiss him and his opinion.
But underneath that, underneath the pain and the fury and the fear, where a tiny sliver of the man he'd been, the man he would've been, still lived, there had been pride.
Sam was strong and smart and stubborn; Sam was his father's son.
The rage had won out, though, over the fear and hurt and pride.
Stay gone . . .
He'd roared, and Sam was his father's son, so he had.
The phone stopped vibrating.
John smirked a little. The kid's fingers were probably cramped.
He reached over and lifted the phone; flipping it open, he found Sammy in the contacts menu.
Text messaging was a beautiful thing.
EVERYTHING'S FINE
He sent the message and set the phone down quickly.
A moment later the screen flashed and the phone buzzed, then stilled.
He glanced at it.
It was a bad idea. Whatever Sam had texted to that phone, he'd sent it to his brother.
The screen flashed again; the phone buzzed on the seat.
He'd sent that to his brother, too.
Another flash and buzz.
Jeez, the kid had dexterity in those fingers...
He reached out, took the phone in his hand and flipped it open before he'd even processed the order his mind had yelled not to.
THEN PICK UP THE GODDAMNED PHONE
Message two:
WHERE R U?
Message three:
Y ARENT U PICKIN UP?
John was just about to share his attention with the road instead of the phone, when the thing buzzed and flashed in his hand.
R U WITH DAD?
His heart slammed against his chest as he dropped the phone back onto the seat and turned back to the road, gripping the steering wheel with both hands.
R u with Dad?
Oh, please.
As if Dean would give a shit that they were together. If Sam was calling . . . Dean would answer. Had been answering. John had seen it, the way his oldest would look at the phone and then at him. Dean would meet his gaze as if telling him that it was Sam, before he'd make an excuse and go somewhere to be alone.
The phone flashed and buzzed again.
John checked it without a qualm this time.
DEAN!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Sam had gone all out on that text. It was in bold and the exclamation points reached the end of the line.
The kid was getting impatient. He would start calling again, soon, and John wasn't exactly strong enough to endure another hour of knowing his kid was just on the end of a phone line.
John sighed. "Sorry, kiddo," he murmured quietly as he pressed the end button on the phone and powered it off. Then set it gently down on the other seat. "It's better this way," he added, feeling unaccountably sad suddenly.
Sammy was getting married.
He could still remember the defiant look on Dean's face when he'd told him he'd been seeing Sam.
He'd been a fool to think Dean wouldn't – a fool to think Sam wouldn't –
He'd raised his boys to stick together.
Why it had surprised him when they did, he didn't know.
Sam and Dean, Dean and Sam. SamandDean, DeanandSam. It might as well have been one word. His boys had their own way of communicating, their own language; hell, their own universe.
In another world, he might have gotten guest passes once in a while to that universe. In another world, he might've even been granted honorary citizenship. In another world, he might've had a hope of understanding that universe.
In another world, he would have been invited to his son's wedding.
Behind him, Dean shifted on the seat, frowning in his sleep, and John pressed the gas a little harder – the sooner he got Dean to Sam's wedding the better.
Then he could go back to his world.
The car hit a particularly nasty pothole and Dean's limp form jumped in the backseat.
He moaned softly and opened his eyes slowly. Sunlight streaming in the window. It was burning his face, he realized suddenly and shifted abruptly. Fire erupted in his ribcage at the movement and he hissed in pain.
The car slid to a stop.
"You up?" His father's gravelly voice washed over him.
Dean blinked owlishly again, drawing in a shuddering breath as he attempted to stamp down the pain.
He nodded slowly.
John nodded back. "Good," he murmured. "We need gas and food. We're about four hours outta Palo Alto," he added as he got out of the car.
Dean realized then that they were parked.
His father stuck his head in through the back window suddenly. "Call your brother," he said and tossed something at Dean.
The something landed on his stomach and he frowned at it in confusion for a moment, his hand sluggishly reaching for it.
It was his phone.
With a grunt he shoved himself up to lie against the car door. A quick glance out of the back window showed his father in the convenience store and his dad's truck parked a few feet away. It was safe to assume Lucas was in the store, too.
Dean flipped the phone open and powered it up.
98 missed calls
Fuck.
He didn't even have to check to see who it was who'd called. Sam had been busy. He hit the send button and a moment later the phone was ringing.
It was picked up mid-way through the second ring.
"Are you okay?"
Sam was worried. Very, very worried. Dean sighed softly. "Yeah, I'm fine."
"Good, because I am going to kill you."
Okay, scratch that. Sam was pissed. Very, very pissed.
"Listen, Sammy -"
"You send me a fuckin' text-message that everything's fine, but then WON'T PICK UP THE PHONE! Jesus, Dean! I've been goin' crazy here!! You CANNOT do SHIT like THAT!!!"
A text message?
He hadn't sent a text message. He'd been asleep for the last . . . Dean glanced at his watch and his eyes widened.
Shit, it was eleven o'clock!
"DEAN!!!" His brother's voice rang in his ear, loud and angry.
"I'm here, Sam," he murmured.
"Where are you?"
Dean blinked, "I'm not exactly . . . I'm close, don't worry, I'm gonna make it."
"You're disoriented?! God Dean – just . . . pull over, man. I'll come get you. Jess said . . . we can postpone the wedding for a couple days -"
"Don't you fuckin' DARE," Dean growled into the phone. Christ, leave it to Sammy to just pile on the fuckin' tension. He should've known Michigan was too far. He should've known handling multiple poltergeists was damn stupid . . .
"You hear me, Sammy!" He yelled this time, wincing a little, but determined to get his point across. "Don't you dare! I'll get there . . . I'm almost there."
Maybe.
"You're hurt," Sam replied, as if that settled everything.
"Dude, all I gotta do is stand next to you. I'll be fine."
"If you get here."
"I'll get there."
There was a pause and then, "I don't need to tell you how much I want you to be here, right?"
Dean swallowed past the lump that had suddenly risen in his throat, "I know, Sam."
"Good. Then I don't need to tell you that I'd rather wait a few more days than have you not be here, right?"
His grip on the phone tightened a little. "I'll be there," he repeated.
Sam was silent for a moment. Then, "How close is it gonna be?"
Dean glanced at the window. Dad and Lucas were outside now, still talking. He had no clue where they were, how bad traffic was, or exactly what his father had meant when he'd said about four hours.
"Close . . . real close . . ." he admitted.
"Like the bride is getting nervous close or the music is about to start playing close?"
"Like the music is playing close . . ."
A hiss over the phone line. "Jesus, Dean..."
"Just set everything out for me and alert the sentries that I'm coming so they don't hold me up."
That garnered a small chuckle out of Sam. "Yeah, okay."
Dean glanced out the window again. Dad and Lucas were shaking hands; Dad would be heading back any moment.
"I gotta go, Sam."
"We can still postpone -"
"Dude. If you let her think about it, she'll get away."
"Shut up, Dean."
"I'll see you later, little brother."
"Okay, yeah . . . but be careful. Pull over if you feel dizzy, and don't cut anyone off, and turn the music down so you can think about the road choices, and -"
"Yeah, whatever," he cut in, smiling despite himself as he pressed end.
Sammy was such a worry-wart. He sighed; he needed to get up . . . move a little. The thought alone made him wince, but he needed to stretch out his muscles.
He sat up slowly and carefully pulled himself out of the car. The back of his legs screamed, but he gritted his teeth and took a couple steps. He circled the car a few times, lifting his hand in greeting when he caught Lucas looking over at him. Dad was studying him too, but he ignored that stare. He had no hope of comprehending that look.
A few minutes later his father approached, he had a small bag with him. "Let's move," the older man ordered.
When Dean made a move to slide into the passenger's seat his Dad scowled at him and made a noise in the back of his throat. "In the back."
Dean frowned, "Dad -"
"In. The. Back."
Dean sighed, annoyed; he was hurt, not dying. "I'm fine."
The scowl got darker. "Dean -"
"Fine. Whatever," he growled; there really was no time to waste on this.
He slid into the backseat and stretched out again. Refusing to acknowledge, even to himself, that he was more comfortable like this than sitting up straight.
"Eat that," the older man muttered, tossing something at Dean. "And drink this."
Dean frowned as he slowly reached out and took the orange juice his father held out for him. John shifted to face forward again, and started pulling out of the parking spot.
"Juice?" he asked staring at the bottle. His dad hadn't gotten him juice since he'd been about eight, maybe nine.
"Drink it," Dad muttered as he pulled out into traffic.
Dean lifted the package his dad had tossed at him and stared at it.
"Wha – is this fruit?" he asked in a horrified voice, but he had the answer in front of him. It was fruit; it was one of those packages of freeze dried fruits that people who lived in tents ate.
He studied it. "Are there nuts in here? And granola?" Dean lifted his gaze to his father, studying the man's profile. "What's going on?"
"Just eat it."
"It's granola."
He saw his father's hands clench on the steering wheel. He wasn't trying to annoy the guy, but jeez . . . what the hell was going on?
"You need to eat something. And not your usual sugar-coated-crap." The words were low and forced and it dawned on Dean that his father was concerned about him.
Silently, he opened the package and started eating.
"This isn't so bad," he said after a few minutes. "Want some?"
His dad snorted. "Hell no," he growled, but the eyes that caught Dean's in the mirror were amused.
Dean chuckled at that, then hissed when his ribs protested and nearly gagged on the mouthful he was chewing.
"Jesus, Dean," John hissed, slowing the car and turning to look back at him. "Try not to choke, would ya?"
He coughed a little more, blinking back wetness from his eyes. "I'm allergic to fruit."
Dad rolled his eyes, and for some reason that made Dean smile some more. He settled back against the door and closed his eyes a little. The bag slid from his fingers onto the floor of the car and he didn't care much. The juice sounded good, but he didn't have much of an inclination to move and get it.
He was still so tired . . .
"Did you call your brother?"
The question startled him. The tone, the subject, the question under the question . . .
It took him a moment to shake sleep off; he ran a hand over his face and blinked a few times. "Uh, yeah, yeah . . . I did. He's -"
"Good."
End of conversation; his father's voice was curt, steady and it effectively shut the door on that discussion.
Silence filled the car.
No one could shut a door like John Winchester.
And he remembered suddenly – the text message.
Dean studied his dad's profile. Someone had sent Sam a text message telling him everything was fine . . . and it sure as hell hadn't been Dean.
Dad hadn't asked anything about Sam. The entire summer had passed without them having one single conversation about the youngest member of their family.
After Dad had found out, Dean stopped making a secret of his visits to California. He'd made no secret about his phone calls to Sam, about phone call from Sam . . . but still Dad never asked.
Of course, that didn't mean he didn't want to know.
Dean knew his gaze must be burning the older man. He knew that he was staring at his dad . . . but he couldn't tear his gaze away.
His dad's posture was stiff, and his gaze was fastened on the road with much more intensity than was necessary.
They drove in silence for over a half hour. Dean felt himself doze every once in awhile, but mostly he tried to stay awake, in case . . .
In case his Dad said something, asked something, anything . . . in case he opened that door.
But John remained steadfastly, stubbornly silent, focusing only on the road in front of them.
Did his dad even want to know about Sam, about Sam's wedding, about Sam's life?
Probably.
He just didn't want to ask; that would be some sort of concession – and God forbid John Winchester not hold a grudge – the world would cease to spin.
Dean let his eyes slide shut for a moment, before drawing in a deep breath and looking up. This was probably the best time – nowhere to run, and he was hurt, so Dad wouldn't beat the shit out of him.
"Her name's Jessica," he offered into the silence.
His dad's gaze shot to the rear view mirror with so much force Dean expected to see the reflection crack.
"Dean -"
"No one calls her that, though. She's a total geek too, but she hides it a lot better than Sammy."
The older man shook his head. "Don't -" he growled harshly.
"Why not?" Dean shot back.
The gaze that met Dean's in the mirror was dark. "Because -"
"Don't you want to know?" he asked just as harshly before his father could finish, because he was positive now that his father did.
Because he'd caught the older man off guard and his eyes had betrayed him. Dean had seen the way something in them lit up – interest, curiosity, need . . .
The silence stretched. His dad wasn't going to answer. He wasn't going to admit to wanting to know.
His Dad couldn't take that step onto middle ground.
That was okay, though.
Dean understood. He always understood.
It was enough that the older acknowledge its existence
"She likes to read those paperbacks you get at the supermarket, you know, the ones with like . . . half-naked men on the cover," he murmured. "She likes to put them on the bookshelves with Sam's classics. He has fits over that. She's doin' her masters in child psychology, and has this really annoying habit of starting conversations you're going to hate with 'Don't get defensive.' And when you do get defensive – 'cause, you know, she's telling you that you need to shave more often or something like that – she blinks at you like you've just kicked her puppy and says something like, 'But I told you not to get defensive.' They have this apartment off campus, but still near the school, that's big and all, but it's sorta crappy. The doorbell downstairs only rings upstairs sometimes, and the hot water turns cold if you turn it all the way; the shower head only works when you haven't used it in two or three days, and the windows don't stay open and some don't open all the way. But there's this room with built-in bookshelves and Sam's in love with it. He's goin' to the law school at Stanford and sometimes he barricades himself in that room with the bookshelves, and doesn't come out for hours. So, sometimes, if he's been in there for hours Jess starts slipping notes underneath the door and tapping on it every time she walks by – or she'll start baking something so the smell lures him out. She can bake almost anything, but she'll burn mac & cheese."
His dad made a sound then, something between a sob and a laugh, and Dean stopped talking.
He'd been babbling, he knew that. It was just . . . there was so much to tell, an entire world to share.
"God,"his father whispered.
They were at a red light and John's head was bent over the steering wheel. For a moment Dean thought the worst, thought his dad was going to look at him tell him to stop, look at him and tell him he didn't want to know, look at him and tell him he didn't care . . .
But when John's head lifted, no words followed. He met Dean's gaze in the mirror for a moment and Dean was struck with how tired his father's expression seemed, but still there were no words.
Dean blinked and the car was moving again. He waited, hoping Dad would add something, say something else . . . anything else.
But the silence stretched and the moments slipped by. His father was retreating. It didn't matter that he wanted to know, what mattered was that Sam had left. Dean could almost hear his father's thoughts in the silent car. It wasn't good enough anymore, though; he wasn't going to let this tear them apart forever.
They were a family, goddammit.
He forced himself to look up and take as deep a breath as he could manage. "Sam's gotten pretty at the cooking thing and the laundry thing too," he said softly, watching his father intently for any reaction. "He dusts and he vacuums – it's funny as hell," he added, and saw his father's face twitch a little.
A smirk ghosted his lips as he continued, more confidently now. "He and Jess take turns so he's actually gotten pretty good at stuff around the house. If he gets to it, that is. He never really gets to the big stuff, like fixing that stupid shower head. He has this to-do list; it's got like eighty-seven bullet points to it. And I actually mean bullet points 'cause he keeps it on the computer and every time he adds something to it he prints it out. So there's like dozens of them lying around the apartment . . ."
He paused, waiting to see if John would say anything, but his dad remained silent so Dean continued. "I told him I'd do some of the stuff, but he swears he's getting to it next weekend – every time I've offered. So nothing ever gets done."
Dean kept going after that. He told his Dad about how Sam had pretended to need help in Latin to get to know Jess. He told him about Sam's friends, about Sam's classes, about the penchant his little brother had developed for lattes. Dean told him about Sam's plans, and he told him about the wedding; about the planning and where it was happening; about where the reception was going to be; about how Sam and Jess weren't going on a honeymoon until Christmas break; about Jess's Wedding Binder and how he and Sam had hidden from her one weekend; about having to get fitted for a tux, and the bachelor party they'd turned into a road trip. He told his Dad about all the places Jess and Sam had dragged him to, all the things they claimed he had to see . . .
"You should'a seen it, Dad. All these people dressed up all fancy and walking around with their noses in the air staring at deformed clay. It was ridiculous. They were trying to interpret the clay – Jess bought me a cheeseburger for that one. Oh! And she's got this little sister – God, the kid is a brat! She makes me want to throttle her. She plays these fucked up mind games with people and she's all giggly about it when she's done . . ."
He told his Dad about Jill's talent for irritating people into rabid madness in three seconds flat, about how the little twerp doesn't like him, about how she just barely tolerates Sam, about how much Jess adores her, about how that makes it so they can't make her disappear. He told his Dad that he and Sam thanked God the little brat went to school in Seattle.
There was no response from John, no questions or requests for an explanation. He was silent through Dean's rambling, but sometimes, every once in awhile, when Dean paused to catch his breath, the older man's eyes would meet his in the mirror and Dean just knew, with a surprising certainty – his Dad was hanging on his every word.
He let his eyes slide shut at the thought, a smile tugging at his lips, oddly comforted by the thought that his Dad was listening to him.
"Come on, Dean. I didn't break the speed limits in five states so you could take a nap outside the church," John murmured, gently shaking the boy. The sleep had done Dean some good, though; he'd lost a bit of the road-kill look.
John watched him now; Dean was slow waking up, blinking and bringing his hand up to rub over his face.
John glanced at his watch again. "Come on, dude, you gotta a couple minutes, use'm." He encouraged.
Dean seemed to pull himself together, frowning. "Huh?" he murmured, still blinking back sleep.
John smirked a little. The boy's head must be fuzzy as hell. "You've got about four minutes till three."
The hazel eyes widened. "Shit," he hissed, straightening abruptly and then wincing. "Ugh – this sucks out loud," he griped, wrapping an arm around his torso and bending forward a little.
"I bet it does," John murmured, then added, just because, "Next time hold off the solo mission."
Dean's gaze dropped, "Yes, Sir."
John's smirk faded. "Get goin'."
Dean nodded, reaching for the door, then he paused and looked over at him with those wide eyes that suddenly made John's heart skip a beat. "Dad . . ."
And John knew instantly what words were about to come out of his son's mouth.
He shook his head. "No," he stated in a voice a bit harsher than necessary.
"You could -"
"No, Dean."
"He wouldn't -"
"Goddammit, I said no," John spat out, venom tainting his voice.
Dean flinched.
"Get out of the damn car," he ordered, then added, "I'll park it around the block for you." He clenched his teeth against the urge to say more.
The younger man's eyes dropped for a moment and John waited for him to get out. It would take a few minutes, he knew that. Dean would have to collect himself first, he'd have to swallow the words he wanted to say, suppress what he wanted to do; but in the end, Dean would get out of the car without another word. Dean followed orders.
But time stretched and the boy didn't move. Silence wrapped itself around them and John felt a shiver of concern slide down his spine. Dean was holding himself absolutely still, his gaze fastened on something John couldn't see.
John swallowed hard, "Dean?" he murmured, shifting in his seat, starting to reach a hand out to the boy's shoulder. Dean was hurt, he remembered suddenly.
"You could come with me."
The words were soft and John froze in place, a hand half outstretched towards his son.
The hazel eyes lifted to his, "You could, Dad. You could go in. Sam, he -"
John dropped his hand. "I wasn't invited," he said flatly.
"I'm inviting you."
"No."
Dean's eyes flickered with hurt and John clenched his hands into fists. It had to be this way. He couldn't go in there. He wouldn't.
If anything, the last few hours had reinforced that belief. Dean had shared pieces of that DeanSam/SamDean universe with him; shared them with an enthusiasm and a joy that had taken John's breath away. He wouldn't touch that – didn't want to do anything to ruin that.
His boys deserved that. Dean deserved that – to have Sam and be in Sam's world.
He was human enough to envy them that relationship, but he was father enough to protect it for them too.
He wanted them to have it, to have each other and the easiest way for that to happen was for him to remain on the outskirts.
He had a job to do. A quest he couldn't abandon; and every day that he got closer to understanding it, to finishing it, was a day that danger drew a bit nearer to him.
He couldn't be near them when It came for him. It had taken enough. It would not take his boys.
"Dad, please . . ."
Sam was safe as long he was away – and Dean would be safe as long as John was nowhere near him.
They would be safe together, and judging by Dean's stories they would be happy too.
What more could he want for his boys?
It would be for the best this way.
Sam was firmly entrenched here – he was getting married, for God's sake . . . As for Dean . . . Dean would worry, and maybe look for a little while, but Sammy would keep him grounded, keep him coming back here, keep him away from anything truly deadly.
"Nothing has changed, Dean," John stated, his voice as flat as he could make it. For this to work Dean had to understand that his father's attitude had not changed. He had to believe that the stories had not affected him, believe that his father didn't really care; Dean had to resign himself to this break in their family and just – just stop trying to fix it.
"It's different now, Dad, Sam wants -"
"I did you a favor," John cut in, "but nothing has changed. Sam made a decision. What's done can't be undone, you know that. Now get out. You're late."
The boy jumped a little at that, his gaze dropping again and John felt like a particularly spectacular asshole as he watched his boy draw in a shuddering breath.
Dean was hurt. And Sam was getting married. And he had to keep them safe. They were his boys. The last pieces of Mary. The best parts of the man he'd been. He had to keep them safe. This was for the best.
Still, he knew that what he was about to do was unfair. He knew that what he was going to do to his boys – to Dean, his loyal soldier – was bordering on cruelty. He knew he was being asshole. He knew Dean deserved better.
Dean shifted then, lifting hard, golden eyes to his – pissed off eyes. Dean had always had his mother's eyes – expressive to the point of ridiculousness. It had taken years of drilling about poker faces and practice for Dean's eyes to not tip off every emotion to whoever was watching.
Every once in awhile though, especially when it came to family, Dean's eyes would speak up on their own, communicating things his son would never say.
This time the eyes were fed up, frustrated . . . hurt. This time they screamed fine, fuck you then.
"Thanks for the favor, Dad," he drawled, pushing the door open. John watched Dean gingerly pull himself out of the car.
He wanted to tell Dean to offer Sam his congratulations, to tell the boy that he was proud of him, that he hoped his life would turn out to be exactly what he wanted – what he deserved, what his mother would have wanted.
He couldn't do it, though; couldn't force the words out. It had to be this way. It had to end like this – it had to. It would be easier for them.
He watched Dean cross the street to the church. Dean had started up the steps when the doors were flung open. Two men in tuxes bounded out, the same friendly energy he'd never been able to suppress in Sammy rolling off of them in waves.
They surrounded Dean, tugging him up the rest of the steps, and John tensed despite himself.
Dammit, Dean was hurt.
They realized that soon enough. He watched them let his son go.
They were talking fast, gesturing widely and smiling through their obvious exasperation. They were at the door now. Dean paused and looked back at him.
He should look away or he should pull out; he should do anything other than stay here, staring at his boy.
He couldn't move though. It was the last time he'd see his boy for a long time . . . maybe ever. He drank in the image of his oldest son. He longed for the image his youngest.
He watched Dean's chin lift defiantly and he couldn't stop the small smirk that touched his lips when the boy's head tilted fractionally towards the doors of the church, inviting him in.
Dean would never really stop trying.
He didn't shake his head, didn't drop his gaze; he didn't have to. Dean understood.
A moment later he watched the boy disappear inside the church.
Inside, Dean found his tux in the back room. The jacket had the boutonnière pinned on it already. The shirt had the tie looped around the neck, waiting to be tightened.
There was note on his shoes. Jess's loopy writing informed him that he better be okay and he was in so much trouble!
Dean smirked.
Then started getting dressed. They were waiting as long as possible for him. He knew it. It was 3:10 and the music hadn't started.
His ribs, his head, and his shoulder were all throbbing in time with his heartbeat again, but he managed to get dressed in 7 minutes.
Adrenaline was such an awesome thing – Dean he nearly sprinted to the church hall. He slipped in.
The pews were appropriately packed. Sam and the others stood at the altar; Jill and the rest of the girls too.
Sam looked anxious.
The music started then; the bride took her first step, and the best man slid into his place by the groom's side.